“It was Ms. Brighton’s finger,” Jude adds in case she didn’t get my reference.
Emily’s brow puckers briefly before it goes glass smooth and pale. She looks at Lucas with a doll’s frown.
“Someone cut Ms. Brighton’s finger off?” she asks like she’s just clarifying a weather report or maybe a homework assignment.
Instead of answering, he looks away. Real master of communication that one.
Emily is completely still, but I can see her nostrils flaring, can hear the way her breath shudders in and out. In and out.
“We can’t stand around here,” Jude says. “We need to run. Right now.”
His words prod at me, clearing the fog of Emily’s shock. “Wait, we can’t!” I point back at the river. “Madison and Hayley could still be over there.”
“Uh, whoever strung up Ms. Brighton’s finger like a pagan sacrifice could also be over there,” Lucas says.
“It was only her finger. She could just be hurt,” I say because I really want to believe it. “Madison and Hayley could be trying to find help for her.”
“The kind of help we can’t give.” Lucas looks around, eyes darting. “We need to save our own asses here. We can send help back for them.”
“They’re not over there,” Emily says. Something cold shapes every word, pulls the end of her sentence into a point. “We would hear them if they were over there.”
“You think they’re dead, right?” Jude asks. “I mean, that’s what we’re all thinking, isn’t it? We’re assuming they’re dead.”
I hope no one answers. Emily looks down. I think she wants us to say no. She wants all three of them to be OK, but she saw the number three in the ground and the abandoned tents. She heard the silence. Emily’s quiet because she knows better. And my stomach sinks because I know better too.
“I think we’re back to my plan of running,” Lucas says.
Jude nods. “I’m in. But it’s three more days on the trail, right? We’ve got zero supplies. We won’t make it.”
“We cut north,” Lucas says.
“Why north?”
He points through the trees. “There’s a state route north of here. It’s the road we took when we dropped off Ms. Brighton’s car at the end point. The trail we’re on runs in the same general east-west direction, but we’re way south of the road now. If we stay on the trail, we’ll head even farther south to hit that waterfall Mr. Walker was talking about. But if we cut north through the forest, we’ll get back to the road faster.”
“Is anyone here remembering that there is a fifth member to our group? One who isn’t up for cutting north or walking at all?” My voice is too loud, so we all fall silent. I shift my feet and hear wind in the leaves and birds chittering in the scatter of branches overhead. After a minute of nothing that sounds like a serial killer approaching, I lick my lips and continue. “Mr. Walker is still sick. We can’t leave him.”
“We’ll send help when we’re safe,” Jude says. “If someone’s out here cutting off fingers, I’m not going to sacrifice myself for a guy who goes out of his way to avoid touching my desk.”
I tense at that, trying to think back to the class we share. Does Mr. Walker do that? I don’t think I ever paid attention. Jude was a blur in a seat behind me. That prodigy kid from Columbus with perfect skin, solid grades, and two well-dressed fathers.
“OK, but he knows this land better than anyone,” I say. “He’s the one who got the permits for us to hike this old trail, right?”
Jude says, “Yeah, the remote factor he sold us on feels really helpful right now.”
“We should have just done the Appalachian Trail,” Lucas says. “This shit would not be going down there. There’d be other hikers.”
“It doesn’t matter what we should have done,” Emily says. “What matters is what we did do and what we do now.”
“If we run, we could get lost,” I point out. “Plus, won’t there be rescue groups coming? In the event of an emergency, Mr. Walker and Ms. Brighton both told us to stay put.”
“They also said to put out a distress call on one of our phones or the GPS,” Jude says. “We can’t do that because we were robbed and attacked. This isn’t what they had in mind when we talked emergencies, Sera.”
“But if we don’t check in, they’ll come looking for us,” I reason.
“When, Sera?” Lucas asks. “How many hours until that happens? How many more until they manage to find us?”
Jude pushes his hair back from his forehead. “And how do we know that whoever this is didn’t take our GPS? They could be checking in, pretending everything’s right as rain.”
