One Was Lost

by Natalie D. Richards

  “What can we do?” I ask.

  “How long do we have?” Jude asks.

  “She’s using the bathroom,” she says. “Stomach issues, but who knows.”

  “I’ll carry you,” Lucas says. “We’ll run.”

  “No.” Emily pushes his hands away hard and closes her fingers around my wrist. “You need to go. I can’t leave Hayley.”

  “We can’t leave you,” I argue. “After the way Hayley acted, we can’t let you stay here with Madison.”

  “She’s right,” Jude says. “Something’s very wrong with that girl.”

  “Yeah, everything that’s happened is wrong with her. She’s crazy, but she’s not behind this,” Emily says. “I’d bet my life on that.”

  If we leave, I’m afraid that’s exactly what she’ll have to do.

  “But everyone from her camp is dead or in very real trouble,” I whisper softly. “And she has a thing for Lucas.”

  “If it is her, it’s the two of you this is about,” she says. She gestures at us. “More reason for you to go. Just send help fast.”

  “What if she hurts you?”

  “If Madison is after someone, it’s not me,” Emily says, voice hard. “I know when someone’s going to hurt me.”

  I study her red-rimmed eyes and stringy hair. I think about the old bruises I saw in the tent, the ones on her arms.

  They were shaped like fingers, and I know why now. My throat feels thick. Emily catches me looking and clamps her hands over her biceps.

  “Emily.” I say it like a prayer.

  “Please go,” she says again. “I’m fine. Just hurry.”

  “They can go. I’m staying,” Jude says.

  “No,” Emily says.

  “Yes.”

  “You should be looking out for yourself,” Emily tells him.

  “Excuse me for evolving some empathy.” Jude’s words bite, but his look is gentle. “We can watch her better together. If she tries something, she’ll have two of us to deal with.”

  Tears are glittering in Emily’s eyes, and I can’t do this. I can’t leave them here. We are supposed to stay together. I wrap an arm around my aching middle, wincing against the throb in my hand. I try to speak, but Emily looks right over my head to Lucas.

  “Get help,” she tells him. “Be careful. Don’t die getting out of here. Hayley looks stable, but she’s going to need serious antibiotics. You two have to stay alive, or she won’t.”

  My breath sticks halfway in. “Emily, I—”

  Lucas curls his fingers around my arm. He should argue. Ask something. But he doesn’t, and I knew he wouldn’t because Lucas believes her. Us getting help is the best shot we have.

  He takes my uninjured hand and eases us back toward the path. Thank God the trees are thinner here. There aren’t leaves and sticks and things to pop under our every step. Before we’re out of reach, I take a breath because I feel like I should say something important. Meaningful.

  All we get is a long look at one another. Jude’s hair is springing in a million directions, and Emily’s got dark smudges beneath both eyes. They look like the kind of people the world forgets, but they aren’t forgettable to me.

  Lucas pulls me slowly and carefully through the trees, and I let him. I know this is our best chance. But I can’t help feeling like I’m betraying them.

  Chapter 22

  The light’s gone golden, and there’s an afternoon sleepiness to the air that makes my bones ache. I’m exhausted, we’re low on water, and we’re backtracking thanks to the steep slope of the mountain in front of us.

  “I hate mountains,” I say, panting.

  “I hate backtracking.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Are we near the speaker? The place we left Mr. Walker?”

  He doesn’t even slow down. “Yeah. We’re basically heading back to where we were when Madison called us. I think it’s easier to get north on the east side of the mountain. She and Hayley were sitting southwest of us. Pretty pathetic that we’ve probably all been in the same three or four square miles this whole time.”

  I look ahead at the narrow valley between the two mountains. It looks like the only way through—which scares me because it also looks like the perfect place for someone to be waiting for us. My arms prickle with goose bumps.

  “Lucas, is there another way around? Could we go over?”

  “We’re about out of water and stupidly low on sleep. I want to avoid climbing unless we have no choice.”

