The Writing Retreat(63)

“She’s been copying it.” Wren turned to the front page. “Changing the location and names. But most of it’s word for word.”

“But why? What does that mean?”

“That she’s not a writer.” Wren stared at me. “She’s not supposed to be here.”

“You think she lied to get in?” I asked. “That she used a fake name?”

“Maybe,” Wren said. “But if her goal was to get in here… I mean, what are the odds that she’d win a spot that way? Out of thousands of applicants.”

“So she didn’t try to get in.” I drummed my fingers on my leg. “She waited until the winners were picked and convinced one of them—the real Poppy—not to come?”

“That has to be it.” Wren’s eyes widened. “Right?”

“But how would Zoe know?” I asked. “They kept the winners a secret.”

“Well, the winners weren’t allowed to announce it on social media, but I’m sure they told some people. I mean, I told Evan. I had to tell my boss. So maybe Zoe found out through one of Poppy’s connections.”

“Okay.” Adrenaline threaded through me. “So say Zoe hears that this girl she’s somehow connected with got into Roza’s retreat. She convinces Poppy to let her go in her place? Apart from the odds of this girl agreeing, how would it even be possible?”

“I don’t know.” Wren shrugged. “It’s not like they asked us for ID to get in the door.”

“Social media?”

Wren chewed on her lower lip. “Do you think Roza—or her team—are that thorough? Did they really look into the lives of the women they let in? You think they’re that concerned about optics if they accepted almost all white girls?”

“True.” I remembered my surprise the first day at seeing that Keira was the only woman of color in the group.

“And even if they did check social media, Poppy could’ve set her profile to private.”

“Zoe clearly dyed her hair,” I said. “So maybe the real Poppy’s blond.”

“Makes sense.” Wren glanced up. “But what about the background check?”

“That’s easy,” I said. “If they did a background check on Poppy, they’d just find info on the actual Poppy.”

“Damn. Yeah.”

“You were close with her,” I said. “And you didn’t get a sense of anything weird?”

“Not at all.” Wren shook her head, baffled. “She seemed totally normal.”

I had a flash of being on the steps with Poppy—Zoe—last night. I’d asked why Poppy why she was there. And she’d told me; she’d given me an answer:

Proof… Of what she does. That she’s not who she claims to be.

And then: Over here. It’s this wall.

“We have to go downstairs.” The words rushed out of my mouth.

Wren looked up from the book. “Why?”

“She was looking for something. She said, ‘She’s not who she claims to be.’ For a second I wondered if she was talking about herself. But I don’t think so, not in the third person like that. I think she scammed her way into the retreat to get proof of something. So when she said that, she must’ve been talking about someone else. Maybe Roza?”

“Wait.” Wren’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just sharing this now?”

“But I told you guys that she was looking for something.” Hadn’t I? I tried to think back, but the last fourteen hours were a blur.

“You didn’t mention she was looking for proof of some identity con. That seems like important information.”

A familiar irritation rankled me. “It’s not like I’m keeping secrets. I’m trying to figure this all out as we go along too.”

“Okay, look.” She held up her hands. “Let’s just go to the basement.”



* * *



As Wren and I descended the steps, the immense incongruity struck me: after two weeks of being each other’s nemeses, we were now a team, following clues like the Hardy Boys.

I never could’ve imagined it. Not in a million years.

I led Wren where Zoe had gone, off the stairs to the left. Winding through the ubiquitous junk, we reached boxes stacked high against a cinder block wall.

“I remember hearing her pushing boxes around.” I moved my phone’s light over the cardboard shapes. “Did someone put these back?”

“Maybe there’s something in them?” Wren asked.

“But she mentioned the wall.”

“The wall?” Wren sniffled. “This is ridiculous. She was on LSD. She was probably just saying things.”

“Let’s just move the boxes away from the wall and see. Maybe there’s writing or something.” I winced at the sharp scraping sound the boxes made against the cement floor. After a second, Wren joined me. Some of the towers were heavy and we had to disassemble them box by box. When we finished, we were both sweating. We’d formed a little aisle between the boxes and the cinder block wall, which was cold with some damp, wet spots. It was dark, nearly pitch-black, and Wren shone her phone to check: no writing.

“Nope,” she said. “Nothing.”