And I know he might have heard more than any of us want.
A little-girl scream shrieks through the air. I cringe, arms lifting to protect my head, but there’s nothing. I can’t see a thing, and the scream is—there. Again. Another rasping wail that scrapes at my ears and needles up my spine.
It fades away, but I’m not crazy. We’re all looking around. Everyone’s terrified.
Everyone but Mr. Walker.
“It’s just a barn owl,” he says. His eyes are glassy beads beneath his brow. “You’re letting all the wrong things scare you.”
Is he thinking of things that should scare us? Because the way he’s watching makes me wonder if he’s enjoying this. Enjoying our fear.
Chapter 18
Mr. Walker doesn’t press when we don’t tell him what sort of thing you can’t fake. Maybe he figures the owl scared us out of talking. Maybe he doesn’t care because he’s got creepy, murderous plans to carry out now that his “pretend I’m drugged” act is out of the bag.
I bite my lip because I’m still not sure I buy it. Would a killer really do that? Just lie there in his own filth so he could watch us freak out until his countdown runs out? You’d have to be pretty committed to wait that long to kill someone in the end.
Unless you’ve got some sort of very specific time line in mind. I think of the number two we saw earlier. Tomorrow, will we find a one? The day after that, do I die?
I watch Mr. Walker limp toward the tree near his sled. He doesn’t look like a killer when he slouches into a heap. Emily offers him water, playing her unconcerned caretaker role beautifully. After a few crackers, he pushes the water away and gives us a big “everything is all right” smile.
Sure it is.
Mr. Walker takes the lead, just like we hoped he would. Of course, that was before. Now it chills me when he orders us to stay close. He makes us repeat what we’ve already told him about waking up with the words on our wrists and finding Ms. Brighton’s finger, even about the bears and the food we spotted around camp.
Emily does most of the talking, while the rest of us watch him like something under a microscope. He’s too weak and sweaty to look dangerous. I’ve gone completely paranoid though because I’m convinced all his active listening is a scripted performance. He’s making all the right noises, but the director in me wants to tell him to dig a little deeper. Every frown and furrowed glance feels like too much or not enough or just…false.
Emily’s right about the sick thing though. That’s no act. Mr. Walker is shivering and pale, and if we go by Emily’s hand-to-the-forehead thermometer, he’s rocking a hell of a fever.
But is he sick enough to not hurt us? Does he even want to? Because why would he?
I rub my forehead and roll my shoulders, the bark of the hickory behind me digging hard into the space between my shoulder blades. The whole thing is crazy making. How could he have set up the dolls and the speaker? He hasn’t been out of our sight, so what gives? Did he set all this up before?
Does he have a partner?
It’s too scary to even consider.
I look down at the mostly eaten yogurt cup in my lap and finish it off. Thank God for the food. I’m nowhere near as shaky, and even Jude’s starting to lose the death pallor he’s been wearing since getting dehydrated. Of course, for all I know, we’re just fattening ourselves up for the soup pot or whatever.
The thought materializes in my mind, and nausea rolls through me. We aren’t any closer to getting out of here. My plan isn’t working. We were supposed to get Mr. Walker awake and healed enough to help, and now he might be the very person we’re running from. How in the hell did my turn-the-tables plan come to this?
I stand up because I can’t just sit here. Everyone’s looking at me. Emily, lips pursed; Lucas, hair flopped into his face; and Mr. Walker, his dark eyes shiny in his sweat-slick face.
“You headed somewhere?” Mr. Walker asks.
“Bathroom.” I sound frantic. About the bathroom. Great.
“Alone?” Emily asks.
Jude frowns. “It’s dark.”
“You shouldn’t go alone,” Mr. Walker says, but he’s too slow, I think. It’s like living in a badly dubbed film. Everything’s half a beat off, and it’s making me seasick to watch. Or am I imagining it? Am I that crazy?
His eyes sweep me up and down, a quick assessment. My skin tingles and then crawls.
Lucas stands up between us. For once, I’m grateful for his size. “I’ll go with her,” he says, taking my arm and moving off into the trees.
I don’t even think about arguing. My heart is skipping like a scratched record. Jude comes too, claiming his own need for a break. This is way too obvious. Two boys do not accompany a girl to pee behind a tree. He’ll know we’re talking about him.
Or think something entirely different is going on out here.
Jude and I slow at a cluster of river birches, the bark peeling off in sheets and clumps, but Lucas holds up a hand before we can speak. He moves back a few paces toward the camp, shoulders back and wide hands balling into fists over and over. I can’t quit looking at his fingers, thinking of them curved over my waist. Threaded into my hair.
This is so stupid.
“It’s not stupid,” Jude says.
My cheeks burn when I realize I said it out loud. Maybe he won’t get what I’m referring to, but when he shrugs and nods at Lucas, I’m pretty sure he does. Lucas takes a few more steps away from us, and Jude drops his voice to a murmur. “It’s a survival thing, completely physiological. I’ve read about it. Hormones go crazy in life-and-death situations.”
My hands squeeze into fists, and pain stabs through my left palm. It’s starting to look like raw hamburger, and it feels just as raunchy.
