Wendy Owens - Secrets At Meadow Lake

Terror crawls down my spine as I gaze at the matte black paper envelope with its golden ribbon and sinister red wax seal. My past has returned to haunt me, and I can feel the icy fingers of dread grip my throat. I take note of the bloodred wax seal, seemingly warning me of whats to come. I have no idea who could have sent the invitation, but the message is clear: someone knows our secret.

The evening I received it, Id tossed it on my kitchen counter, poured my nightly glass of wine, and chose to forget about it until the next day. I assumed it was another invitation to one of the countless functions I was expected to attend as an employee at my law firm. That was the last night Id gotten a decent nights sleep.

It wasnt until the following morning I noticed the matte black envelope again. The elegant gold font of my name danced across the paper, and I never imagined the contents could be so dangerous.

Riley Ellis,

You are cordially invited to a weekend at Meadow Lake with your fellow Spartans to celebrate an important anniversary on February 20th.

Looking at the words again, I can still recall how I felt when I first laid eyes on them. My blood ran cold with understanding that whoever sent it knew my deepest, darkest secret. If anyone else had read the invitation, they would have thought nothing of it. Still, the direct message was unnerving by the stark reference to the anniversary of February 20ththe day our lives changed forever.

Ive checked the forecast at least a dozen times. The impending snowstorm sent the people in town into a shopping frenzy as they searched for milk and bread. Every time I see a news story about empty grocery store shelves, I cant help but giggle. What are all of these people doing during the snowfall? Is the whole town rushing to make French toast? Even though Im not one to panic when bad weather hits, my Michigan roots tell me its not wise to venture out.

However, I dont see how I have much choice.

I grip the steering wheel of my Mercedes with white-knuckled force as I stare at the invitation resting on my lap. The crisp cream stationery adorned with swirls and embossed flowers encased in the black envelope reminds me of a wedding invitation. I release my grip, and as I sit in my idling car, I breathe in the papers scent to see if Ive overlooked a clue. Its sweet and, at the same time, very earthy. A subtle undertone of coffee lingers in my nostrils.

Studying the invitation, I note it isnt the type of thing you would just run down to your stationery store and pick up. The old paper has weight and quality to it. Its been tucked away in someones drawer for many years, waiting for the perfect occasion to pull it out.

Ten years have passed since that fateful night. We all did something so terrible, so unimaginable, but somehow managed to keep our secret. After that night, my friends and I drifted apart, severing our college bonds as we went our separate ways. Sometimes I wonder if any of them think about what we did as I do, but I dont dare ever reach out. The invitation confirms, though, that someone, somehow, knows what we did. Despite its innocuous appearance, it promises dire consequences. I considered ignoring it, pretending I never received it, but in the end, I have to know whos behind it and what they plan to do with the knowledge.

The truth is, Im scared. It may not be the life I once dreamed of, but I like the existence Ive managed to carve out for myself after what we did. I may not have ever found love, but I found meaning in my chosen career. In high school, if someone had told me that I would be a lawyer, I would have told them they were crazy. After that night in college, carrying out the crime we had planned so carefully, I questioned whether I deserved to be alive. After all, only a monster was capable of doing what we did. Bile creeps up my throat and settles on my tongue. I taste worry and fear.

I touch the cross hanging around my neck; the cold metal feels heavy and uncomfortable in my hands. Strangely enough, it wasnt our crime that set the new fork in the road for me, but it did happen that same semester. I attended a speech by Megan Parsons. She had been victimized, the same as I had, but rather than letting it define her in all the terrible ways she could have, she decided to go to law school. She became an advocate for those without a voice. She found a purpose in the darkest moment of her life. Her talk made me decide I wanted that mission in life. Looking back, I can see I was searching for atonement, but the truth is, I have zero regrets. I feel no remorse for what we did, and the scariest part might be that I would do it again.

I plug the address on the invitation into my navigation system and begin the journey. Living in Detroit, I know the drive to Northern Michigan will take the entire afternoon. Its in a rural area; pickup trucks dot the roads along the way, and some houses still have Christmas decorations in their yards despite the holiday being over two months before. I dont mind the drive, but I know the area doesnt have snowplows leading us back to civilization. I just want to outlast the pending storm because I dont want to be trapped with whoever is behind this.

The tires on my car hum against the pavement as I accelerate. I crack my window and breathe in the sharp, clean air, then turn on an audiobook to drown out the worry. I dont like silence; it allows my mind to wander to places I dont want to go. The booming bass of the woman reading the book allows my wandering thoughts to focus back on the road rather than what awaits me at my destination. I drive and work out listening to audiobooks; I turn on the TV for background noise as soon as I get home and fall asleep listening to the sounds of the ocean. Ive become an expert at not letting the silence in.

As my destination approaches, despite the words that fill the cabin of my SUV, my mind allows my worries to return. Who will be waiting for me when I get there? Whos behind the invitation? Is it one of us? One of the seven left involved in what we did that night? I havent spoken to them since graduation, not even Mason. Its weird to think that before everything happened, I was almost certain I would become Mrs. Mason Keller.

When I was with Mason, I told myself I would be the perfect mother, just like Id imagined mine had been. Its funny to think about that now, but I had grand visions of our futurelives of power, purpose, and the perfect family. He would enter politics, like his father, and I would be the best mother and wife, a living tribute to the memory of my own mother, who died when I was seven from breast cancer. Sometimes I wonder if my memories of her are real or if I manufactured them. The cold winter mornings when she would have a cup of hot cocoa waiting, or the Christmases when shed transform our home into Santas workshop. Did any of it actually happen that way?