One Was Lost(40)

Lucas’s boots crunch as he walks closer. “No. They look like they’re worried about Sera. Because she’s the victim.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to look worried,” Jude says.

Emily sniffs into her arms. “Me either.”

“Holy shit.” Lucas sounds faintly sick. “We’re supposed to look like the killers.”

My face goes numb, but I shake my head. “That’s stupid. There’s no weapon. No motive. The only thing we can see is that I’m dead. Lying in a pool of blood.”

“And that same blood is on our hands,” Jude says. “Think like a director, Sera. Look at the scene. We’re lording over you, looking down at you. Your blood is on our hands.”

My hands ball up. Jude’s right. Whoever put these dolls together didn’t do anything unintentionally. Doll-Jude and Doll-Lucas are looking down on my body. Doll-Emily is watching like it’s a movie. My mind swims with masking tape x’s and a dozen light checks. If this is a scene set, then I’ve been murdered.

All three dolls have my blood on their hands. As if they are my killers.





Chapter 16


An owl calls softly in the distance—deep, hollow hoots that warble into a low trill. It sends goose bumps up on my arms, but I still can’t tear my gaze away from the dolls.

I shake my head because it doesn’t make sense. This makes it look like one of us is responsible for killing me, but what about Ms. Brighton and Madison and Hayley? And what about the words on our arms? If this whole stupid thing is some sort of elaborate warning, who the hell would bother?

Why wouldn’t they just save me?

I bite my lip and look at the four people in camp. It doesn’t fit. None of it. They don’t have a reason, and they couldn’t pull this off. Jude was vomiting that first day. Emily was asleep beside me. Lucas was—Lucas just wouldn’t. No way. And Mr. Walker is half dead. Plus, I don’t know who would have access to serious drugs.

Except that Lucas’s mom takes Halcion. And Jude has enough money to buy whatever he wants. And I don’t know anything about Emily.

I push my hands into my hair. None of those facts change anything. Even at a record-breaking level of paranoia, I can’t buy any of them doing this. Period. They’re being framed.

In the weirdest possible way I’ve ever seen.

Lucas and Jude are watching me like I’m an injured animal they desperately want to rescue. My mouth goes dry, and I swallow hard. I’d like to rescue them back. I’d like to rescue all of us, but we need someone who actually has some damn clue how to survive out here.

My shoulders jerk. That’s why Mr. Walker is drugged. Someone who plants food and speakers and writes words on people’s arms…someone who would plan something this elaborate wouldn’t want us to outsmart them. With Mr. Walker’s help, we would.

It makes sense. He doesn’t have a word on his arm or a doll made of sticks. He’s not part of this like us. They’re keeping him drugged because he’s the one person who could get us out of here before that countdown is done and I wind up dead.

Someone brushes my arm, and I jerk, my heart pushing out an extra beat.

“Hey,” Lucas says.

He’s using his soft voice, the one he uses when he’s finishing a piece. I remember bringing him a cup of coffee one morning—since I can barely stand the smell, this should have been a clear sign of how bad I had it—and he offered me a velvet-soft thank you that turned my insides liquid warm. He stayed quiet and gentle until it was done. Ten minutes later, there was a new sheet of steel—a new thing to fold and cut and weld. And Lucas was back to standard volume, his laughs echoing off the high ceiling.

“You all right?” he asks.

“I won’t be for long apparently. And neither will you.”

Jude shakes his head. “I told you, I don’t think we’re hurt.”

“I know you’re not.” I point at my doll, ignoring the way my finger shakes. “Victim.” Then I point at the other three. “Killers. It’s pretty obvious.”

“But it’s not going to happen,” Lucas says.

“You’re damn right it’s not,” I say, walking closer to the sled. Mr. Walker’s head lolls to the left, and his mouth is slack. There are fresh stains on his T-shirt. I frown. “Why is he out again? He was coming to when we got here. When the speaker was playing. What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Emily says. “He didn’t wake up when I screamed.”

“Oh, he did. Long enough to throw up again,” Jude says. “That’s about it.”

Emily nods. “Maybe he’s working it out of his system.”

“Well, he needs to work it out quicker,” I mutter.

I walk around him, assessing. Which is ridiculous because I don’t know anything medically helpful. But I know it’s time to wake him up. If Mr. Walker has been drugged to keep him out of the way, then we need to fix that. It’s time to change the game.

My muscles are sluggish and achy, and my stomach hurts, but I square my shoulders like I’m giving final instructions before opening night.

“I think we need to stop reacting,” I say.

“What do you mean?”