The next one is Hannah’s.
Hannah’s father was caught after firefighters responded to a blaze in their basement, right next to his torture chamber. I believe that Hannah started the fire herself, fully aware of the crimes her father was committing down there. Her mother might’ve known, too; she was committed to a psychiatric hospital last year. Hannah mentioned during a therapy session that her mother is showing signs of improvement, but this might be wishful thinking. Could the guilt of not stepping in sooner have caused her mental breakdown?
Horrified, I flip through the other notebooks: one for Ros, one for Kemy, one for Greer. I don’t bother looking at more than the first sentence of that one because anything else would be an invasion of privacy and make me just as guilty as he was. A Post-it note adhered to the inside front cover reads: “Audrey Banerjee, Monday, 3:30 P.M. Marriott Waterfront.” Was Zach planning to meet up with someone in Seattle after the retreat?
I reach the final notebook, open to the first page.
Nicola feels that Greer abandoned her after her father’s arrest onTo Catch a Killer—
I slam the pages shut and double over, chest tucked against my knees. It’s like I’ve been dragged right back home, the minister’s wife squeezing my hand as I confessed, only to discover my own words hollered back at me from the cover of a magazine. I traveled all the way across the country, and yet I’m right back where I started. Myfingers scrape against something sharp on the back cover. A staple. A business card’s been fastened there: contact information not for a reporter, but for an editor at a publishing house, a message scribbled at the bottom:
So excited to work with you!
He wasn’t just writing articles; he was writing an entire fucking book about us.
I’m disgusted—with Zach, yes, but mostly with myself. How could I have gotten him so wrong? I’d believed that he could be trusted, that he was my friend. Was any of that real, or was every interaction we shared calculated? Did he follow me on social media, scroll back until he found a childhood photo of me, my dad, and Robert, the toy poodle? Was his story about Linda, the chain-smoking gecko, even true, or was it supposed to make me feel like we had something in common?
I stare at the stack of notebooks still locked in my fist. With the others, he’d eavesdropped on their conversations, their therapy sessions, but with me, he didn’t even have to bother. I turned over everything he needed without a second thought. All he had to do was offer a few kind words, and I spread my life out into the open for him. He must’ve realized from the beginning how pathetic I was, how desperate, and he took full advantage of that.
I reopen the notebook, forcing myself to skim through the pages just to make sure I’m not jumping to conclusions. I want so, so badly to be wrong, but every secret I confided in him is laid bare on these pages. When I reach the end, though, there’s a message that seems unrelated to me:
Connor’s Room: 8068
Is that some kind of code maybe—like for a safe? There are tons of blank pages at the back of Connor’s notebook, so why write this down in mine? Unless there’s something in his room that has to do with me. On the ride here, the other club members mentioned him running background checks. What if Connor somehow found the one thing I’ve tried to keep hidden all these years? What if they’re somewhere in his room right now—
A floorboard at the top of the stairs creaks.
Someone’s in the second-floor hallway, their footsteps getting closer and closer. I rip the page out, scraps sticking in the spiral binding, and dump the notebooks back into the statue. There’s no way I can leave without being seen, so I lunge for the closet, throwing myself inside and closing the door.
Just as Hannah enters.
I watch through the crack as she checks each of the dresser drawers in turn. She moves on to the desk, and that’s when I realize it’s only a matter of time before she opens the closet to look in here. I shift backward, careful to avoid rattling the wire hangers on either side of me, like that’s going to stop her from noticing me the moment the door’s flung wide. She closes the final desk drawer, but instead of turning toward the closet, she tips the statue, the head swinging open, reaches inside, and collects the notebooks.
I wait for her to start flipping through them, the same way I did. She just tucks them in her pocket, like she already knows what’s inside them, like she expected to find them here. She replaces the statue and scurries into the hallway.
I ease the closet door open. Did Hannah already suspect Zach was going to sell us out? His last night at the lodge, he’d seemed nervous, constantly checking over my shoulder, like someone might be hiding in the shadows. Was that someone Hannah? Had she been following him, trying to catch him in the act?
The fact that Hannah, helpless little Hannah, recognized what he was while I remained in the dark chafes. How can I still be so gullible after all this time? I imagine Zach returning to his room after one of our heart-to-hearts and doing a little victory lap in front of the mirror, laughing at his good fortune and my complete fucking stupidity. I jam the sheet of notebook paper to the bottom of my pocket.
Back in my room, Greer is still sleeping, completely unaware of the hole that’s just been ripped into my life. I crawl under the blanket, trying my best not to disturb her. Still, she rolls onto her side, wrapping her arms around my stomach and plastering herself to my back. “Nic,” she murmurs, her breath disturbing the wispy hairs at the back of my neck.
“Yeah?” I ask, but she’s already started snoring again.
Ironic that he tried convincing me thatshewas the liar, thatshecouldn’t be trusted. He probably wanted to generate more friction, trigger a confrontation that could’ve been the centerpiece for his book.
I settle back against her, focus on the rise and fall of her chest, try to let it lull me to sleep. An hour later, I’m still wide awake.
23STEFFANI
“You.”
It’s the man who offered me a lift. Thank fucking god. Here I was thinking my dad popped two in his forehead, then dumped him in a roadside ditch. He must’ve escaped, or maybe he turned me over to my dad, then, sensing something was off, resolved to follow at a distance. When he saw me being dragged into the woods, he must’ve known what was up and come to rescue me.
But then, how did he get the key to the padlock?
My relief dies a swift yet painful death.
“Are you feeling all right?” He’s putting on the same act he did in the car, but I’m not buying it, not anymore.