  “But that feels like such an obvious place to go, like the mountains just naturally funnel you through that valley.”

  He nods. “Yeah, it does.”

  “Which means it’s a pretty natural place for someone to be looking for us, right?”

  “I just don’t see a better option. Everything out here is a risk. If we go through that valley, we might run into our resident psycho. If we try to climb, we might collapse like Jude did when his dehydration set in. Thing is, either way could get us killed, and if we die, then everyone else dies, which is doubly shitty since they’re all back there counting on us.”

  He’s already thought all this through, and I didn’t expect that. His concern alone stuns me to silence.

  Lucas notices, wincing. “What?”

  “You…you’re worried about them.”

  His cheeks go pink, like I’d caught him with his hands in a cookie jar. “I’m just trying to think smart. If Mr. Walker catches up with them—”

  “Why do you insist it’s him? Madison’s the only one with an actual motive. You saw the way she looked at you. Looked at us. Plus, none of this stuff requires a big person.”

  “Whoever did this killed Ms. Brighton.”

  “Ms. Brighton and Madison are about the same size,” I argue. “With a weapon, it’s definitely possible.”

  Lucas shrugs a shoulder, like he’s not so sure. “OK, what about her finger? Do you think you could apply enough force to actually sever—”

  “Let’s just not,” I say, the mental image making my stomach roll. “Look, I don’t care what anybody says. Mr. Walker doesn’t seem like a killer. I mean, not that Madison does, but…”

  He lets out a low breath, and I feel like there’s something he’s not saying.

  “Wait, are you defending her because of some sort of history between you two?”

  He tilts his head right, then left, like he’s sorting out his response. “She wanted to go there. Last year. Her brother and I got into it, and I think she took that as some sort of sign that I was interested. It was ridiculous, but she was…hard to shake off.”

  I arch a brow. “I’ll bet. I knew she was hot for you, but is it like…obsession?”

  “Nah. She’s into lots of guys. She was probably trying to date me to get back at her brother for some stupid thing or just for drama’s sake. Or, hell, maybe because she liked the idea of dating a big, bad criminal.”

  “You’re not a criminal.” He laughs, so I grab his shirt to make him stop. “Lucas, you’re not a criminal. You’re out here trying to be a hero, for God’s sake.”

  “We can talk about heroics if I actually manage to get you out of here.”

  He looks up at the walls of the valley, which have grown steeper on either side of us. We’re entering that narrow place that scared me. My insides shiver.

  “I need to take a leak,” he says. “I’ll stay close.”

  “I’ve got to go too,” I admit.

  “I’ll go with you first.”

  “Uh, yeah, no.” I’ve lost almost everything that resembles dignity out here, but so help me God, I’m not going to have him stand three feet away while I pee. It’s still daylight.

  Lucas hesitates, so I throw up my arm to reveal the Darling. “Seems pretty unlikely that someone who goes to all this would finish me off on an unplanned pee break.”
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  He smirks, but then he reaches down and hauls a long, dead branch off the ground. He turns it in his hand like he’s testing the weight, then throws it javelin style into the ground. He braces one hand on the top and his boot on the center. Pushes hard.

  It splinters, and he keeps pushing, twisting, until the bottom bit is broken off.

  My stomach tenses as he holds up his handiwork, a pole, taller than him and jagged and sharp like a weapon. Because it is a weapon.

  “What is that for?”

  He offers it to me with a smirk. “Let’s call it insurance.”

  He stomps off into the woods, and I head out the other direction, eyes searching the trees. A woodpecker’s tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat echoes in the distance, and little pinpricks of sunlight are making their way through the canopy. It feels OK. Or as OK as it’s going to feel out here. I prop the makeshift spear against a tree.

  I’ve got my shorts around my knees when I hear the soft hiss of leaves rustling in the distance, opposite of where Lucas headed. A chill slides up my neck. There’s something else too. Something that sounds like a child crying.

