by Hannah Jayne
Avery’s father had the coffee going and his travel mug out, so Avery started breakfast, pulling out a carton of eggs and the frying pan.
“No word on—”
Her father shook his head and filled both mugs, fixing hers with enough milk and sugar to turn it a pale brown while leaving his black. He screwed the lids on both, then took a sip and dropped two pieces of bread in the toaster as Avery cracked two eggs.
“No word. Green and Howard went in last night just before sunset but didn’t see anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Car was in the lot. Last one there. As far as we know, neither boy contacted anyone at home or any friends.”
The toast popped up and Chief Templeton slathered each slice with butter, laying them on separate paper towels.
Avery flipped the eggs. “Well, if neither of them made contact, that could be a good sign, right? They’re probably together.”
The chief salted and peppered the eggs over Avery’s shoulder. She nudged him out of the way and slipped a fried egg onto each slab of toast. He handed her a bright-orange Windbreaker; she handed him one of the egg sandwiches.
“You know you’re basically just keeping the kids out of the way, right?” The chief’s tone was calm, but his eyes were wary.
Avery stiffened. She had been on more missing-person searches—unofficially, as she was underage—than most of the officers on her father’s staff. But being sixteen kept her on “kid patrol,” basically babysitting while the adult volunteers tromped through the forest, potentially ruining scads of evidence while pretending they were a bunch of television CSIs, no doubt.
“Yeah,” she said through a mouthful of fried egg. “I know.”
He chucked her shoulder. “Don’t be like that. When you’re of age, you can show off your detective skills. Until then, we do things by the book.”
Avery looked away, thinking about her mother, about how she would zing the chief in the ribs and remind him not to be so serious. “By the book,” she would mock in a terrible baritone. “I’m the big, bad chief.”
Avery let out a tight sigh. “I know, Dad. By the book.”
• • •
Is this what it feels like to die?
He wheezed, imagining his breath leaving his body around jags of broken bones and swollen flesh. He didn’t really know what was broken and what was swollen, but judging by the pain, he guessed everything. He tried to swallow and winced when saliva laced with blood slid down his throat. His head hadn’t stopped pounding and his stomach lurched.
He turned his head to the side, ignoring the twigs that dug into his cheek. Eyes closed, he vomited. He kept them closed—not at the pain, but in an effort to avoid seeing his innards, which he was sure he was spitting up. Then everything went black.
• • •
Avery was leaning over, tightening her hiking boots, when she heard the voice that set her teeth on edge. It was Kaylee Cooper, a girl who sported a wardrobe full of pink, fuzzy sweaters and cheerleading skirts that barely covered her butt. She was goddess-like and blond, with hair that nipped at her waist, and eyes that looked sweetly innocent until they narrowed and her gaze sliced you into ribbons. She was popular for being either a tease or a slut, Avery couldn’t remember which, and she never moved without a swarm of girls orbiting her. They all looked the same, interchangeable, one popping into the Kaylee system as another fell away.
“Is this where we meet for the hike?” Kaylee asked Avery’s arched back.
Avery straightened. “It’s not a hike. It’s a missing-person search. And yes.” She handed Kaylee a clipboard. “Sign in here, please.”
She watched as Kaylee produced a pink-and-white pen and signed her name with a flourish and hearts. A flourish and hearts, Avery thought, while two kids are out in the woods, possibly injured, possibly dead.
She shook her head at the annoyance that overwhelmed her and slipped on her bright-orange search-and-rescue jacket. It didn’t take long for a group to form behind her, mainly kids from school, including Kaylee and her admirers. When Officer Vincent Blount came over to explain the details of the search, Avery hugged her arms across her chest, her feet tapping.
She was anxious to get into the woods. Though her conversations with Adam had dwindled as the years passed until they were virtual strangers in high school, he had asked her for geometry help. She’d been surprised and thrilled when they’d met in the library and he’d hung on her every word. They’d talked in hushed tones for hours—not about geometry but about everything, until the sun set and the librarian whisked them out. Outside on the sidewalk, he’d leaned in and she could smell the soap he used and his cologne and shampoo. Avery had thought Adam was going to kiss her then and there—but Kaylee had pulled up in her stupid new car and the moment had been ruined.
Now the teen search group filed into lines and started down the trail Adam and Fletcher would have walked. Avery took slow, deliberate steps, calling out the boys’ names, the voices of the other volunteers nearby swallowed up by the foliage. Avery wasn’t sure how long they walked, but they were deep enough into the forest that the overgrowth blocked out most of the sunlight and the temperature had dropped more than a couple of degrees.
She zipped her jacket and stepped away from the group—a cardinal sin, she knew—and headed toward a small bit of earth that looked to have been recently tromped through. She glanced over her shoulder at her group; they were taking a break. Most were drinking from water bottles or sitting in the dirt. No one seemed to miss her. She looked around and saw a path marked by more broken twigs, winding deeper into the forest, deeper into the shadows.
It was impossibly quiet where she was, as if the thick, leafy canopy snuffed out the outside world completely. The result was an eerie stillness that gave Avery goose bumps and sent a quiver through her stomach. A twig snapped behind her and she spun. Her body stiffened like an animal ready to pounce. Then came the rustle of pine needles.
• • •
It was back. It—he—whatever or whoever had done this to him was back, probably to finish him off. A tremor of terror rolled through him, each miniscule quiver making his bones crack all over again.
Just kill me. Just kill me and get this over with.
The only part of his head that didn’t feel like it was stuffed with cotton pounded behind his eyes. The blood pulsing through his ears blocked out every other sound, but he thought he could hear the whisper of someone trying to get his attention.
Let him kill me.
He couldn’t run, couldn’t even stand, but something like hope pushed through him
No.
The footsteps grew more distinct. A crunch of leaves, weight on the hard-packed earth.
I don’t want to die.
He could feel the tears warm his cheeks, and he gritted his teeth against the explosion of pain as he inched himself backward under a bush to hide.
Don’t let it get me.
• • •
“Hello?” she called out. “This is Avery Templeton with Search Team Five. Hello?”
The silence was complete except for the steady thump of Avery’s heart. She took a step forward and slid on the loose earth, tumbling forward onto her hands and knees. Rocks tore at her skin and the knees of her jeans as she slid. When she stopped—eight, ten feet at the most—she was breathing heavily, her mind reeling. She did a quick assessment for damage. Other than the sting on her palms, nothing hurt.
So why was there blood on her hands?
She brought her hands toward her face and grimaced at the streaks of rust-colored blood—congealed, mixed with dirt—that covered her palms.
She wasn’t bleeding.
This wasn’t her blood.
It was then that she heard the slow gurgle, the sparse intake of breath followed by a low, throaty whisper: “Avery, you have to help me.”
“Please.”
The word came out in a desperate hiss, and he clasped a muddy, blood-caked hand around her wrist, his grip limp, his fingers trembling.
She gasped. “Fletcher?”
About the Author
Hannah Jayne decided to be an author in the second grade. She couldn’t spell and had terrible ideas but kept at it and many (many) years and nearly twenty books later, she gets to live her dream and mainly does it in her pajamas.
She lives with her rock star husband and their three overweight cats in the San Francisco Bay Area, always on the lookout for a good mystery, a good story, or a great adventure.
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