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

When I near the end of the path, I tuck myself behind a thick, leafy bush and peer out the side, making sure the coast is clear. I can make out part of the flame. Boulders are positioned around it as though for seating. I swipe a handful of branches from in front of my eyes.

The fire is in full view now, about eight feet away. Beyond it, I spot something. My nerves steel as I look closer. Someone’s sitting on the ground, with their back toward me and their knees bent upward. The person is wearing a robe of sorts. The hood is drawn over the head, but dark wisps of hair lap out the sides.

“Peyton?” I call; my voice shakes.

Did the person’s hand just flinch?

Did they let out a moan?

I inch forward. The fire is only a couple of feet away now, but it looks contained. It is contained, I remind myself. There’s no possible way it could ignite these woods.

The slack of the robe ripples in the breeze. “Peyton?” I repeat, standing just behind the figure now.

The glow of the lantern casts over the side of the face: dark skin, a pointed chin. I move around to the front, finally able to see.

A blank face. No eyes. Colorless lips.

A mannequin.

I step back, and peer all around, eager for an explanation, noticing something else. About ten feet from the fire, stuck between two of the boulders … I go to check it out, positioning the lantern beside it; the object has a flat, rectangular shape like an old album or book.

I pick it up.

My stomach churns.

I know what it is without even having to look—the weight, the texture, the size and width …

The Forest Girl and the Wishy Water Well.

It looks exactly the same, with its frayed ends and dirty, beaten corners. I open up to the middle as dirt sprinkles out. I can smell the dirt too—on the pages, the musty scent.

“Hello, Terra.” His voice sends shivers all over my skin.

Wearing dark clothes and a black ski mask, he emerges from between a couple of trees. His shoes have some sort of protective plastic covering them, secured at the ankles. What is it for? To hide his treads?

“Well done on surviving the plot twist. I imagine you saw my red herring.” He nods to the mannequin. “Have you come for the climax?”

My fingers tremor, and I drop the book.

“Has a cat got your tongue?” He sticks out his tongue—the same red dart, through the hole in his mask—and waggles it back and forth as he did that night. “I see you found my book too.”

As he comes closer, I recognize his eyes—the pale blue color, the hooded lids …

“I’d expect no less of my starring character.”

I swallow hard—a mouthful of bile.

“You never told me what you thought of my story.” He runs his gloved hand over the cover of the water-well book.

I retreat two steps.

“Going so soon? Not yet.” He smiles. “Please, have a seat. Did you like the William doll I left for you?”

Left for me? Is he talking about the troll doll inside the well? Or the ceramic garden gnome on the back deck?

“How about the cuddly blanket?” he asks. “I was more than generous with my gifts, don’t you think? Leaving the lid open during the rain … Giving you moments of light … I even threw you a bone.”

A sparerib bone.

My body chills.

“I wanted you to have a fighting chance,” he continues. “So we could continue our story.”

“Where’s Peyton?” I ask him.

He scratches his head as though in thought.

“Is she even real? Was it Peyton who called me?”

“Are you implying that it could’ve been someone else?” He smirks. “An actor, for instance, playing the role of Peyton? Perhaps one had used one of the many high-tech voice-changers on the market. Did you know some of the more sophisticated models can completely alter pitch, tone, and volume of a voice?”

“Is that the case?”

He reaches into his pocket. There’s something in there. A gun? A knife? More of the stuff that put me out? “I used to love story time as a kid,” he says. “I lived for it—literally. Stories were my passion: reading them, role-playing them, writing fan fiction … But you were the same way, isn’t that right?”

The same way?

“The possibilities are endless. Put a character in a hole and see how she behaves. Does she fight for what she wants by climbing out? What obstacles lie in her wake? Limited light, lack of tools, hunger, thirst, pure fatigue … And let’s not forget the heroine’s backstory too. What lurks in her past? How reliable is she as a result? What motivates her to act? To make things even more interesting, give the character a magical tool—something that gives her a superpower.”

A superpower. “Like the power of invisibility,” I say, his identity becoming clear.

“Exactly.” He removes his glove, revealing his hand. On his fourth finger is the mood ring I won in Dr. Beckett’s class.

“Charley.”

“Miss me?”

It’s been years since I’ve seen him. He’s taller now. His voice is deeper. But his eyes look the same—bold, piercing, icy blue. After he left Emo, his number no longer worked, and I didn’t know where he lived. When I asked Ms. Melita what’d happened to him, she said she wasn’t at liberty to discuss other students, then added that smallish places like Emo couldn’t provide the resources that larger institutions could. I assumed that meant Charley needed something more. But how much more? What kind of “more”? And would he be coming back after he got it?

“I’ve missed you,” he says. “Our time in the quiet room, escaping into plotlines…”

“Charley,” I repeat, feeling the ground beneath me tilt.

“I hated leaving Emo so abruptly, not having the chance to say goodbye.”

“Why did you?”

“I started over at a new place, one with more rules, less freedom … But now I’m back.” He grins. “And do you want to know why?”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because you’re the perfect heroine: an unreliable narrator, motivated by the guilt she feels