I swallow, and it burns all the way down.
“I see three options.” Lucas lifts his chin. He looks like he’s trying to be older than he is, and I’m annoyed. “The river is still too high to cross without the bridge. We could walk along the water, hoping to find a bridge or a shallow spot, something to get us back on the other side, then we could follow the trail back to where we left Mr. Walker’s van. We’d have water at least.”
“It’s at least a two-day walk. And unfiltered river water?” Jude looks like Lucas offered him a bowl of maggots. “Next option?”
“We stay on the path and hike like hell toward the finish line. Ms. Brighton left her hippy-mobile there, right?”
“Yes,” I say, remembering my ride down in the passenger seat. The backseat was littered with spirituality books, and a dream catcher dangled from the rearview mirror, but she had the greatest playlist of indie music, stuff I’d never heard. My next breath is harder to pull.
“It’s supposed to be three more days of hiking to our end point,” Jude says. “And we don’t have water. I’m thirsty as hell.”
“Me too,” I admit, hoping option three is to head back to camp.
Lucas scuffs the ground with his boot. “Option three is to cut through the woods like I said. It’s a fairly straight road. I’m not a Boy Scout or whatever, but I know how to find north. I saw it on the map, so I know it can’t be that far. We’ll intersect it.”
“And I should trust you on this why?” Jude asks, stepping forward. “Because of your exemplary academic record?”
“Look at how many shits I don’t give about who you decide to trust,” Lucas says. “The road and the trail both head east to west. I don’t know exactly how far apart they are, but the road is north, and cutting through the woods means we aren’t getting sidetracked on the trail for sightseeing stuff. It looked close on the map.”
Jude scoffs.
“I think we should go back to camp,” Emily says. “Help will come.”
“She’s right,” I say, shoulders hunched. “My dad…” I swallow back a sudden push of tears. God, my dad. It was hard for him to even sign the permission slip. I’m sure he’s watching every check-in. No way would he sit by for eight or ten hours with no word. “My dad would call for help. I’m all he’s got.”
Lucas sighs. “And every police officer worth his badge will write him off until we’ve been gone a hell of a lot longer than this. This whole trip was supposed to be off grid, so no one’s going to realize we’re in danger. Plus, Jude’s right. Whoever trashed our stuff might have kept the GPS to send check-in messages.”
“But there are supplies in camp,” I say, sounding weak. Almost desperate. I’m losing the fight, but I can’t let go.
“Destroyed supplies,” Jude says. “Wake up, Sera. We know this isn’t a prank now. Even Lucas is thinking smarter than you are right now. We need to get ourselves out of here. We can send help. Anything else is stupid.”
“Agreed.” Lucas ignores Jude’s derision this time. “So, north until we hit the highway.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry, did I miss the part where someone voted you two rulers supreme?”
Lucas whirls on me. “What the hell do you want us to do? Leave y
ou here?”
“I want you to respect the fact that you don’t get to decide for us.”
Lucas stalks forward. The hair at his temples is damp, and his chest is heaving. “You know damn well I respect you. But if your choice is to sit here and wait for someone to come lop off a finger or two, I don’t respect that. I won’t make you go, but I won’t stay here with you.”
“But Mr. Walker—” Emily starts.
“Mr. Walker needs a doctor,” Jude says. “Among other things.”
“Since I haven’t seen any doctors around…” Lucas trails off as if that’s all that needs to be said on the matter.
“Then let’s go back to camp and talk about it,” I say. “We can check on him.”
“You mean go back to camp so you can talk us out of leaving.” Jude’s chin is looking extra sharp again. “No way. Whoever took Ms. Brighton’s finger could be taking Mr. Walker’s right now.”
I rub the back of my sticky neck, my whole head set on a continuous throb. “Maybe we could rig some of the phone pieces together from the supply pile.”