  “Calm down,” I tell myself. Because it’s nothing. The wind. Some random squirrel doing a random squirrel thing.

  And then I hear it again, and my heart turns to stone. It’s not a squirrel or leaves or anything else. It’s definitely someone crying.

  I finish and yank up my shorts, heart thumping in my throat. I open my mouth to call for Lucas, but someone else beats me to the punch, a ragged voice that echoes strangely in the woods. It’s too far away and too garbled to make out clearly through the sobs. I strain to catch the pieces, to tie the bits of sounds into words.

  “—please come—Hannah!” it calls. It’s not Mr. Walker. Madison maybe, but I don’t think so. “Before he hurts—”

  I’m already moving—moving around the tree I’d chosen, putting the thick trunk between me and whoever is out there. My hands are shaking, my heart pounding behind my temples. If I run, will I be fast enough? Will I get away?

  More words filter through the wind. “Quickly, Hann—” More rustling.

  Oh God, I have to run.

  “—I’ll help you!”

  I push out from behind the trunk and dare one look back. It’s nothing but trees, forest shadows, and distant birdsong. All is quiet. And then a black shadow peels off one of the tree trunks. I catch a glimpse of what could be an arm. It’s reaching toward me.

  I scream loud enough to split the sky in two.

  Chapter 23

  Lucas is already back in the valley when I burst out of the tree line. He’s still buckling his jeans as he rushes for me, eyes searching for damage as he grabs my arms.

  “Are you all right? Is Mr. Walker—”

  “Not Mr. Walker. Someone’s over there, crying.” I can barely get the words out through my panting, so I point back to the direction where I’d heard it.

  “Did you recognize the voice? Did you see him?”

  “Not him.” I gasp again. “A girl. Child maybe. They said they want to help. They said something about Hannah. Do you know a Hannah?”

  Lucas shakes his head, his face blurring in front of me.

  I rub my eyes. Maybe I’m seeing things. Maybe there was no shadow, no voice at all.

  “I thought it was you,” he says. “Before you screamed, I heard something. Not the words, but—”

  We’re cut off by another strangled cry. Closer now. I stumble back, and Lucas steps in front of me. Something shuffles in the distance. There’s a soft thump. Three more thumps after that, and I flinch with every one. I search the trees—spot a shadow that turns me cold. Lucas points at it, but then it disappears. I hear footsteps retreating.

  They’re running away from us?

  Lucas hesitates a second before heading after the footsteps.

  “What are you doing?” I shriek.

  “I’m checking it out.”

  “We should just go,” I say, pulling his arm.

  “Ms. Brighton’s killer isn’t crying in the woods over some girl named Hannah. Whoever that was, they might actually be trying to help. If they dropped something, I want to know what.”

  I can’t argue with that, but I stay well behind him when we wander back up through the trees. Lucas shakes his head and moves forward, grabbing the broken stick I left against the tree.

  “Maybe they just jumped or stomped hard,” I say.

  “I’m thinking definitely not.”

  Lucas crouches down, and I can see a stack of yellowed newspapers on the ground in front of him. They’re all still creased, like they’ve been folded under someone’s arm. Like someone just dropped them. My footprint is half-hidden in the soft, muddy earth beside them, so I know I didn’t miss them. They weren’t here before. The thumps I heard—that was these papers hitting the ground.

  The papers were left here for us, just like the water and the dolls. And the first thing I see is an ornate number one in the upper corner, scripted like the letters on my arm.

  My stomach rolls, and saliva pools in my mouth. Lucas adjusts his grip on the sharpened branch and holds a hand up, like he needs to stop me from speaking. As if I would speak. As if there are words for this. If I open my mouth, I will scream, and it will never end. So my lips stay closed, and my ribs ache with every heartbeat.

  He sorts through the papers. One, two, three, four.

  “There’s something taped to them,” Lucas says.

  He scans the forest, looking wary, so I reach for a paper. It’s a lock of straight black hair. I wince, thinking of the fresh cut I felt with my fingers. But this isn’t my hair—it’s Emily’s.

