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

multilayered sandwiches. I aim my flashlight between the layers, spotting a golden-yellow color.

I edge closer, noticing a gap in the mangled metal, where two thick, black horizontal stripes stick out from the heap, making it clear.

It’s a yellow school bus.

I scurry to get to the other side of it, to see if the folding doors are there, just as something crashes—a loud clank, like metal on metal, somewhere behind me.

I check my phone again, startled to find it’s working. Eighteen percent charged.

I open up the keypad and dial 9-1-1. At the same moment, my phone vibrates with a call. Detective Marshall’s name flashes across the screen.

I pick it up.

“Terra, hi. I got your message. That twenty-two-year-old woman you were talking about from Pineport, Maine … I couldn’t find any missing-persons cases that matched her description with that location.”

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely sure. We reviewed the chat logs. We also saw the photo you spoke about—the book page about junkyards that Paylee22 had sent … Long story short: It seems someone’s playing games with you, which isn’t so uncommon on chat sites of this nature.”

“Wait, what?” My skin flashes hot.

“It’s true,” she continues. “Sometimes people suffering from one trauma will actually hide behind another, more fictitious one. That way they can get the attention they crave while still protecting their identity and the details of their trauma.”

“What?” I repeat. What does all of this mean?

“The site is called Jane Anonymous, after all.”

“But Peyton wouldn’t do that.”

“We did find a case that matched some of what Peyton reported to you: the shed, for example. The victim escaped after a handful of days. The authorities found the shed only weeks later, and yes, it’d been dismantled. The victim fit the profile too: a twenty-two-year-old female student taking classes at a community college … The victim reported that a white male, late twenties, dressed as a police officer approached her in the parking lot of an abandoned school and forced her into his car. But that crime happened a year and a half ago, not eight months. It also happened in North Carolina, obviously nowhere near Maine … or Chicago as Peyton first reported.”

“So maybe she was lying about the location?”

“Or maybe she was using the details from this woman’s case—passing them off as her own, that is.”

“Might there be a connection to my case? Could the guy who took me be the same one from North Carolina?”

“Terra…” There’s dismissal in her voice; it threads a needle through my heart.

“Are they still looking for the guy that took her?” I ask.

“That case is now closed.”

“Why?”

“These things are complicated.”

“Looking for someone after the victim has resurfaced alive, you mean?”

“The victim is now dead.”

My eyes press shut.

“There was an accident,” she explained. “It happened a few months after she got back from being missing.”

I look out toward the woods, searching for a focal point, knowing I’m supposed to be concentrating on my breath. Inhale, exhale. Just. Breathe.

“Terra?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Bottom line: This Peyton person obviously hasn’t been completely honest with you.”

“But I knew that already.” How guarded she was being …

“Hold on,” she says. “You knew this Peyton person was lying to you, misrepresenting herself, and you still involved me? Is that true?”

“I knew she was misrepresenting herself about some things, but not all of them.”

“Are you listening to yourself? Do you know how valuable my time is? The time I spend tracking down false leads is time I could be spending helping someone else.”

“I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“Please, just let us do our job. You have a job too. Finish school, move forward with your life, develop real relationships with real people rather than this online anonymous stuff.”

I gaze back at the bus, still able to hear Peyton’s cries inside my head, drowning out my thoughts.

“Terra? Are you hearing what I’m telling you?”

“Did you read the story about the water well?”

“Not yet. I’ve been so focused on the chat logs and this other case in North Carolina. But if I promise to read it, will you do something for me?”

“What?” I ask. How much time have I wasted?

“Get yourself home. Do you want me to have a car sent?”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

“I’ll be fine,” I repeat. “I’m coming home now.”

“Your aunt will be happy to hear that. Call me again if you need anything, okay?”

I hang up and shine my flashlight over the door to the bus. It’s folded partway open. To the side of it, collected in a stack, is firewood. Why would it be here? I venture a little closer, able to hear something. The sound of a zipper, plus the shifting of leaves against the ground.

I take another step just as the lights go out—all of them, leaving me in the dark. I click off my flashlight too, and stand, frozen, flashing back to the darkness in the well, able to hear a high-pitched laugh that chills my bones.

I begin to back away, my limbs trembling, my lungs cinching. I try my best not to let out a wheeze, peeking down at my phone. I wake up the screen. Fifteen percent charged. I dial 9-1-1. The screen goes black. At first, I think it’s dialing, but nothing happens. The number reappears on the screen. I press it again.

“Well, hello there,” says a male voice, cutting through the darkness, making my entire body quake.

For just a moment, I tell myself it’s the 9-1-1 operator. But I know it isn’t. The voice isn’t coming from my phone. It’s coming from somewhere behind me.

I press my eyes shut. Could this just be my imagination—a horrible story my brain has conjured up to let me know that I really shouldn’t be here?

A warm breath smokes against my face. It carries a sticky-sweet scent, like barbecue sauce. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, trying not to even blink.

His voice pokes through the darkness once again. “It’s good to see you.”

Can he?

See me?

Might he be talking to someone else?

“You know it isn’t safe to be walking