Chapter Twenty
Now
I needed some space from Margo after the interview disaster. I was sure that Chelsea was on the fast track to never speaking to me again, if she hadn’t been already.
This side of camp was quiet, with most of the guests down at the lake for the midmorning regatta.
I was glad to miss it, though it was unsettling to have the world seem so still.
I was jumpier than I’d been since I got here, which was a feat in and of itself, because I’d hardly stopped looking over my shoulder.
Lost in my thoughts, I almost smashed right into Val on my way back to the cabin.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” I stumbled back a step, then grabbed both of her bony elbows, trying to steady her. Her dark brown eyes were round and wild.
She ran a hand over her hair, already frizzing from the late-morning swell of heat. “Been looking all over for you. Did you see it?”
“See what?”
With shaking hands, she pulled a loose cigarette out of her shirt pocket. I resisted the urge to remind her of my mom’s rule, how reckless it was to smoke out here. She patted her other pockets, then spun in a useless circle. “Shit, where’s my lighter—”
“Aunt Val,” I said, with more bite than I meant. “Did I see what?”
She found the lighter, and it was a whole event, lighting it and sticking the cigarette between her lips. It felt like it was minutes later when she swallowed and said, “Black Bass.”
Dread pooled in my stomach. “What happened? Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s fine,” she said quickly, waving a hand around vaguely. “But someone—well, just follow me.”
In silence, I trudged down the path toward Black Bass. When we came out of the clearing, I opened my mouth to ask the question, then immediately snapped my mouth shut again.
There was no missing it.
On the front of the cabin, written in red spray paint, were three awful words: YOU WILL PAY.
“What the fuck?” I said, rounding on her. “Val, who did this?”
For one of the first times on record, Val Riggins had no comment, no gossip to add. She could only shake her head and puff her cigarette, free hand clutching her heart.
I looked around wildly, certain that at any moment, a photographer would pop out of the woods and scream, “Gotcha!” But there was no one.
Today’s activities were centered almost exclusively around the lake, which meant that this side of camp would hopefully be deserted for the near future. But not forever.
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling almost woozy from the heat and the acrid smell of Val’s cigarette. My skin was sticky with sweat.
“Okay, let’s think for a moment,” I said, trying to keep my voice calmer than I felt. In another life, I’d been good under pressure. I needed to channel it now. “This isn’t the end of the world, but we need to get rid of this. Immediately. No one can see this, Val, you understand that, right?”
She gave me a vigorous nod, and I was struck by how strange it was, to be the voice of authority in this moment.
With my fear and anxiety, there was a brief lightning rod of pride that shot down my spine before I refocused on the problem.
“We need something to strip this paint. Would that be out in the maintenance shed?”
Val fidgeted with her cigarette as she considered this. “No, we keep a lot of that stuff in the Barn now. More space in there.”
I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second. Not the Barn. “All right, if you’ll go grab it, I’ll—”
“I’ve gotta get back to the lake,” she said, shaking her head helplessly, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “I promised Chels I’d be quick. She’ll know something’s up, and if she sees this, she’s gonna have a complete meltdown. I’m so sorry, but you’re gonna have to take this one, sweetheart.”
“Fine,” I ground out. It was not fine at all. Childishly, I resented the fact that Val was more concerned about protecting Chelsea’s feelings than mine—yes, Chelsea was running this weekend, but it was my mom who’d died.
“Tell everyone that the cabins over here are closed for the rest of the morning for—I don’t know, cleaning. Just make sure no one comes over here, okay?”
Val took her marching orders in stride, puffing once more on her cigarette before carefully tapping it out against a trash can.
“Should be a table right in the front,” she told me, holding a flat hand to her forehead like a makeshift visor.
“All the painting stuff is right there; we’ve been using it the past couple of weeks for last-minute touch-ups and what not. You’ll see it.”
“Got it,” I grumbled, and she took off back toward the beach.
I knew we were under a time crunch, but I was momentarily spellbound by the words on the wall.