“Are you even hearing yourself right now?” Lucas scoffs. “There is a psycho out here. You want to waste time trying to build a phone out of busted microchips and bird shit?”
“Maybe she wants us to go back for another reason,” Jude says, eyes narrowing.
My fists clench. “Stop trying to pin this on me!”
“Whatever you say, Darling,” he fires back.
Lucas laughs. I think he aims for cruel, but tired is closer to the mark. He pushes his sweaty hair off his forehead, and his eyes go half-mast.
“She didn’t do this. No chance,” he says.
I let out a little disbelieving huff. Maybe I should thank him, but I know when he opens his mouth, he’ll ruin it.
And he does. “She’s nowhere near ballsy enough to pull something like this off.”
My fists clench. “I’m not going anywhere with either of you.”
“I’m staying too,” Emily says softly.
Lucas’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t fire anything back. I see the briefest flash of pink tongue, and then it looks like he’s going to smirk. But then his eyes go sad. “Hell of a risk just to stay away from me, Sera.”
“I can’t leave Mr. Walker,” I say.
“We’re better off together,” he says, and when I don’t respond, he shrugs. “Suit yourselves. Can’t say we didn’t try. We’ll send help.”
They walk away, and I stand there, fists clenched and face red. We can’t see them for long, but we can hear them. Voices and crashing footsteps. Then just the footsteps. Then nothing.
That’s when I realize Emily and I are on our own.
Chapter 7
“Do you think they’re right?” Emily asks me when we’re back in camp. “Do you think whoever…do you think they’ll come back for us?”
“I don’t know, but hopefully, Mr. Walker will wake up soon.” I look up at the sunshine glinting through broad leaves. It makes the forest look charming. Harmless. It’s not either of those things anymore. “If they wanted to hurt us, they kind of had their chance, right? I mean, they drugged us and wrote on us, but that’s it.” Except that’s not it. When I close my eyes, I can still see that awful discolored thing that was Ms. Brighton’s finger.
Emily shrugs. “They say some murderers have a type. Maybe we don’t fit?”
I glance at Emily’s smooth-lidded eyes and then down at my own coppery arms. She could have a point. Madison and Hayley fall on the opposite side of the human color wheel.
Emily cocks her head. “Ms. Brighton isn’t blond though. Maybe it doesn’t make as much sense as I thought.”
I sigh. “Truthfully, none of this makes sense. If it’s the other three they want, why bother with us at all? We weren’t even on the same side of the river. I still don’t know how they got across for that matter.”
“Not easily. That’s why I don’t think it’s over.”
I hold back a cold shudder. “What do you mean?”
She sits down by Mr. Walker’s head and checks his pulse, looking perfectly composed. “I think Ms. Brighton and Madison and Hayley—maybe they were just the start. The first three.”
Our eyes drag to the number three beside Mr. Walker’s tent.
“The only one we know was hurt was Ms. Brighton though,” I say, trying to hope.
Emily frowns. “It’s weird. Ms. Brighton wasn’t even going to do this. It was supposed to be Ms. Appleton, but something changed. Maybe Mr. Walker requested her? It was kind of eleventh hour, but I know he was in charge of the whole thing.”
“How do you know it changed?”
Her head ducks, and the tips of her ears go pink. It looks like there’s a tiny short spot of hair behind her ear. Like she’s cut off a lock for someone. Creepy.
“I was in the counselor’s office,” she says. “They were reprinting the assignment sheet in the hallway.”
Counselor’s office. Questions burn on the tip of my tongue, about the word on her arm or maybe the gray-black bruises, even about the little missing chunk of her hair. Everything about her posture says closed book though. I take a breath and look around instead. “Maybe we should just get started.”
“Not much else to do.”
Emily keeps vigil over Mr. Walker while I go through the heap of ruined supplies, trying not to dwell on the visual of someone cutting our packs apart, busting our phones. I force myself to treat it like a trip to a thrift store for costume supplies. It’s all about potential.
