Chapter Thirty-Five
Now
I pressed my palm to my mouth and made myself breathe through my nose. I could hear the thump of Rig’s shoes, the creak of the floorboards. “Val? You seen Greer?”
The thing in my hand was too heavy, too wrong. My stomach bottomed out. Downstairs, he lumbered down the hallway, and a few seconds later, the screen door slid open.
I forced myself to move, almost tripping over my own feet as I raced back out the way I came, taking the stairs two at a time, no mind for how loud I was being. I had to get out of there. I had to get away.
When I’d barely cleared the porch, I heard Rig’s concerned call of my name into the night, but I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.
I was almost to the trailhead that led toward the Barn when I realized I was still holding the gun.
The earth beneath me seemed to shift, and I threw it to the ground. I couldn’t stop to think, to find a better way to get rid of it. All I knew is this thing in my hand, this awful, wretched thing, could have been what he used to kill Steph.
Maybe even what he’d used to kill Winona.
I worked my way down the winding route out on the south side of camp, stumbling through the brush like a madwoman.
With shaking hands, I stood in front of the Barn, using it as the final key to all of this.
Like Steph had. It wasn’t hard, once I was looking at the map, to understand what I had to do.
In the northernmost corner, there was a long, winding path that spit you out at the base of the mountain.
We rarely took it; a mile or so in, the terrain got rocky, too hazardous for children or casual hikers.
For the most part, we kept it blocked off, with orange rope—the official Dread’s Cove sign of Off-Limits.
Near where Carter and Jeremy had been found five summers ago, on their search for the Phantom.
I moved the rope out of the way and kept going. My breath was coming hard and fast now, my pulse thundering wildly.
I wondered what Margo had already uncovered without me. G.O. is definitely hiding something. She was the same old Margo, keeping her cards close to the vest. Lying in wait for the perfect moment.
Then sinking her teeth in, until you bled out.
I pressed on, twigs snapping beneath my feet as the path grew more rugged and unkempt. I held the picture in front of me, letting the map guide me forward.
I was at the outskirts of camp, near the bluffs that hung over the rocky tip of the lake, when I saw it—where the directions were leading me. The path opened up to a small clearing, a field of wildflowers. It was achingly beautiful, even in the dark.
As slowly as I could, I walked through the small meadow, admiring the colors and the stillness, spotlighted by the glow of the full moon. It was a gorgeous assortment; purple lupine, and tall, swaying goldenrods.
A little ways off, at the edge of the bluffs, I noticed another, smaller patch of flowers. Even in the dark, I could tell: These ones were red.
They were flame azaleas. My mother’s favorite.
It felt like a sign. Or a reckoning.
Tentatively, I walked closer. These were different from the others, I noticed. They weren’t growing wild at all. Someone had planted these here. For whatever reason, I felt compelled to kneel. Like they were an altar, and I’d come to pray.
I could almost picture Steph, five years ago.
I could imagine the two of us stumbling across these, her squealing in delight at this perfect, hidden garden.
Her pulling one out even though I’d tell her not to, putting it behind her ear.
It wasn’t a real memory, but I could see it so clearly that it could have been.
I started to smile, then flinched.
Then a wave of terror, of gut-wrenching awareness, came over me, as I ran my finger across the dirt. I took in the whole scene—I took in the rectangular mound, far off the normal path.
This wasn’t a garden at all. This was a grave.
I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but I was so close. I could sense what was in the dirt beneath me. Who was here. Who had been waiting for decades to be found.
That awful ghost story flashed through my head, and I thought of the legend of those little girls. Desecrating graves at the edge of the woods. How they were punished for it.
But I had to know. I had to know right then—I had to know the truth.
So I started digging.
The dirt was in my hands, on my knees, under my fingernails, everywhere, all over me. It was like I was possessed.
My knuckles brushed something hard, just below the surface. I squeezed my eyes shut as I wrapped a shaking hand around it, not wanting to know, but needing to all the same. I made myself open my eyes, to see it. To be sure.
The scream left my lips before I fully even saw the white of it. Like some ancient knowing, deep within me, had already confirmed my darkest, basest fear.
I was holding a bone.
