Authors: Island of Lost Girls

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Rhonda nodded, thought about how good it felt to be talking to Peter again. How familiar and comfortable. Like going home.

After Daniel disappeared, I kept going out to the porch. Id sit there for hours some nights over the years, smoking, staring off down the road, waiting for him to show up with another six-pack. Now I know hes not going to. And I suppose theres some comfort in finally knowing, but it still doesnt seem fair.

Rhonda nodded. Her father teared up. Looked out the kitchen window onto the porch, like there was still hope his best friend would show up and say the whole thing was a hoax.

The girls outside giggled. Go fish! Suzy squealed.

THE POLICE SEEMEDto be going on the assumption that Daniel had been killed by one of two men he owed a great deal of money to: Shane Gokey or Gordon Pelletier, both of whom were now
dead. Everyone seemed glad to accept this version of eventsan answer, however horrible, was better than simply not knowing. Crowley made it clear that the case was by no means closed, which meant, to Rhonda, that there would always be the possibility of being caught. Rhonda was no idiot. She knew that with modern forensics, some small piece of evidencea hair or a buttonand they would be caught. Even Rhonda, who hadnt known about the murder but had helped to hide the body, and later, when she learned the truth, said nothing. She also knew that the truth had a funny way of surfacing when you least expected it. Ten years down the road there might be a knock on her door, and there would be Crowley to say, I know what you did.

THE WORST THINGis, Clem said, we may never know what really happened. And of course theres part of me thatll always kick myself in the ass for not loaning Daniel the money he asked for that summer to pay back those guys. The money that might have saved his life.

The little radio in the corner of the kitchen was playing softly, and Van Morrison came on. Clem walked over and turned it up. God, Daniel loved this song, he said. He held the radio in his hands, swaying a little as he gazed out the porch window, his eyes focused on an imaginary figure in the distance.

He has no idea, Rhonda thought. No idea what Daniel was doing to Lizzy, about what had really happened that last night. And if Daniels best friend didnt know, maybe their secret was safe.

Justine came into the kitchen, wearing a sensible black dressno sweat suit today. Her arms were loaded with dirty plates and bowls. She set them down in the sink with a small crash, stirring Clem from his dreams.

Need some help? he asked his wife.

She shook her head, started to fill the sink with water, squirted in the soap, her back to Clem, Rhonda, and the radio.

Rhonda remembered the third degree her mother had given her each time she came back from spending the night at Lizzys house:What did you do? How late were you up? Was Aggie there? Peter? Daniel?

Daniel.

Oh my God, she knew all along.Rhonda nearly said the words out loud. For an instant, she imagined placing her hands on her mothers square shoulders, turning her around so that they were face-to-face, and saying,You knew what Daniel was doing, didnt you?

She gripped the back of a kitchen chair instead.

You sure we cant give you a hand? Clem asked. Theres a lot of cleanup.

Thats okay, dear. Cleaning up is what I do best, Justine said.

A chill ran through Rhonda, beginning at the scar on her forehead and racing all the way down to her toes.Cleaning up . Was it possible that Justine knew not just about the abuse but about what finally ended it? Had throwing away Lizzys bloody clothes been more than just simple housekeeping?

Rhonda squeezed the chair tighter.

Can you turn that up? Justine said, her back still to them. I want to hear the weather.

Clem turned the radio up and the DJ came on to give the top of the hour news. The lead story was that Ernestine Floruccis body had been found by some campers on the north side of the lake early that morning.

Rhonda let out a squeaky sigh, felt her fingers slip off the chair.

Im sorry, Ronnie, Clem said, still holding the radio in his hands. He set it back down on the counter carefully, like it might be a bomb.

Rhonda went out to the porch, where Suzy and Kim were giggling over their cards. You girls want to take a walk? she asked.

Suzy nodded, said, I know where theres a submarine. Rhondas stomach went cold as she followed the skipping girls across the yard and down the path that led to their old stage.

Rhonda hadnt been into the woods in years. Shortly after the play, theyd all stopped using the path that connected their houses, choosing to walk back and forth the long way, down the road. Now Rhonda understood why.

The woods seemed smaller, to Rhonda, closer somehow. The trees had grown, filling in and making the clearing darker than she had remembered, even on a bright day. She looked up, trying to recall which pine it was that Tock had shot her arrow from. She thought she could pick it out, but couldnt be sure. They all looked nearly the same.

The girls climbed into Clems old Impala and Rhonda followed, squeezing into the front seat beside them.

Where are we going? Rhonda asked. Suzy was at the wheel in her dark funeral dress, her hair held back with a ribbon.