  I unfold the paper and find an article circled in black marker. The date is from eight years ago. A girl, Cora Timmons, from Marietta who’d committed suicide after years of drug abuse and mental health issues. There’s no picture. Nothing scary. Just a few cold sentences reporting a tragedy with one line—history of family issues—underscored by that familiar ink.

  My eyes fall to the hair again. So Emily’s involved with Cora’s death? Eight years ago? It’s not possible. Wait, maybe she’s supposed to be Cora.

  Then who am I supposed to be?

  “I think this is about Emily.” I choke on her name. “It’s about a woman with family and mental health issues. She committed suicide. I think it’s supposed to be Emily.”

  “Like, what, a reincarnation or something?”

  My exhale shudders out. “I don’t know.”

  Lucas swears and grabs the next paper. It’s his—I can tell by the short length of brown hair taped to the front. The next one up is a curly tendril that can’t belong to anyone but Jude. And then there’s mine. Tied with a tiny pink ribbon that makes my stomach twist like a pretzel.

  I scan Jude’s article, a short human interest piece about a man named Jeff Kohler, catching only that he surprised his wife with a secret dream vacation he’d saved for years to afford. Doesn’t sound too sinister. And it’s four years after Emily’s article, so no connection there. I spot several words circled: secret, hidden, undisclosed. Really? Jude’s marked Deceptive and linked with a thirtysomething guy over a surprise trip to Fiji?

  Why would anyone want to hurt them for those things?

  No one wants to hurt them. They want to hurt you.

  I drop Jude’s paper and focus on mine. It’s got the same sinister number one written in the top-right corner. One day left, and our time is up.

  And then what?

  The headline for me is on the bottom half of the front page.

  Local Girl Lost to Tragedy

  The picture beside it swallows me like quicksand. From a distance, she could be me. Same shoulder-length hair and pointy chin. Same dark eyes and wide cheeks. She’s not my doppelgänger, but it’s close enough.

  I shut my eyes, picturing the dol
l with my face and bloody hair. Hearing Mr. Walker tell us it was an accident. This girl who looked like me died out here.

  Lucas swears and throws his paper on the ground. He storms a few paces away, but I don’t ask. I can see the article from here. Brodie Jones. Star athlete with a history of trouble. Arrested for assault. It makes as much sense as the other two, I guess. Which means barely any sense at all.

  My hands are shaking on my paper when Lucas joins me. There’s nothing left to do but read it, so I do.

  LOCAL GIRL LOST TO TRAGEDY

  What started as an autumn hiking trip for four high school seniors ended with a family’s worst nightmare when one of the teens, seventeen-year-old Hannah Grace Soral, died. Hannah’s absence was reported by her three companions, and a search party located her partially consumed body late last night.

  My intestines squirm like they’ve come alive. “Lucas, it’s Hannah.” I point at the name in the article, and he nods, looking grave.

  Due to the condition of the remains, the circumstances surrounding Soral’s death are uncertain. A spokesperson for the victim’s family provided the following statement. “Our daughter didn’t take risks. We believe something happened in those woods. Please help us find justice for Hannah.” Despite the family’s plea, authorities say there is no immediate indication of foul play. The official investigation remains—

  The article continues on the next page, but I’m not sure I can go on. Lucas steps back, face pale.

  “So is this some sort of re-creation of what happened to Hannah?” Lucas asks. “The four of us are somehow living this over again? Is that the game we’re playing?”

  “Maybe.”

  “This is twisted.”

  Twisted but obvious. I know how this goes. Whatever script we’re following out in these woods—this is my role. I play Hannah Grace Soral, and I’m supposed to die out here.

  My vision goes smeary, and the words turn into squiggles that move and twist until I can’t make out the letters. I blink hard and the words clear, but I still skim from one bit to the next. She died tomorrow, this girl who looks so much like me. Eighteen years ago, on tomorrow’s date, she died out here.