Page 87 of The Last Time I Lied

Emma, please.

I slid under the covers, lost in the darkness within, staying there until the knocking, the rattling, Vivian herself faded away.

“I could have let them in,” I say. “I should have. But I didn’t. Because I was young and stupid and angry. But if Ihadlet them in, all three would still be here. And I wouldn’t be carrying around this awful feeling that I killed them.”

Two more tears follow the designated path. I wipe them away with the back of my hand.

“I paint them. All three of them. Every painting I’ve finished for years has included them. Only no one knows they’re there. I cover them up. And I don’t know why. I can’t help myself. But I can’t keep on painting them. It’s crazy.I’mcrazy. But now I think that if I can somehow find out what happened, then maybe I’ll be able to stop painting them. Which means that maybe I’ve finally forgiven myself.”

I stop talking and look up from the floor. Sasha, Krystal, and Miranda stare at me, silent and motionless. They look at me the same way children eye a stranger. Curious and skittish.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not feeling well. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

I stand, woozy, swaying like a storm-battered tree. The girls slide out of my way and start to climb to their feet. I gesture for them to stay where they are.

“Don’t let me spoil your night. Keep playing.”

They do. Because they’re nervous. Because they’re scared. Because they don’t know what else to do but to keep playing, appeasing me, waiting until I pass out, which likely will be any second now.

“One more round,” Miranda says, her decisiveness not quite masking her fear. “I’ll go.”

I close my eyes before crawling into bed. Rather, they close on their own, no matter how much I try to keep them open. I’m too tired. Too drunk. Too emotionally flattened by my confession. Temporarily blinded, I feel my way into bed, reaching for the mattress, my pillow, the wall. I curl into a ball, my knees to my chest, back turned to the girls. My standard humiliation position.

“One: I once got sick after riding the Cyclone at Coney Island.” Miranda’s voice slows, cautious, pausing to hear if I’m asleep yet. “Two: I read about a hundred books a year.”

Sleep overwhelms me immediately. It’s like a trapdoor, opening up beneath me. I willingly fall, plummeting into unconsciousness. As I tumble, I can still hear Miranda, her voice faint and fading fast.

“Three: I’m worried about Emma.”

This is how it continues.

You scream again.

And again.

You do it even though you don’t know why. Yet you also sort of do. Because no matter how much you try, you can’t rid your mind of those too-terrible-to-think thoughts. Deep down, you know that one of them is true.

So you scream one more time, waking the rest of the camp. Even standing in the lake, ten feet from shore, you can sense a wave of energy pulsing toward you. It’s a sudden jolt. A collective surprise. A heron on the shore senses it and spreads its long, elegant wings. It takes flight, rising high, riding the sound of your screams.

The first person you see is Franny. She bursts onto the back deck of the Lodge. The screams have already tipped her off that something is wrong. One quick glance at you in the water confirms it. She flies down the wooden steps, the hem of her white nightgown fluttering.

Chet is next, all sleepy eyes and bedhead. He stays on the deck, unnerved, his hands gripping the railing. After that comes Theo, not even pausing, racing down the steps. You see that he’s clad only in a pair of boxer shorts, the sight of all that exposed skin obscene under the circumstances. You look away, queasy.

Others have gathered along the shore, campers and counselors alike, standing motionless in the mist. All of them scared and startled andcurious. That above everything else. Their curiosity comes at you like a frigid wind. You hate them just then. You hate their eagerness to learn something you already know, no matter how terrible it may be.

Becca Schoenfeld stands among them. You hate her most ofall because she actually has the gall to chronicle what’shappening. She elbows her way to the front of thecrowd, her camera raised. When she clicks off a fewshots, the noise of the shutter skips across the lake like a flat stone.

But it’s only Franny who comes forward. She stands at the edge of the lake, her bare toesthisclose from the water.

“Emma?” she says. “What are you doing out here? Are you hurt?”

You don’t answer. You’re unsure how.

“Em?” It’s Theo, whom you still can’t bear to look at. “Come out of the water.”

“Go back to the Lodge,” Franny snaps at him. “I can handle this.”

She enters the lake. Not wading like you did. She marches. Knees lifting. Arms pumping. Nightgown darkening at the hem as it sucks up water. She stops a few feet from you, her head cocked in concern. Her voice is low, strained but calm.

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