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

unloop the strap from my untied hand and pull part of the bra out the neck of my T-shirt. The underwire forms a solid tunnel. I bite the fabric open—one quick tear—and pull the underwire out.

It’s hard and thin, long and narrow. Exactly what I need. I press the end into the latch, and jiggle it up and down, back and forth.

At last, something in the zip tie releases.

The lock loosens.

I feel a click.

The residual piece of slack is able to move. I slip it free and pull my hand out, my heart clenched. My pulse races.

I grab the lantern and trample down the center aisle to the emergency door at the back of the bus. I try the latch, surprised when it moves, shocked when the handle gives. The door swings open, and I step outside.

NOW

52

Using the lantern to light my way, I climb out the emergency door at the back of the bus, stepping on a pile of wooden planks—slowly, carefully. But my foot slips, propelling a plank upward. The plank clanks down, freezing me in place.

I hold my breath and count to ten before moving again, hopping down onto a clear patch of ground. The ringing starts again—the pay phone, from inside the bus. I look through the door, half tempted to go back and answer it so he doesn’t know I’ve managed to break free. But I maneuver around a collection of hubcaps instead.

It’s still dark. The air smokes out my mouth in one long, puffy swirl, making me feel exposed. The lantern does too, but I keep it low, by my knee.

A stack of tires stands to my right. I go to avoid it, smacking into something—hard. A workbench. Its steel leg meets my shin, and I hold back a wail, biting into my fist. Did the collision make a sound? All I can hear is the hammering of my heart; it penetrates my ears. I can feel it pulsing beneath my skin.

Is the phone still ringing?

Are those crickets chirping?

I begin counting again—up to twenty—scooting around the tires, following a meandering path as I make my way to the fence. My teeth chatter—a mix of fear and cold. I look back toward the bus, unable to even see it now. It’s too dark. I’m too far.

The tinkling of wind chimes cuts my nerves like a knife. I picture the chimes like sharp metal blades hanging from a hook somewhere close by. If only I had one in my hand. I scan the piles of debris for a weapon: broken bricks, a mountain of bicycle tires, a collection of fixtures (sink faucets, shower nozzles, door handles), and a heap of pipes, as though for plumbing. Most of the pipes appear long and cumbersome. Still, I go to grab one when I notice something better—a metal stake like the kind for camping. It’s smaller (about eight inches), easier to conceal, and has a pronounced point. I slip it into my pocket and continue toward the fence.

I count the steps to get there—thirty-six. It appears to be at least ten feet tall—too high to climb. Where was the panel that had been curled up at the bottom? On the other side of the yard. Do I even want to look for it? What other choice do I have?

I take a step back, trying to get a perspective. A tugging sensation tightens my chest, cinches my ribs. Meanwhile, the stench of decay is all around me, like something died. I can practically taste it in my mouth; it crawls to the back of my tongue, pokes a hole in my throat, and I let out a gag—a loud retching sound. I peer all around me, checking and rechecking to see if anyone heard—if anyone’s here.

I can’t really tell. I don’t really know. I take another step back to reassess the fence.

And that’s when I notice.

The panel to the left looks slightly different—a whole lot wider. Two posts stand between it and the next panel (the one directly in front of me).

My gaze travels upward, and I spot a latch.

This must be a gate.

A chain lingers like a snake on the ground. Is it to secure the panels closed? Did someone unlock it?

I move closer, spotting the glimmer of a fire in the bordering woods. I blink hard, assuming I must be seeing things, that the flames are inside my head.

But still they remain. The embers float up toward the sky, time-traveling me back to Bailey Road. A flurry of lights shines behind my eyes.

With jittering fingers, I pull the latch upward and draw the gate open, just enough to allow me to slip through.

Now what? Save myself, as I did in the house fire? Or try to find Peyton? What would my parents want? How would they advise me? I take a deep breath. Inside my head is a high-pitched blare.

The flames in the woods lap in the wind. Sparks snap up into the air. But still, it appears to be a contained fire, as though for camping, exactly like the image inside the bus.

What are the odds that I was meant to escape? That this is part of the hunt? Why else would the gate be unlocked? Why would the emergency door to the bus not have been welded shut? Why wasn’t a chain, rather than a zip tie, used to secure me to the handrail?

What if I’m supposed to hunt for Peyton?

While someone else is hunting for me?

NOW

53

Beyond the gate, I find a parting in the trees where there appears to be a trail. I follow it, keeping focused on the campfire, which looks to be about thirty yards away. Branches reach out and scratch my legs. Something long and viny gets tangled in my hair. I keep moving forward on a dirt path, listening for any approaching sounds.

I can smell the fire from here, like smoked meat and burning pine needles. I can hear it too: the crackling of sticks, the snapping