“We shouldn’t have left Emily,” I say, looking in the direction of the camp.
“I don’t think he’s after her. Plus, she’ll bolt if he even moves in her direction. He’s definitely too slow to catch her off guard.”
I nod, relieved. “So, what’s going on with you and Emily?”
“Nothing is going on with me and Emily.” His tone is sharp enough to cut.
I look up, shocked at the return of his frosty expression. I hold up my hands. “I just noticed you were getting along better. I wasn’t trying to imply…whatever.”
“Maybe I’m smart enough to play nice with the one person who knows something about first aid,” he says with a sniff.
I don’t buy it, and I’m tired of backing down, so I shake my head. “Are you that desperate to be elusive? So you’re friendly with Emily—what does it matter?”
“What does what matter?” Lucas asks, returning to us.
Jude’s jaw clicks. “She thinks I’m boning Emily because she wants to bone you.”
Heat scorches my cheeks, but Lucas cocks his head. “Wait, I thought we established earlier that you’re gay.”
“No, the only thing we established is that I’m not going to help you find a label for me.”
“Someone already found a label for you,” Lucas says, winking at the Deceptive on Jude’s arm.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Yes, do keep the redneck in check,” Jude says, but it’s different now. Neither one of them seems as riled up. Guess we know who the enemy isn’t at least.
“Well, we’re all labeled,” I say to Jude. “And for the record, I’m sorry if…” I trail off because I can’t put my finger on why I’m sorry, but I feel it, a slow burn in my gut. I am sorry.
Am I sorry because of the assholes who weren’t nice to his dads? Or maybe because I was curious or insensitive or some other thing I can’t figure out? Finally, I sigh. “I’m just sorry for…well, whatever.”
He tsks. “When you figure out what whatever means, you let me know.”
Lucas coughs or laughs—I honestly can’t tell which. �
�Can we maybe set aside this group therapy moment to discuss whether or not our teacher is trying to kill us?”
“He seemed completely false to me,” I said. “I know he’s sick, but it was like watching a bad understudy botch a lead role.” I rub my temples. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s me.”
Lucas holds the back of his neck. “No, no, I picked up on that. He’s being weird as shit.”
Jude frowns. “He’s always weird. I’m still trying to wrap my head around him being intelligent enough to plan something like this. It’s intricate.”
I nod. “I can’t wrap my head around why anyone would do this. What’s the point?”
“Serial killers do pointless things all the time, right?” Jude asks. “Rituals and trophies or whatnot. I just want to know what he did with my hair.”
A chill runs up my arms. “Your hair?”
“There’s a piece missing. I didn’t think anything of it until I saw Emily’s a bit ago. Check yours,” he says, pulling up some of his wiry curls to tap at the nape of his neck.
I see the small short piece. My fingers worry at the same spot underneath my hair, just below and behind my ear. I freeze when my fingers brush freshly cut strands, making me shudder.
“Well, that’s plenty creepy,” Lucas says, finding his own piece in front of his ears where his bangs are longer. “So the question is, is Mr. Walker the type to do something like this?”
“I think we just need to ask her about the doll,” Jude says, and then they exchange a dark look. They want to ask me something?
My heart thumps too slow and then double-beats to catch up. “What about the doll?”
Lucas frowns. “There is no classy way to ask this.”
“Please. She came back from that river sporting your stubble burn, so I doubt either of you are concerned with classy.” Jude turns to me. “Are you wearing blue panties?”
My cheeks could melt glaciers. “I…what?”
“Panties. You know, underwear.”
“I know what panties are. I just don’t have a clue why you’re asking.”
“Your doll had on blue panties,” Lucas says. He takes two steps and lands right in front of me, so close I have to look up to see him. “And Mr. Walker was checking you out back there, so I showed Jude. Look, I know this sucks, but does he watch you in class? Give you good grades? Special attention?”
There’s a funny buzzing in my ears, like I’ve got a mouthful of hornets. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind. “I don’t…no. I mean, I do all right in class but nothing noteworthy. And I don’t even think I own blue underwear. When did you guys even talk about this?”
“We didn’t. But after he showed me, I thought we should ask. Maybe the color doesn’t matter,” Jude says. “Do you have an outfit like this? A shirt/skirt combo he might love? Or maybe you just laugh at his bad jokes. It wouldn’t take much for a guy like that.”
I flinch because I do laugh at his jokes. Everyone else rolls their eyes, and I feel bad, so I—
Someone’s sharp breath cuts my thoughts short. I look around, but it wasn’t someone else. It was me. My hands are going tingly. I’m breathing too fast.
“Sera.” Lucas’s hands drop, feather-light, onto my shoulders. Tears are filling me up, blurring my vision and drowning out anything I might say.
“Just breathe,” Lucas says with a sigh. “It’s all right.”
“The hell it is,” Jude says.
Lucas’s grip tightens on my shoulders, and I can see his jaw clench when he turns to Jude. “No, but freaking out won’t help, right?”
“No.” I square my shoulders and pull my crap together. “It won’t.”
“So, what do we do?” Jude asks.
