The Last Time I Lied(93)

“Hush now,” Franny said, swooping to my side. “No more tears for today, Emma.”

“They’ve been gone so long.”

“I know, but we mustn’t lose hope. Ever.”

She rubbed my back until I settled down, her gliding palm tender and soothing. I tried to recall if my own mother had ever done such a thing when I was sick or upset. I couldn’t think of a single instance, which made me savor Franny’s gentle touch all the more.

“Emma, I need to know something,” she said, her voice on the edge of a whisper. “You don’t really think Theo hurt your friends, do you?”

I said nothing in return. Fear kept me silent. I couldn’t take back what I’d told the police. Not then. Yes, Theo was in a lot of trouble. But I also knew I’d be in trouble, too, if I admitted my accusation was a lie.

And that I’d locked Vivian, Natalie, and Allison out of the cabin.

And that we’d fought right before they left.

So many lies. Each one felt like a rock on my chest, holding me down, so heavy I could barely breath. I could either admit them and set myself free or add another one and hope I’d eventually get accustomed to the weight.

“Emma?” Franny said, this time with more insistence. “Do you?”

I remained silent.

“I see.”

Franny removed her hand from my back, but not before I felt a tremor stirring in her fingers. They drummed along my spine a moment, then were gone. A few seconds later, Franny was gone, too. She left without saying another word. I spent the rest of the night alone, wide-awake in my lower bunk, wondering just what kind of monster I’d become.



* * *



—

In the morning, it was Lottie who knocked on Dogwood’s door to tell me my parents had arrived to take me home. Since I couldn’t sleep, I’d packed hours earlier, transferring the contents of my hickory trunk into my suitcase as dawn broke over the lake.

I carried the suitcase out of the cabin and into a camp that had become a ghost town. Silence hung over the empty cabins and darkened buildings—an eerie hush broken only by the sound of my parents’ Volvo idling near the mess hall. My mother got out of the car and opened the trunk. She then flashed Lottie an embarrassed smile, as if I had been sent home from a sleepover after wetting my sleeping bag.

“Franny apologizes for not being able to say good-bye,” Lottie told me, pretending that neither of us knew it was a lie. “She wishes you a safe trip home.”

In the distance, the front door to the Lodge opened up and Theo stepped outside, flanked by two of the detectives who had quickly become a common sight around camp. The firm grip they kept on Theo’s elbows made it clear this wasn’t a voluntary exit. I stood dumbly by the car and watched as they walked him to the arts and crafts building, likely for another interrogation. Theo caught sight of me and gave me a pleading look, silently begging me to intervene.

It was my last chance to tell the truth.

Instead, I climbed into the Volvo’s back seat and said, “Please, Dad. Just go.”

As my father started to drive away, the Lodge door gaped open yet again. This time, Chet ran out, his face tear-stained, legs a blur. He sprinted to the arts and crafts building, calling out Theo’s name. Lottie rushed to intercept him and dragged him back to the Lodge, waving to my father to leave before we saw anything else.

Yet I continued to watch, turning around in my seat so I could look out the back window. I kept on looking as Lottie, Chet, and the quiet remains of Camp Nightingale faded from view.





32


When Becca leaves, I remain curled up in my bunk, Krystal’s bear in my arms, trying to think of what to do about Lottie. Tell someone else, obviously. But my options are few. Detective Flynn doesn’t trust me. I don’t trust Franny. And even Theo would have a hard time believing my word over the word of the woman who’s been with his family for decades.

I stare out the window, weighing my options while watching the evening sky succumb to thick darkness. The search crew in the helicopter has started using a spotlight, sweeping it across the water. When it rumbles overhead every fifteen minutes or so, the light brightens the trees outside the cabin window.

I’m watching the play of the light in the leaves when there’s another knock on the door. It opens a second later, revealing Mindy bearing a tray from the cafeteria.

“I brought dinner,” she announces.

What sits on the tray definitely isn’t cafeteria food. This is dinner straight from the Lodge. Filet mignon still swirling with steam and roasted potatoes seasoned with rosemary. Their scents fill the cabin, making it smell like Thanksgiving.

“I’m not hungry,” I say, even though under normal circumstances, I’d already be devouring the steak. Especially considering how stress and shitty cafeteria food have conspired to keep me from consuming, well, almost anything since I arrived. But I can’t even look at the food, let alone eat it. Anxiety has knotted my stomach so tight I worry it might never unravel.

“I also brought wine,” Mindy says, holding up a bottle of pinot noir.

“That I’ll take.”

“I get half,” Mindy says. “I’m telling you, it’s been a day. The campers are terrified, and the rest of us are at our wit’s end trying to keep them calm and occupied.”