Page 113 of The Last Time I Lied

I nod, grudgingly respecting Mindy for giving as good as she gets. “None taken.”

“Chet told me Franny had to pay for a new lab building before they’d even consider letting Theo return. I think that’s around the same time she sold the Harris. In my opinion, she should have sold this place instead. Chet said he tried talking to her about selling the land around Lake Midnight, but she wouldn’t even consider it. So I guess the sale will have to wait—”

Mindy cuts herself off before she can let slip that Franny is dying. Even though I already know about the cancer, I admire herdiscretion. It’s nice to see there are some family secrets she’s not willing to spill.

“Anyway, that’s their money situation,” she says. “Between you and me, I’m relieved. The thought of all that money scared the hell out of me. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still plenty. More than my family ever had. But it’s less intimidating. The more money there is, the more I feel the need to pretend. Which means I’ll keep worrying that my hands still smell like a dairy farm.”

Mindy looks down at her hands, turning them over to inspect them in the light of the nightstand lantern.

“I’m sorry for judging you,” I say.

“I’m used to it. Just don’t tell Chet or Franny or anyone else. Please.”

“I won’t.”

“Thank you. And for the record, I don’t think you did anything to those girls. I’ve seen the way you act around them. You all liked one another. I could tell.”

The mention of Miranda, Sasha, and Krystal sends another wave of worry crashing over me. To combat it, I gulp down more wine.

“I hope they’re okay,” I say. “I need them to be.”

“I do, too.” Mindy drains her cup, sets it on the nightstand, and crawls under Krystal’s lumpy covers. “Otherwise the Harris-White name is going to be dragged through the mud again. And I’ve got a feeling that this time it’s going to stick.”

33

After the bottle of wine has been emptied and the steak and potatoes have long gone cold, Mindy falls asleep.

I don’t.

Worry, fear, and the prospect of another nighttime visit from Vivian keep me awake. Whenever I close my eyes, I see Sasha’s mangled glasses and think of her alone somewhere, stumbling blindly, possibly bleeding. So I keep them open and clutch Krystal’s teddy bear to my chest while listening to Mindy snore on the other side of the room. Every so often, the sound is drowned out by the helicopter taking another pass over the camp. Each time its spotlight sweeps past the cabin means another update on the status of the search.

The girls are still missing.

It’s almost midnight when my phone springs to life in the darkness. Marc is calling, the ringtone loud and insistent in the quiet cabin.

Mindy’s snoring abruptly stops. “Too loud,” she says, still half-asleep.

I silence the phone and whisper, “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

The phone vibrates in my hand. Marc’s sent a text.

Found something. CALL ME!

I wait until Mindy’s snoring returns before sliding out of bed and tiptoeing to the door. I grab the doorknob, on the verge oftwisting it open, when I realize that I can’t go outside. Not with a camera aimed directly at the door and one of Detective Flynn’s minions surely sitting in the Lodge’s cellar, monitoring the live feed.

Rather than risk raising all kinds of red flags, I go to the window. Carefully, I take the lantern off the nightstand and place it on Miranda’s bed, where I won’t trip over it on my way back inside. I then reach across the nightstand and gingerly lift the window first, then its screen.

I shoot a glance Mindy’s way, making sure she’s still asleep before climbing atop the nightstand and swinging my legs out the window. I twist, the sill pressing into my stomach as I lower myself to the ground.

To avoid the camera outside Dogwood completely, I have to cut behind the other cabins on my way to the latrine. I move in a half crouch, trying not to be noticed by anyone inside the cabins or roaming about outside.

The only real threat of being spotted comes from the helicopter and its stupid spotlight, which passes overhead within a minute of my being outside. I throw myself against the wall of the nearest cabin, my back flattened against it, arms at my sides. The spotlight’s beam sweeps past me, oblivious to my presence.

I don’t move until the helicopter skims over the lake. Then I run, sprinting to the latrine, my phone sliding around in my pocket. Inside, I turn on the lights and check each bathroom stall and shower. Just like during my search for the girls this morning, it’s empty. Unlike then, I’m relieved to be alone.

I make my way to one of the stalls, closing the door and locking it for extra privacy. Then I pull out my phone and call Marc. The connection is weak. When he answers, static stutters into his words.

“Billy and... found... thing.”

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