Susan Marks turned and fixed Patty with a devastating gaze.
“What was the one thing you could count on with Allison? Her schedule. She ran every morning and she stopped on Arrowhead Point. That was perfect. Easiest thing in the world to fall off a place like that, and that there would likely be people nearby who would see the entire thing go down and be able to swear—absolutely swear—that no one else was up there. Honestly? I’m kind of worried that I gave you the idea. When we came into your shop on the first morning we were here and we were looking at your cakes, Janelle asked how you decorated them. You said that your trick was working from the outside in. I said, ‘Like a crime scene.’ No one ever listens to me when I say stuff like that, but I think you did. If Allison fell, the area would be roped off and investigated from the outside in. That means time. Time for something to vanish. And what vanishes on a hot rock in the sun?”
There was a pause as the assembled worked out whether or not this was a rhetorical question. Finally someone broke the silence with a tentative “Ice?”
“Ice,” Stevie said, forcing her inner confidence out into her voice. “There was no time for anything elaborate—no molds or anything like that. What you could do was make some sheets of ice. Put them on the point so that when Allison stepped on them, she slid right off. The evidence either melted away as the sun came up or some of it fell off with her. When the police examined the rock, there was nothing there. You had everything you needed—large sheet pans, a professional-sized freezer, large capacity containers like the kind used to transport elaborate food items—and one more thing, the only thing that left a trace.”
Stevie dug into her bag one more time and pulled out the remains of the Camp Sunny Pines shirt.
“I went up to Arrowhead Point when it reopened,” she said. “I poured out some water from my bottle to see how steep the surface was, then I got on the ground. I didn’t know it then, but I rehydrated something that was dried on the rock, and it won’t come off. That’s because it’s dye—food dye. You made some large, flat pieces of ice, tinted with dye to darken them. No one would notice it, and in time, it would all wash away with the rain. It was good I was there when I was, before the storm. Because this”—she held the shirt higher for emphasis—“this can be examined. It can be identified, right down to brand and type.”
Patty opened her mouth and closed it several times, like a fish gasping on the shore.
“This is absurd. . . .”
“Here’s the thing,” Stevie said. “Sabrina is a witness now. She’s speaking from the dead. And everyone here”—she motioned, indicating everyone in the room—“they heard it. And everyone who hears this podcast—”
“Oh, it’s a television show now,” Carson cut in. “For sure.”
“. . . or watches this show . . . they’re going to study you as you are right now, in this moment. This is your chance to tell your side. Because if you don’t, other people will tell it for you. Everyone will judge you. You won’t be able to escape it. You have a chance, right now, to say whatever you want to say. . . .”
“A piece of advice,” David said, folding his arms casually across his chest. “I’d tell her what she wants to know. The last person in your position tried to deny it too, and it didn’t work out well for them.”
“My father was a good man,” Patty said. “He did everything for me. He lived for me.”
There was a tremor in her voice, one that reflected the seismic activity that must have been going on inside of her—the rush and tumble of decades of psychological weight coming down—all the blocks and boulders she’d stacked to keep the truth as separate as possible.
“Your dad was a Nazi,” David corrected her. “And he murdered five of your friends.”
Patty stiffened and fell silent.
“Something you’re probably asking yourself right now,” Stevie went on. “How do I have this diary? You chased us. You saw us jump into the lake. You heard me scream that it was gone. I bet you checked. Were you there all night? I bet you checked the path, to make sure I hadn’t dropped it by accident. I bet you looked everywhere, to be really, really sure. Did you come back at dawn to check the lake to see if it was floating on the surface? Did you get in the water to look for it?”
The flicker of anger that passed over Patty’s face told Stevie the answer was yes, she had absolutely done that.
“So,” Stevie said, “you’re wondering how I got the diary out of the lake undamaged.”
“I’m wondering,” Nate muttered, his voice tinged with awe.
The expectant silence in the room was delicious.
“What happened is that the diary never went into the lake,” Stevie said.
“Wait,” Nate said. “What? I was there. You said . . .”
“I said it went into the lake, yes.” She tried—unsuccessfully—not to smile. “I made sure you heard me scream. I don’t remember doing much else, because . . . I’d just fallen off a cliff into a lake. But I made sure to do that. I wanted you to think it was gone.”
Patty shifted in her seat angrily.
“Are you saying you hid it?” Nate asked. “When? We were running the whole time.”
“I have to thank Carson for this one,” Stevie said.
“What?” Carson said. “Me?”
“I didn’t have a lot of time, but I did have this . . .”
Stevie pulled out the wood-patterned Bag Bag, the one made of the same material that was used on her cabin wall.
“. . . stupid bag that looks like wood. It’s a really good pattern, right? Photorealistic. It fooled me too. I don’t blame you for not seeing it. It took me awhile to find it this morning, and I knew what I was looking for. Just before we jumped, I stuck the diary in there and I chucked it. Even if we didn’t make it, I thought . . . someone might find it. I had to keep it safe.”
Then something odd happened. Patty began to laugh.
Paul Penhale stood up.
“Patty . . . ,” he said in a husky whisper. “Patty . . . what did you do? Look at me, Patty. What did you do?”
She wheeled around at him, her eyes bloodshot from tears of laughter. Her face was contorted in a grimace of rage, relief, or some emotion that Stevie did not know. Something was breaking free inside of Patty Horne.
“You should say thank you,” she said. “You should say thank you. Todd Cooper? You know what he did to your brother. Everyone knew. The whole town let him get away with it. He told us what he did. He told us he hit Michael. Diane covered for him. Eric definitely had his suspicions, but he never stopped hanging out with him. Same with Greg. Same with me. We were all complicit. And what do you think they’d be doing if they were alive? Todd was a monster. Eric was a dealer. Diane was a stoner loser. Greg was a dirtbag. My father tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen. In fact, if we’re all being honest, the only person anyone really mourned was Sabrina. Perfect Sabrina. But who was hanging out with Todd Cooper that night? Perfect Sabrina. Who was making out with my boyfriend at my house when I wasn’t home? Perfect Sabrina. Spare me your sanctimony. And whatever this was . . .” She waved at the screen, Stevie, the Bounce House, the crowd. “None of this is . . . real. This is some murder-obsessed kid making things up.”