The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep by Laurie Stolarz (summer reads txt) 📕

receiver and pull the whole unit toward me. Red and yellow wires snake out the back. They feed into a drilled hole in the floor, proving this …

Here.

Now.

Taking Peyton, taking me …

It’d all been planned, all been rigged: the phone, the bus, this salvage yard …

There are bolts keeping the phone together, but I have no means of unscrewing them. So, now what?

Sitting with my back against the wall, I focus on the blue people spray-painted above the windows—two women, eight children. Who are they? What do they represent? Floating above their heads are the words It’s your turn. Tell me a story.

It reminds me of something Dr. Mary told me once: “If you don’t like the story you’ve been telling yourself, then make a new one. Instead of being the girl who lost her parents, be the survivor of a fire.”

“But what if I don’t want to be the survivor?”

“Then start smaller. Be the niece of a woman who loves her. Be the girl who’s almost finished high school. Be the artist whose creations are interesting and unique.”

“My aunt doesn’t love me.”

“That’s just another story. An unhealthy one. Why not try to rewrite it?”

I bite my lip as tears streak down my face, only able to tell one story—that of a stupid girl who’s been abducted once again.

NOW

51

I continue trying to break the zip tie, tugging with my wrist, tearing through the layers of skin. A blister bursts over my wristbone. Blood and sweat seep into my palm. I press on my thumb knuckle as hard as I can to get it to move inward, to make the width of my hand smaller. But doing so only makes the throbbing worse. A burning sensation radiates to my shoulder.

This isn’t working. I need to try something else.

I bite the plastic, chewing the locking part: the tiny, raised nub. I get my teeth around it and mash, grind, pull, gnaw, desperate to break through it.

The plastic has a salty flavor, or maybe that’s just my skin, or the metallic taste of my blood. I tell myself a story: This isn’t a zip tie. It’s the wax candy I used to buy at the corner store when I was little … the tiny bottles that were filled with pretty sugar water the colors of Easter eggs. If I just chew a little longer, a big burst of blueberry liquid will come gushing into my mouth, the latch will come unlocked, and I’ll be able to break free.

My jaw aches from all its work. My tongue does too; it feels torn up and tired.

A tired tongue.

A mouthful of plastic.

Teeth that clank together but miraculously never chip. I almost wish they would. Pain in exchange for release. Instead, a piece of the plastic breaks free, at last. But it isn’t the right piece—not part of the lock; it’s part of the slack.

Eventually, I sink down to the floor with my cheek pressed against the hard, bumpy surface, and I tell myself stories inspired by the images all around me: first about the blue family that moved across the country because of a job change, then about the orange bunny who started classes at a new school; and the briefcase-carrying green man, who lost his job and hasn’t told his family.

I tell myself these stories in between tugging some more, despite my raw and torn-up skin, and stopping for bites, even though my gums have started to bleed.

How long have I been here?

A few hours at most?

I know because it’s still dark. There’s no light peeping in through the gaps of junk outside the windows. And there must be gaps. At least a few. How else would I have been able to tell that the bus was a bus? I was likely brought in through the folding doors. Though, those same doors appear to be barricaded now too. Still, I’m sure it hasn’t been a full day. My mouth hasn’t gone completely dry. My stomach isn’t rumbling. There’s no point in screaming yet. I need to save my voice until morning, when people might be around.

The salvage yard will eventually open. How many days has it already been closed? How long was Peyton here?

And how about Garret?

I told him I was in Pineport. Did he ever get the text with the picture of the salvage yard sign? Did Detective Marshall get it too? Though, she didn’t mention it when I spoke to her on the phone …

I study the walls, searching for clues. In the window, above the lantern, someone’s drawn two stick-figure people squatted behind a sofa. A word bubble blows out from one of the figures’ mouths; in it are the words You tell me your secret, and I’ll tell you mine. It’s the same line of dialogue as in the water-well book—when William first met Clara …

Below that drawing is another one—a campfire scene. A stick-figure girl stands over the fire. Surrounding her are tall evergreen trees. It’s labeled Climax Scene.

Another picture shows the same girl huddled up in a corner with a word bubble that says, Please, Terra, don’t give up on me. I blink hard. Am I imagining the words? Is the stick-figure girl supposed to be Peyton?

Is she in the woods now?

Is she by a campfire?

The phone rings again, making my insides jump. I scurry across the floor to answer it, moving a little too fast, reaching a little too far. The thumb of the zip-tied hand dislocates. My fingers won’t move, and I let out a catlike whine.

Still, I stretch with my other hand to grab the receiver.

Someone’s crying on the other end of the phone—a female voice.

“Peyton?”

The phone clicks off.

I slide back, across the floor. My hand continues to throb; the wrist pulsates. I bite at the zip tie again, finally managing to mangle the locking-fastening piece. At the same moment, an idea hits.

I reach up the back of my shirt and fumble with the hook of my bra. It takes several tries before I’m able to get it unfastened. I