“I am so fucking grateful to those who helped him find that conscience of his.”
“Me too.” I put my hand on hers and squeeze, my energy coming back. I think, I’m ready to do this. For Tyler. For Emily. For whoever it is whose child’s death Wendy and I will soon be avenging. I tear open the envelope, unfold the note. There are two pages—the first consists of a map of the area and an address to plug into the Mercedes’s GPS: 2 Lake Road, Bird Hollow, New York.
On the next page, there are instructions:
Once you reach the dock, remove the lighter and the fully charged burner from the glove compartment. Put the Mercedes in neutral, exit the car, and push it into the lake. You will then take the lighter and safely burn these sets of instructions. When this is all complete, turn on the burner. Go to texts. You will see one text that simply says: READY? Reply YES to receive info as to where to meet your ride.
We are working in unison, Wendy and I. Reading the same words at the same time. （“The burner. That’s the flip phone, right?” I ask. She nods.） And once we’ve made it through the final sentence at the bottom of the page, we turn to each other at the same second, the same look in our eyes, and there is no doubt in my mind that we share the same thoughts.
The sentence reads:
DO NOT OPEN THE TRUNK.
Twelve
We drive in silence for most of the ride, Wendy following the orders of the GPS’s calm female voice, her eyes clear and open and alert as the clock edges closer to four a.m.
My eyes are bleary, my thoughts slow, but my pulse races. I feel as though I’m in a dream. Almost there. The thought chugs through my brain. Almost there, almost there, almost there . . .
According to the GPS, we’re just five minutes from our destination, and this last part of the ride feels like the end of a fireworks show, Wendy plowing down a series of narrow unpaved roads through thick woods, one sharp turn, then another, then another, the sleek car bucking and leaping, releasing puffs of dirt. The thing in the trunk thuds and clangs with each turn, but I don’t say a word about it. We’re not supposed to open it. We’ll never know what it is. Or who it is.
Finally Wendy says, “What do you think is back there?”
“No idea.”
Wendy glances at me, then turns back to her driving.
The GPS says, “Turn right on Lake Road,” and we emerge from the wooded area, a shimmering lake spreading out before us, reflecting the stars. At the same time, we gasp. It’s beautiful. Snow-dusted evergreen trees, a row of log cabins, boarded up and abandoned for the season, traces of powdery snow on their roofs and windowsills, light as confectioners’ sugar on a gingerbread house. It’s as though we’ve driven into a painting, everything perfect and peaceful and absolutely still.
“Would you look at that?” Wendy says as the headlights hit a large sign up ahead that reads CAMP ACACIA. “A summer camp,” she says. “What better place to get rid of something in the winter?”
“Good thing the lake isn’t frozen.”
The GPS tells us to drive seventy-five feet. And then: “Your destination is on the right.”
Wendy turns onto a long, sloping concrete dock—a boat launch—stopping just shy of the edge. There are no boats hitched to it, of course. Like the rest of this summer camp, the canoes and kayaks and rowboats are hibernating somewhere, making the permanent structures like this dock feel ghostly and strange.
Our destination.
I open the glove compartment, where the lighter and the flip phone have been placed side by side. I take them out. Two burners. There’s something poetic in that, isn’t there? The synonymnity of it all. Is that a word? Are these real thoughts? Is this a dream?
Wendy puts the car into neutral, and we both get out. We walk around to the back, one on each side, our eyes on the trunk. Wendy says it again. “What do you think is in there?”