The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep by Laurie Stolarz (ebooks online reader .TXT) 📗

glove box and shove it into my pocket before getting out.

The front entrance is decorated for fall with a leafy wreath. I go inside, with just twenty minutes to spare before the club is due to close. The interior smells like burning wood. A book group sits in a living room area, in front of a fireplace. One of the staff members uses a shovel to reposition the logs, making the flames sizzle and hiss.

“Helloooo,” says a voice from behind.

I turn to look. A girl around my age is seated behind a desk. Her eyebrows are raised. Her arms are folded. How long has she been trying to get my attention?

“Sorry, I just…” I peek back at the fire.

The man closes the fireplace screens with a thwack.

“Can I help you?” the girl asks.

“I’m looking for a friend,” I tell her, wondering if she’s the same person I spoke to on the phone. “She used to work here. Her name is Peyton.”

“Peyton McNally?”

“Or Peyton Bright … I’m not really sure.”

“The only Peyton I knew who worked here was Peyton McNally.”

“Did she take classes at the community college across the street?”

“A couple of years ago, maybe. I haven’t exactly seen her in a bit. She stopped working here a while ago.”

“For any particular reason?”

“For the reason that the manager here is an absolute ass.” The girl—named Stacey, according to her name tag—stands from the desk and peers around to make sure that no one’s listening in. “Peyton ended up telling him off when he accidentally screwed up her paycheck for the bajillionth time.”

“So, it had nothing to do with something more traumatic?”

“Does it get more traumatic than someone trying to rip you off? On second thought, maybe it does.” She laughs. “But I heard he scammed her hundreds altogether.”

“How well do you know Peyton?” I ask. “Does she live around here? Does she have family close by?”

“Sorry.” She shrugs. “I don’t know her well. She used to talk about her grandma a lot; that’s who she lived with, I think. And I can sort of picture her boyfriend. He sometimes came to pick her up. Like I said, it’s been a while.”

“Did you know about her case?”

Her face furrows. “What case?”

“The Peyton I knew had gone missing.”

“Wait, what?”

“Eight or nine months ago,” I say. “But she escaped. She’s home now. At least, she was home. I’m looking for her.” I spend the next several moments filling her in on some of the major details, including about the shed in the woods and how Peyton burrowed her way free.

Stacey listens with her mouth parted open, clearly startled by the news. “It’s obvious we’re talking about two different people. I would’ve known if Peyton McNally had been abducted. For one, because we have mutual friends. For another, because I don’t think you understand how small Pineport is. Everybody knows everybody around here. Last year, a boy went missing while out on his kayak, and pretty much everyone in town stopped what they were doing and went out to look. Luckily, the boy was found safe. I hope your friend is too.”

The women from the book group begin to file out. I check the time. It’s almost ten.

“I really need to lock up.” Stacey’s tone has shifted; she seems irritated now. She moves from around the desk and lingers by the door, waiting for me to leave.

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

“What?” She sighs.

“I know this is going to sound a little weird, but do you know where I might be able to find a phone booth? I mean, I know they’re pretty much no longer in existence, but—”

“There’s an ancient one located at Harborview Park, behind the creepy swing set and the disgusting water fountain, though I don’t think it actually works—the pay phone, that is. Most people just use it for a photo op. The whole place is pretty circa 1980-something. Don’t even think about going there unless you’ve had your tetanus shot.”

“And Harborview Park … Do you know where it is?”

“It’s by Smitherton’s Salvage, not far from Evans conservation land.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not from around here.”

“You need a tourist map?” She fakes a smile and points to a rack of brochures and maps.

“Thank you,” I tell her, forgoing the rack. I can use my nav. “You’ve been a huge help.”

I linger a moment, taking one last look at the fireplace before exiting the building and crossing the parking lot. The sign for Pineport Community College faces out toward the street. I picture Peyton (as the girl from the online photo), sitting on the lawn under the spotlights, mouthing the words Just, please, don’t give up on me.

I blink the image away and get into my car. According to my nav, Harborview Park appears to be a ten-minute drive. I press Start and begin on my way.

NOW

47

I pull into the lot of Harborview Park and spot the phone booth right away; my high beams shine over it. The booth stands on a cement slab, on the far end of a grassy field littered with old and rusted gang-tagged play structures: a metal slide, a lopsided swing set, and a handful of bouncy toys.

No one else is around. The park seems completely desolate. If it weren’t for my headlights, I’m not sure I’d be able to see such detail.

I try to zero in on the phone booth, but it’s too far. All I can tell is that it looks misplaced—both in time and in location. Who would put a phone booth on the edge of a park, facing the water, rather than closer to the lot? I picture Peyton inside the booth, crouched on the concrete, telling Darwin how scared she felt.

But why would she ask him to come get her here? Was she not thinking straight? Or maybe the phone booth has a clue—something she wanted him to find.

I check the Jane site again. It’s still down. There are no new messages in my inbox. Meanwhile, I have five missed calls from