Page 128 of The Last Time I Lied

She’s no longer there. Not that she ever truly was. But this time there’s no lingering presence, no sense she could return at any moment.

Vivian might be gone for good.

I stand and limp to the water’s edge. The light seems brightest to my right. Its undiluted glow suggests a straight path from the cave to the outside world. Most likely an underwater tunnel connecting cave to lake.

I slide back into the pool and face the light. Through the water, I see a glowing circle roughly the same size as the tunnel I entered through. If it stays that same width across its entire length, I might be able to swim my way out of the cavern.

I do a few laps around the pool, loosening up while testing out my injured ankle. It hurts, of course. It’s also swollen, which limits movement. I need to fight through both. I have no choice.

Properly warmed up, I line my body up with the tunnel entrance. I start shivering again, this time more from nerves than the chill of the water. I’m scared as hell and long for another way out of here. There isn’t one. The only way out is through.

I take a deep breath. I slip under the water. I stare at that gold-and-pink light and start to swim toward it.

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Swim.

That’s all I need to do.

Swim and try not to think about how much my ankle hurts.

Or that the tunnel may slowly be closing in on me.

Or that I’m not even a quarter of the way through it yet.

I need to do nothing else but swim. As hard and as fast as I can. Straight toward the light like the little girl in that movie that gave me nightmares when I was nine.

Swim.

Don’t think about that movie and its creepy clown and fizzing TV or how the silt from the lake water clouds my vision and stings my eyes.

Just swim.

Don’t think about how the tunnel really is getting smaller or how my shoulders skim the walls, scraping away mossy blooms of algae that make it even harder to see.

Just fucking swim.

Don’t think about the algae or the shrinking tunnel or how each flick of my right foot sends pain screaming through my ankle or how the pressure is building in my chest like a balloon that’s about to pop.

I swim straight into the light, blinded by it, the glare forcing my eyes shut. My lungs scream. My ankle screams. I’m on the verge ofscreaming myself. But then the tunnel falls away, slipping from my shoulders like an unzipped dress. My eyes open to the sight of water everywhere. No cave. No walls. Just blessed open lake glowing yellow in the ever-brightening dawn.

I shoot to the surface and gasp, gulping down precious air until the ache in my lungs subsides. My ankle still hurts. As do my exhausted, limp-rag arms. Yet I have enough strength to stay afloat and keep my head above water. I might even be able to swim back to camp after some rest.

Hopefully it won’t come to that. Hopefully people are looking for me.

Sure enough, I hear the hum of a motorboat in the distance. I rotate in the water until I can see it—a white skiff, one of two normally moored to Camp Nightingale’s dock. Chet sits by the outboard motor, steering the boat across the lake.

I swing an arm out of the water, waving to him. With what little air I have in my lungs, I scream his name.

“Chet!”

He spots me, his face bright with surprise to see me floundering in the lake. He cuts the motor, grabs a wooden oar, and paddles my way.

“Emma? My God, we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

I resume swimming. He keeps paddling. Together we finally meet, and I latch on to the side of the boat. With Chet’s help, I climb aboard and collapse inside, panting, too tired to move.

“Did you find the girls?” I ask, panting out the words, still catching my breath.

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