Page 53 of The Last Time I Lied

“I’m going to be a police detective like my uncle,” she says. “Why write about crimes when you can solve them in real life?”

“Um, that’s called a superhero,” Krystal says with no small amount of satisfaction.

Miranda forges ahead to where the incline finally levels off into less wearying terrain, waiting impatiently for the rest of us. Once there, we pause to catch our breath and take in the scenery. On our right, slivers of blue sky peek through the trees. I move instinctively toward them, following the light, emerging from the trees onto a thin strip of craggy ground. Beyond it, the land drops away, and for a dizzying, disoriented moment, I think I’m about to drop with it. I wrap an arm around the nearest tree, steadying myself, my eyes aimed at my feet to make sure I remain on solid ground.

When the girls reach my side, one of them—I think it’s Miranda—whistles with appreciation.

“Day-um,” Krystal says, stretching the word into two syllables. She sounds beyond impressed. Awed.

I lift my eyes to the horizon, seeing what they see. I realize we’re atop the ridge I’d spotted from the canoe, overlooking the stone-walled cliff. The view it affords us is stunning. Lake Midnight spreads out below us, the water dappled with sunlight. From this height, I can see the full shape of the shoreline curving inward, the spot in the distance where it narrows toward the dam.

Across from us, hazy in the distance, sits Camp Nightingale. It looks so small from here. A miniature. Something placed in the center of a model railroad.

I dig the map from my pocket and give it a quick peek. Vivian drew nothing to indicate the cliff where we now stand. From what I can gather from her crude markings, we’re close to the raggedlytriangular rocks. Sure enough, when I turn away from the water and point north, I get a glimpse of rocks through the thick forest.

I’m getting closer. To what, I still have no clue.

The rocks on Vivian’s map differ greatly from the ones I see in person. These are boulders. Dozens of them. Massive ones that only get larger as we approach, their weight palpable, so heavy and unwieldy it’s a wonder the earth can support them. They sit in a line running up a sharp rise similar to the one we’ve just climbed.

The girls spread out among them, scaling the boulders like kids in a playground.

“I bet these rocks used to be part of the mountain’s peak,” Sasha says as she clambers up a boulder twice her height. “They froze and broke apart, then glaciers took them down the hill. Now they’re here.”

Explanation aside, the boulders still unsettle me. They make me think of the rumored survivors of Lake Midnight’s creation. I picture them when the moon is full, creeping around these very boulders at night, searching for new victims. To push away the unease, I check both the compass and the map, making sure this is where we should be. It is.

“Hey, girls,” I call out. “We should keep moving.”

I squeeze between two boulders and edge around another. That’s when I get a view of another rock farther up the incline. One bigger than the others. A monolith.

Nearly two stories tall, it rises from the ground like an enormous tombstone. The side facing me is mostly flat. A sheer wall of rock. A large fissure runs diagonally through it, widening at the top. A tree grows inside the crack, its roots curling along the rock face, seeking soil. Standing beside the tree, looking up into its branches, is Sasha.

Krystal is up there, too. She takes a step toward the boulder’s edge and peers down at me. “Hey,” she says.

“What are you doing up there?”

“Exploring,” Sasha says.

“I’d prefer it if you stayed on the ground,” I say. “Where’s Miranda?”

“Right here.”

Miranda’s voice emanates from the northwestern side of the giant rock. It sounds watery, akin to an echo. I follow it as Sasha and Krystal scramble down the boulder’s opposite side. I work my way around it, seeing another large crack in the rock’s side. This one runs in a straight line, widening at the bottom. It opens up completely about a foot from the ground, creating a hole large enough for a person to crawl into.

Or, in Miranda’s case, crawl out of. She climbs to her feet, circles of mud dotting her knees and elbows. “I wanted to see what was in there.”

“Bears or snakes, probably,” Sasha says.

“Exactly,” I say. “So no more exploring. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Krystal says.

“We understand,” Sasha adds.

Miranda stands with her hand on her hip, annoyed. “Isn’t that why we’re out here?”

I say nothing. I’m too busy looking past her, my head tilted, eyes narrowed in curiosity. In the distance behind her are what appear to be ruins. I can make out a crumbled stone wall and one jagged wooden beam pointing skyward.

I start to creep toward it, the girls behind me. When I get closer, I see that it’s the remains of what might have been a barn or farmhouse. The walls are mostly now a pile of rocks, but enough are intact to be able to make out the building’s rectangular foundation. Inside are several pines that have sprouted from what’s left of the building’s roof and floor.

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