The secret we buried

Ten years ago, she disappeared. Today, she sent an invitation.
​In high school, we were inseparable. But the night of graduation, one of us didn't make it home. We made a pact to never speak of what happened in the woods. We moved on. We grew up. We forgot.
​Or so we thought.
​When an anonymous invitation arrives at my door, written in a handwriting I haven't seen in a decade, I'm forced back to the isolated cabin where it all ended. The others are here, too-all looking just as guilty as I feel.
​The doors are locked. The phones have no signal. And on the dining room table sits a single polaroid from that night, with a note: "One of you is a murderer. By morning, everyone will know which one."