Page 132 of The Last Time I Lied

I ended up spending two days in the hospital. The girls were there for one of them. I shared a room with Miranda, and we spent that time complaining about our sorry states, giggling over the ridiculousness of it all and gossiping about the handsome male nurse who worked the morning shift.

Visitors streamed in and out. Sasha and Krystal from the room next door. Miranda’s grandmother—a whirling dervish of Catholic guilt and smothering hugs. Becca dropped by with a book of Ansel Adams photographs, and Casey brought apologies for ever thinking I had tried to hurt the girls of Dogwood. Marc arrived with a stack of gossip mags and the news that he’s back together with Billy the librarian. Even my parents flew in from Florida, a gesture that touched me more than I expected.

We plan to head back to Manhattan later this afternoon. Marc is going to tag along. It’ll be an interesting drive for all parties involved.

For now, though, I have unfinished business to attend to, as Detective Flynn reminds me.

“Here’s what probably happened,” he says. “Based on what she wrote in her diary, Vivian, like you, assumed the worst about Peaceful Valley, Charles Cutler, and Buchanan Harris. She found the location of the asylum and took Allison and Natalie with her to get proof of its existence. From the way you described it, it’s probably very easy to get disoriented down there. They went into the water, swam around the wreckage, never came back up. Accidental drowning.”

Just because I had assumed exactly that doesn’t make dealing with it any easier. Not when I now know that Vivian died the same way her sister did. It’s too tragic to comprehend.

“So there’s nothing to suggest Chet killed them?” I say, knowing it’s impossible.

Flynn shakes his head. “He swears he didn’t do it. I have no reason to doubt him. He was only ten at the time. Besides, there’s still quite a few bones at the bottom of that lake. It’ll take a while to find them all. Until then, we won’t know for certain it’s your friends down there.”

But I already know. It was Vivian, Natalie, and Allison I saw in the depths of the lake. The locket was all the proof I need. Now just thinking about it causes grief to balloon in my chest. A common occurrence over the past two days.

“As for the second group of girls from Dogwood, Chet said he had no plans to hurt them,” Flynn says. “Seems to me like he didn’t know what he was going to do. He was just running on anger, not thinking about the consequences.”

“Where is he now?”

“County jail for the time being. He plans to plead guilty to all charges tomorrow. From there, he’ll probably be transferred to a mental-health facility for an unknown amount of time.”

I’m relieved to hear it. I want Chet to get the help he needs. Because I know a thing or two about seeking vengeance. Like Chet, I’ve felt the desire for revenge burn inside me. It’s singed both of us.

But I’ve healed. Not completely, but definitely getting there.

“And I guess I owe you an apology,” Flynn says. “For not believing you.”

“You were only doing your job.”

“But I should have listened to you more. I was so quick to think you did it because it was the easiest explanation. For that, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

We ride in silence until we reach the wrought-iron gate of Camp Nightingale. When I straighten in my seat, Flynn looks my way and says, “Nervous to be back?”

“Not as much as I thought I’d be,” I tell him.

Seeing the outskirts of camp brings a tumble of emotions. Sadness and regret, love and disgust. And brutal relief. The kind you feel when you learn the whole truth about something. The cheating spouse exposed. An official diagnosis. Having the truth revealed means you can finally start to unburden yourself of it.

Flynn steers the car into the heart of camp. It feels as empty and silent as the morning I woke to find the girls missing from Dogwood. This time, with good reason. All the campers, counselors, and instructors have been sent home. Camp Nightingale has closed early. This time for good.

As sad as it is, I know it’s for the best. There’s too much tragedy associated with the place. Besides, Franny has enough to deal with.

Lottie is outside waiting for me when the sedan pulls up to the Lodge. Because I’m loopy from painkillers and my ankle is wrapped with a mile of ACE bandage, she needs to help me from the car. Before letting go of my hand, she gives it an extra squeeze. A signal that she has no hard feelings about what I’ve said. I’m grateful for her forgiveness.

Flynn honks the horn and gives me a wave. Then he’s off, steering the sedan out of camp as Lottie guides me to the Lodge. Inside, there’s no sign of Mindy. I’m not surprised. When visiting me in the hospital, Casey mentioned that she was returning to the family farm. She said it with relish, as if Mindy got exactly what shedeserved. If that means something better than being with Chet, then I’m inclined to agree.

“I’m afraid there’s not much time,” Lottie says. “Franny only has a few minutes before we need to go. The people at the jail are sticklers about visiting hours.”

“I understand.”

I’m led to the back deck, where Franny rests in an Adirondack chair tilted to face the sun. She greets me warmly, clasping my hand and smiling as if the years of accusations and misdeeds between us mean nothing. Maybe now they don’t. Maybe now we’re even.

“Dear Emma. How nice to see you up and about again.” She gestures to the floor next to her chair, where my suitcase and box of painting supplies have been placed. “It’s all there. I made sure Lottie packed everything. The only things missing are Vivian’s diary, which the police took, and the photograph she removed from the Lodge. That deserves to stay with Lottie, don’t you think?”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

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