I turn to him. “You could run. You and Emily and Lucas. You guys could go because if our guess about the dolls is right, he’s not after you. If this is just about me, you could get away.”
“And in this plan, you’d stay here with Mr. Manson?” Lucas asks.
“You could try to send help,” I say because I have to pretend I’m brave. I can fall apart when they’re gone and safe.
“We’re not leaving you,” Jude says, surprising me. “We stand a better shot together.”
“And we’re not leaving you,” Lucas repeats. Hurt flashes over his features. He’s surprised I’d think he’d consider it.
“Look at us,” Jude says. “Living all that happy, dreamy teamwork stuff.”
The joke bolsters me. “OK, then we leave when he falls asleep. Together, right?”
“We need to do it closer to dawn,” Jude says, searching the trees with a frown. “No damn way am I wandering the woods at night.”
“It’s a fair point. We’re getting closer to where there might be cliffs,” Lucas says. “Mr. Walker mentioned drop-offs and a rim trail in this area. So, daylight?”
“A little before,” I say. “We should bring most of the water, but we have to leave some for Mr. Walker. Some food too. All we have is a hunch here. He could be entirely innocent.”
“He’s a homophobic survival junkie,” Jude says. “I bet he has a stockpile of rations and weapons in his basement. Entirely innocent is probably a stretch.”
“I hear that,” Lucas agrees.
“That doesn’t mean he’s a killer. We’re not judge and jury, OK? We’re leaving him water and food, and that’s that.”
Jude opens his mouth, but Lucas shoots him a look and speaks first. “Fine. Whatever you need to do. But no one breathes a word to him. We’ll head north hard and fast. Mr. Walker said a day’s hike.”
“What about Emily?” I ask. “She’s taking care of him. How will we tell her? Will she even come with us?”
“She’ll come,” Jude says.
“But she’s doing everything for Mr. Walker. She’s practically a nurse out here.”
“She’s stronger than you think, and she’s a survivor. She’ll come,” he says. “I’ll go back and find a way to talk to her.”
We move to follow him, but he shakes his head. “Wait a bit. I’ll try to convince him that you two really are out here pawing at each other and that we’re not plotting against him.”
His laugh follows him through the trees, but when it fades, the forest seems too loud and too quiet at the same time. Crickets hum, and that same rasping cry—barn owl, I guess—tears through the quiet. It’s farther away this time but no less haunting.
I close my eyes, and an image of the doll forms in my mind. The hair, sticky red, and then the panties beneath the skirt, the ones I didn’t see. I wipe my hands down my jeans and jerk back with a hiss. The left one is screaming. I hold it up, and suddenly, I remember something.
“I don’t wear skirts,” I say, hope catching in my throat.
Lucas chews on the corner of his lip, like he’s biting back an argument.
“I wear dresses,” I say. “I hate skirts, but I own a ton of dresses because they’re easy and lightweight and—”
“Hot as hell.”
Warmth curls up through my chest as he smirks. I look down because he’d know. I wore every last one I own around him.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were saying. Dresses?”
I clear my throat and my mind. “Dresses. The doll was wearing a skirt and a different color shirt, right? That’s not me. I wear dresses. And even if I did own blue underwear, I wouldn’t be flashing skivvies in math class, for God’s sake.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’m saying…what if it’s not me? The doll. What if it’s someone else?”
He lets out a slow breath, looking unconvinced. “I don’t know, Sera. You’ve got Darling on your freaking arm.”
My shoulders slump. “I know.”
“I know for girls it’s all different, but guys don’t know the difference between a dress or
a skirt. At the very least, they don’t care. They’re just going to notice…”
It’s his turn to flush, and it turns my stomach fizzy. All those butterflies and fluttery feelings, all the obsessive thinking and lip-glossing my mother thought I should live for. Lucas brings that out in me.
I bite my lip hard enough to sting. Lucas is watching me with interest I wish I didn’t want. When he looks away, swearing, I flinch.
“I hate this,” he says.
“Hate what?”
“I can’t even say that you look good in a dress without feeling like I’m being an asshole.”
Words flood my mouth, but I bite them back. Study my feet instead. My heart is beating so hard because he’s in knots, and I know it’s over me. Some part of me is eating this up. God, that’s so sick.
Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe that selfish streak that let my mother ruin us is in me too. I can cut my hair, change my life. But how do I cut that part out?
I must be quiet too long because Lucas laughs a little desperately. “Look, I’ve got a lot of things wrong with me, but I’m not that guy.”
“I know.”
“Do you, Sera?”
My shoulders hunch when he looks at me. I feel like the river birch behind me. My bark is peeling away, stripping bare things I should cover. He’ll see everything underneath if I let him, and I’m afraid I will let him. I’m afraid I want to.
Trust your heart.
Right. Because my heart would never lead me wrong.
“So, you said you can’t go there,” Lucas says. “Is that with all guys or…”
He’s waiting for me to fill in the blank, and the lie is ready on my lips. Just say it. Tell him it’s everyone. It’s some Lebanese thing, a cultural deal. That’ll shut him up, and I won’t even look like a jerk.
But it won’t be true.
“I haven’t run into anything quite like this before,” I say instead.
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