This is what my mother’s map had led to—what Steph had realized that night, what she’d been desperate to show Margo, before the fire started and the world ended.
She’d wanted to show Margo where her mother was buried.
Which meant that my mother had known where Winona Hayes was all along. My mother, who was famously bad at remembering directions. She’d written down that map in her Bible—because—because—
I staggered back, feeling swallowed by the night sky, the sheer depth of this place.
Until the summer of the Phantom, I’d always thought Dread’s Cove was safe.
I’d thought my mom was safer than anyone.
But I’d been so naive. The tears streamed hot down my face, and I wiped them away, dirt stinging my eyes.
“No…no,” I choked out, before falling to my knees again. Up was down and down was up and nothing made sense, because there was a body. My mother’s best friend—she was buried here.
And my mom had known. She’d fucking known.
What had she—
“Greer.”
The voice behind me was one I’d known my whole life. I thought of his quiet sadness on the phone a few weeks ago. The way I could hear him breaking apart, piece by brittle piece.
I thought I might jump out of my skin, but I made myself turn to face Rig. He rubbed a hand down the side of his face, and I watched as his fingers caught on the salt-and-pepper stubble. I was struck by how old he looked. How tired.
“What’s going on? What is this?” I was still holding a piece of Winona. Gingerly, I set it down, not taking my eyes off him.
“I will tell you,” he said, hands raising in a plea.
“But you have to calm down. You’ve gotta relax, ladybug, and you have to promise to listen to me.
I’ll tell you everything, but you need to know—that I did this for your mom.
Because I love her, and you, and Chels, and—and everything we’ve ever done has been to protect our girls. ”
I did this for your mom. The words made me recoil. I wanted to run, to call for help. But more than that, I wanted to hear what he had to say. I wanted to know what happened to Winona, and what Stephanie had discovered.
What Rig had done, and what my mother had covered up.
“I wasn’t honest with you yesterday,” he began.
“Winona was your mom’s best friend. You caught me off guard, I haven’t heard her name in—it doesn’t matter.
” His throat bobbed, and it looked painful.
“She showed up here when she was twenty-two and on the run from her old life. We all wanted her to stay. She was radiant. She was special.”
The hollow ache in his words sunk deep into my skin. I said nothing, could only stare at him.
“It didn’t take long for her and Frankie to hit it off. And your mom, of course, she became fast friends with Winona. It was hard not to.
“Your dad, well, you know how he was. Even then, always making excuses not to be around. After their daughter was born, Frankie was busy, distracted. So we spent a lot of time together, the three of us and our girls. Over at your mom’s cabin mostly, on the back porch.
That first year after Hope died, I felt underwater for a long time.
I hardly remember those days. But then—well, things started to shift. ”
I thought of what Val had told me—about Rig and my mom, spending so much time together. Leaning on each other. Needing each other. “You and my mom.” I had an awful vision: Winona walking in on them, Rig and my mom doing anything to keep her quiet, and then—
The necklace felt tight around my neck, choking me. “You had an affair. Is that it?”
Rig staggered back, the whites of his eyes catching moonlight. “No, no. It wasn’t me and your mom who fell in love. It was me and Winnie.”
My breath hitched. He was looking at the necklace again, and then, finally, I understood.
The N-I-E was not for Annie. It was not for Stephanie. “You and—you were in love with Winona?”
He dipped his head in a slow, solemn nod, like it was taking every last bit of energy he had. “I loved her the moment I saw her.”
The whole world blurred at the edges as I attempted to realign the Rig I knew—calm, collected, slow to anger—with the man who stood before me. “Then why did you kill her? Because she wouldn’t leave her husband for you? How could you?”
“No.” The word was hard, desperate. Filled with pain. “I did not kill her.”
He was looking at me with such devastation that I forced myself to swallow hard, terrified of the horrible question I knew I had to ask next. “So, my mom, then? She killed her?” I could barely string together the words.
“Winona told your mother that she was planning to leave the Cove. And Annie didn’t want that. Winona was her best friend. Your mom made a decision that night, and it was one she regretted for the rest of her life.”
I swayed slightly, felt the life I’d always known fall away from me like an old skin.
“But why would she—why would she kill her, I don’t—”