Easier said than done. Everything is wrecked. Cell phones and notebooks and a leather bracelet I remember my fingers tracing around Lucas’s wrist at Sophie’s. I drop that like a cockroach and move on.
Jude’s top-of-the-line phone is painful to look at now, shiny white pieces scattered all through the pile. I try to imagine someone slipping it out of his pocket, try to picture the fingers plucking his earphone cord out and leaving it dangle. Why leave the cord?
Then again, why write on our arms? Why cut off a finger?
Why only one finger?
Or was it just one?
Every answer I can think of leads me to a scarier question, so I stop thinking. I should focus on getting home to my dad and on trying to find anything in this heap of crap that might help me do that. Like this sock. A sock could come in handy.
This is depressing.
I work anyway, finding bits of electronic stuff here and there. The pile is overwhelming, so I make smaller piles: trash, maybe useful, definitely useful. That one’s the smallest. I found a corner of the map, the size of a deck of cards, but it’s on the river. I also have some rope and a couple of empty water bottles that make me painfully aware that my tongue feels like a giant sand-coated raisin.
I’m careful with the electronics, separating them into several tiny stacks of similar-looking items. Maybe if I organize it enough, I’ll suddenly develop a competency for computer engineering?
Who am I kidding?
I have zero idea what any of this is. The only thing I know for sure is that I haven’t found a single bit of yellow plastic. As far as I know, Mr. Walker’s GPS is still intact, sending out signal after signal to tell the world we are A-OK.
I abandon my engineering project and do another pass through ripped bits of backpacks. I manage to score a couple of breakfast bars in a side pocket, so I offer one to Emily and sit beside her at Mr. Walker’s tent entrance. It’s like eating sand. I’d do anything for a bottle of water.
“Doesn’t look like you found much,” she says.
“Nope. Not one trace of Mr. Walker’s GPS, so that’s not great. Has he changed?”
“No.” Then she frowns. “If anything, he seems worse than before. I’ve tried to move him a little, but he doesn’t even groan. He’s out cold.”
We trail into si
lence because there isn’t much to talk about. All I can think about is how thirsty I am, but I doubt she wants to hear it. I’m going to have to come up with something. It’s not like Emily’s going to—
“What happened between you?” she asks, then lifts one shoulder. “You and Lucas, I mean.”
“Nothing.” I press my hands to my cheeks and find them just as hot as I’d suspect after a lie like that. “Nothing.”
She wrinkles her nose. “But everybody—You know what? Forget it. It’s not my business.”
“It’s not that,” I say, but where do I go from there? If it isn’t that, what is it? “It’s just stupid. Not worth talking about.”
“Oh.” Her tone implies things that never happened, but I can’t exactly correct her either because something did happen, even if it’s not what she’s thinking.
I close my eyes and push my sneakers into the dirt, and just like that, I’m back at school, helping Lucas carry the set up the stage stairs.
“Don’t break anything,” he says when I grunt under the weight of our load.
I huff. “I’m not made of glass.”
His laugh does something to my insides. “I’m aware. Just trying to be polite.”
We set it down on the empty stage and join the new piece to the other half. It’s a metal mess of angry lines and dark shadows—an abstract version of a fire escape. Now that I’ve seen it, I can’t imagine any West Side Story without it.
“It’s crazy good,” I say, gesturing at the set. “You’ll be working Broadway one day.”
He laughs. “I’ll be welding on a construction site. Nobody pays for shit like this.”
“I would.” I run a thumb along a seam in two metal sheets, heat rolling up my neck. “Learn to take a chance on something, Lucas.”
“You’re one to talk.” His gaze drops to my mouth, and it isn’t the first time.
Sometimes, I wish he didn’t stand so close to me. And sometimes, I wish he’d stand closer.
Emily’s laugh drags me out of the memory. She’s shaking her head, like my face is telling secrets. It probably is.
“Whatever you’re thinking, you can stop,” I say. “I’m pretty sure you’re wrong.”