When YOU WILL PAY had been written on the mess hall that summer, it had marked the beginning of the end. That was the day my mom decided to officially close camp early. Within hours, every camper was gone.
And that night, the fire had devoured almost everything in its path.
This is what people had pointed to, in the months after. It was the proof that people needed, being passed around blogs and Reddit and the darker corners of the internet, that Dread’s Cove had been set ablaze on purpose.
That someone had wanted us to pay. So we had. Steph had, with her life.
The lettering was legible but messy. I brought the back of my knuckle to it, and pulled it away red; the paint was still wet.
Whoever had done this had been here only moments ago.
I turned around quickly, the hairs on my neck standing up, wondering if they were still around.
If they were lying in wait, as the Phantom would have, to see my reaction.
I regretted sending Val off on her own. Splitting up felt very stupid. The sun was hot on my scalp, and I could hear the uneven beat of my heart, pressing up against my chest.
Then, somewhere in the woods behind Black Bass, a twig snapped.
I staggered back, my foot twisting as I fell from the step leading to the door.
Up was down, and I was staring at the sky, blinking into the quiet.
“Hello?” I yelped, not moving. I felt like an animal in a cage, nowhere to go.
Slowly, I sat up, careful to not make any noise.
“Is someone back there?” I called, aiming for a tone of cool authority.
“This section of camp is closed right now. You can head back to the lake.”
My mind flashed to the other night, Margo and I stumbling through the dark and hearing someone behind us. That sixth sense that someone was watching. And the match in the kitchen, the broken glass.
What was going on? What did they want?
There was another sound of a branch breaking, but it was farther away now. There was no way to tell if it was just a sound of the woods or a person. I had the fleeting thought of attempting to follow it, but that seemed far too reckless. Even for me.
Just behind me, leaves rustled, and I swallowed a scream. But when I looked around, it was only a squirrel, blinking at me with black eyes.
I steeled myself and stood, feeling slightly off-kilter. My ankle hurt, but I was fine. I took off toward the Barn.
—
It had been over a decade since we’d had horses, so the Barn had fallen into disrepair.
Before the fire had damaged it even further, it had been the perfect late-night rendezvous spot for parties and hookups.
We’d spent more than a few nights there that summer, drinking through our supply of cheap wine and bottom-shelf vodka before slinking back to our beds before dawn broke through, and my mom or Rig discovered our empty cabins.
Over the years I’d been away, it must have turned into a space to store things that no longer had a place.
But it was well-loved, thought of fondly; eternally remembered with a capital B.
It had also been the last place Steph had been seen alive, by Margo.
That was the one bit of information we’d been able to get out of her the next morning.
To me, that made it feel haunted. Untouchable.
It was one of the places that would often flash across my nightmares, just before the fire began.
I’d been committed to steering clear of it this weekend.
The Barn was secluded, at least compared to the rest of camp. There was something off-putting about being somewhere so quiet. I felt like I was intruding on something ancient or sacred.
The door slid open with an echoing thump, and I took a single step inside.
Thankfully, I saw the paint stripper almost immediately—there was a large table right by the door with all sorts of paint supplies, just like Val had promised.
I let out a sigh of relief. At least one thing was going right this morning.
I grabbed it and turned back toward the door.
Along the front wall, there were shelves lined with boxes, some labeled on the front and some not.
But I noticed that one read Mason Ackers, which stirred something in the depths of my subconscious.
It took me a moment, but finally I remembered.
He’d been the head cook that my grandfather had hired, here before even Wes’s parents, thirty or so years ago.
Curious, I pulled it out and poked my head inside.
A bunch of junk; a deck of cards that looked moldy, a few water-damaged Cormac McCarthy novels, and some wrinkled, musty T-shirts.
These were things he must have left behind, shoved into a box, and stuffed away—too personal to throw out but too mundane to send to his new address.
Instead, they were here, waiting in cardboard purgatory for someone who’d never return for them.
The idea crashed into me like a bolt of lightning. I thought about what Margo had said—where else we might be able to look for information about Steph’s mom. If this is where we kept the remnants of long-gone camp staff—what if there was a box for Winona Hayes?