To see the octopus, Suzy said, matter-of-factly.

Rhonda looked to her right. The disarranged pile of wood that had once been their stage was black and sickly green with decay and moss. The police had pulled boards aside to expose the hole beneath. Rhonda turned away, unable to make herself look down into the hole they had once all taken turns hiding in. The hole where they changed costumes and which they used to make the most dramatic entrances and exits. Rhonda remembered falling in her dreams, how she thought she might never stop. She thought of her old retainer, pulled from that hole, held in an evidence bag now, packed away beside the remnants of Daniels T-shirt and jeans. She scanned the ground, wondering where theyd buried the bogeyman, struggled to remember what shed written on her
piece of paper. Whathad she been afraid of then? Peter not loving her? That she would grow old and forget things? Had she written something as simple asspiders ? Or something far more sinister?

Under a few boards off to the side, Rhonda spotted a torn bit of cloth and recognized a piece of the painted scene from the play. Blue waves, a bit of palm tree, now blotchy with mildew. Their Neverland, was, Rhonda realized then, a lot like Ernies Rabbit Island.

SUZY BROUGHT THEsub gently to rest on the ocean floor. She, Kim, and Rhonda got out and sat in the bed of pine needles, which was actually soft sand. They sipped tea and ate small cakes. Rhonda looked around at the ruined stage, at the trees that enclosed the clearing. She thought, for a moment, that she had seen the flash of Tocks flaming arrow pass in the corner of her eye. A bird squawked, and in its squawk Rhonda heard Peter Pans crow.

The octopus was a fine host and said many things that sent Suzy and Kim into fits of giggles. Silly octopus, they said. Then, all at once, Suzy got serious.

The octopus says you can tell us about Grandpa Daniel now, she said.

Rhonda froze, imaginary cake in her mouth, the invisible cup of tea spilled onto her lap.

What about him? she asked, her voice as calm as she could make it.

Tell us a story about him, the little girl asked.

Im sure your father could tell you lots of stories, she said to Suzy. And your mother, Kimberly, she could tell you what you want to know.

But we wantyour story, Kim whined. You knew him too.

Rhonda thought about it. About these little girls, who had just
watched a man they never met be buried. A man whose body the police had found bludgeoned to death in the woods. Their grandfather. Of course they were curious.

Well, lets see, began Rhonda with some hesitation. Once upon a time, your Grandpa Daniel decided that his son Peterthats your daddy, Suzshould be able to fly, so he made him a pair of wings

So Rhonda told the story, leaving out the part about Peter alone on the workshop roof, about Aggie coming at Daniel with a shovel. She found herself stretching the truth a little to say that yes, maybe Peter had flown that day, just a little bit, just enough. And, as Rhonda told the story, she thought: this is how the past gets passed down. This is how memories are made. Half-invented, embellished, given a touch of whimsy. Daniel would be a saint now that he was dead. A beautiful man who made his child wings.

RHONDA AND THEgirls got back in the sub and began moving toward the future, somewhere off at the edge of the horizon. They rose up out of the sea that was the past, out of the swell and surge of memory. Suzy was pulling at the gear shift, turning the steering wheel. Rhonda worked imaginary hand cranks and stopped occasionally to hold her two hands in front of her face, making them turn the periscope as she searched the horizon for some sign of the familiar.

Land! Rhonda finally shouted.

Surface, Suzy ordered. Were home.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my editor, Jeanette Perez, and to everyone else at HarperCollins who helped make this book a reality.

Thanks to Dan Lazar, my wonder-agent.

Thanks to Dudley and Janet Askew, owners and operators of The Maple Valley Café in Plainfield, Vermont. Much of the early work on this book was done at Table 8, fueled by their perfect omelets and awe-inspiring home fries.

Thanks to all my friends and family who have been so indulgent and supportive while I figure out this whole being-a-novelist thing.

And, of course, thanks to my readers. This book wouldnt exist without you.

About the Author

JENNIFERMCMAHONis the author ofPromise Not to Tell . She grew up in suburban Connecticut and graduated from Goddard College in 1991. Over the years, she has been a house painter, a farm worker, a paste-up artist, a pizza delivery person, and a homeless shelter staff member, and has worked with mentally ill adults and children in a few different capacities. She lives in Vermont with her partner, Drea, and their daughter, Zella.

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Promise Not to Tell

Credits

Cover design by Mary Schuck

Cover photograph by Jock Sturges

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authors imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISLAND OF LOST GIRLS. Copyright Š 2008 by Jennifer McMahon. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Microsoft Reader March 2008 ISBN 978-0-06-166686-5

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