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

NightTerra: Not yet. Maybe someday.

LuluLeopard: Chills. I can’t even imagine.

LuluLeopard: Seriously … Knowing that guy was on here posing has kept me awake at night.

RainyDayFever: Me too. I almost didn’t come back on here.

TulipPrincess: I could never stay away. You guys have helped me get through so much crap.

TulipPrincess: I’m not sure I would’ve made it these last few months if not.

TulipPrincess: I’m moving out, btw. For real. It’s happening.

LuluLeopard: Wait, you didn’t tell me this!!!

TulipPrincess: Yep. My grandma said I can come live with her, as long as I enroll in school, which is kind of what I want to do anyway. So … I’m going.

TulipPrincess:!!!

TulipPrincess: San Diego, here I come!

LuluLeopard: How does your mom feel about it?

TulipPrincess: Honestly? She seems happy for me.

NightTerra: That’s great!

RainyDayFever: Yay, Tulip!!!

LuluLeopard: So happy for you!!!

TulipPrincess: Thanx. But getting back to you, NightTerra …

TulipPrincess: That guy is on the loose now, right? How are you doing with that?

NightTerra: I’m ok.

TulipPrincess: Better than ok. Sounds like you’re super brave.

NightTerra: I’m ok in this moment, but you know how that goes. These things change. One moment ok …

RainyDayFever: The next in a fetal position, eating a carton of doughnuts. #Confessions #WhatIDidLastNight

TulipPrincess: Lol!

RainyDayFever: Is anyone else craving doughnuts right now?

NightTerra: I just have to take each moment as it comes.

TulipPrincess: #SoWise

NightTerra: #JustWords #NotEasy

NightTerra: But thank you guys for being here and believing my story. It’s made all the difference. #Truth

TulipPrincess: #Love

LuluLeopard: #Trust

RainyDayFever: #Doughnuts!!!

NightTerra: Thank you guys again. Talk to you soon.

TulipPrincess: Later, NightTerra!

LuluLeopard: Sending a virtual hug.

RainyDayFever: Sending virtual doughnuts. Lol!

NightTerra has left the chat room. There are currently 4 people in the chat room.

NOW

59

I’ve learned some things.

Like that people will “love” you when it’s popular to “love” you. They’ll be right there beside you when you’re a star on the news for doing something heroic. Escaping from an abductor is heroic, so they’ll love you for that. Bonus points if you were abducted twice—and if those same people didn’t believe you the first time it happened.

They’ll shower you with “love,” apologizing for turning their backs before, and offer to bring you lunch / take you shopping / buy you coffee / listen to your story. They’ll tell you how brave they think you are—brave and heroic and sparkling and strong—and call you their best friend, and thank god for your safety.

“Love” like theirs can feel both comforting and intoxicating. But it isn’t real. And it doesn’t last.

I’ve learned that real love comes from those who stick around regardless of what’s popular. They don’t necessarily have to be with you in your own personal hell, but they can still sit beside you and offer a sweatshirt for your tears.

After the incident at the salvage yard, when police asked me questions and made me go over all the details, Garret was there, by my side, holding my hand and reminding me to breathe.

He’s also been there every day since. I’ve learned that love like his—that comes from true friendship—is super rare and well worth the risk.

A few weeks following my escape from the bus, when Detective Marshall had me come to the station to discuss a few more things, Garret insisted on being there too. And when the detective gave voice to what I’d been fearing, Garret held tight around my shoulder and reminded me I wasn’t alone.

Detective Marshall pushed a photo of Charley toward me, across the table. His gray-blue eyes angled slightly upward. His grin looked somewhat shy, not too wide; there was just a peek of teeth. It was a kind face, one I used to look forward to seeing, one that helped to reassure me. But now, it’s left me with so many questions. Like, why me? Why now? Was it truly our history of telling stories together that drew him here, after all these years?

And what about Summer’s Story? Was there a specific reason he wanted me to watch the show? Do clues to his backstory lie somewhere hidden in the plot? The theme of broken spirits? Of abandonment? Of abuse? And what about the setting of a camp commune? Was it similar to the setting of the book in “Peyton’s” captivity quarters—if such a book exists? Or the camp Charley had mentioned all those years ago in the quiet room?

“Terra?” Detective Marshall’s voice. “It’s possible he’ll come looking for you again, wanting to finish your story. The problem is we don’t know when. It seems he’s pretty new to this type of ‘storytelling,’ involving victims. But he’s getting better. He left DNA at the scene of his first crime. He knew better than to leave it at the second. The third time, in the salvage yard, he was overly confident. It’ll take him a bit to recover from that.”

The salvage yard, where he’d been working part-time, off-the-books, for the past eight months.

“What was his connection to the victim from North Carolina?” I ask.

“Clara. It seems he knew her, at least briefly. They’d been in a playwriting class together at a local community college, months prior to her abduction. People say Clara was a bit of a loner, never quite fit in. We know she lived and worked on her family’s animal farm, that she’d lost a sibling—her brother—due to health issues.”

“Were the issues related to his heart? Was his name Max?”

Detective Marshall jots the questions down, promising to check. But I’m not even sure the answers matter. The details are close enough.

“Clara enjoyed going on hikes,” she added. “She was on a hike when she got taken, having detoured from her route to explore an old abandoned one-room school.”

“A one-room school, just like the storybook. Did Clara also work at a yacht club?”

“She’d worked part-time at a local bed-and-breakfast. It seems Charley likes his stories inspired by real life but not limited by them. He takes artistic license, which makes studying his fairy tale—your version of it, that is—all the more complicated. We haven’t yet been able to uncover the actual storybook.” She sighed. “Further complicating is the fact that Clara