Some buried secrets are better left unearthed.

Ten years ago, Reagan’s friend died in a tragic accident.
But what if it wasn’t an accident?

The morning after a raging college graduation party, we found Lanie Martin lying at the bottom of a ravine, her neck snapped in a fatal fall. And I’m not proud of what came next.

Before we called the police, we covered ourselves. Cleaned up from the blow-out at Ella’s cabin in the Adirondacks the night before. Got our stories straight.

Ella begged me not to tell the police what I saw. She insisted that it was an accident—and we all went along. What did I know? I was wasted that night, and large chunks of that evening are missing for me.

But now, in my postpartum state, memories are starting to return, and I can’t help but feel that they might be connected to the soul crushing depression I’ve been experiencing. Is it guilt? Or do I know more than I think I do?

So when I receive Ella’s invitation for a ten-year reunion at her family camp—a gathering of remembrance and healing, she’s calling it—I know I have to go.

Are the memories I’m struggling to recover the key to my moving on? To being able to take care of my infant son and stay married to the perfect man?

Or are they a death sentence for me, too?