One Was Lost(42)

Mr. Walker gives an awkward laugh, but I can’t force myself to smile back at him. No one says anything, and I have zero idea where to start, but we have to tell him. Because right now, he thinks the extent of our problem is a teacher with a nasty stomach bug.

My heart twists, imagining what he’s going to feel when we fill him in on Ms. Brighton.

“Well, don’t everyone talk at once. What time is it? How long was I out?” he asks, and then he looks around, forehead furrowing. “Wait, where are Ms. Brighton and Madison and Hayley? Are they still on the other side of the river?”

“What do you remember, Mr. Walker?” I ask.

I can tell his brain is prodding at his foggy memory, pushing for answers. His expression turns grave before he speaks again. “Where are the tents? Where are we right now?”

Emily tries to reply, but the words catch and snag on her tears.

I’m done crying for now, so I take the lead. “Things are bad. You’ve been asleep for a couple of days. Do you remember anything? Do you remember us moving you on the sled?”

His brow scrunches, creases forming so fast that I think of one of Mom’s scarves sliding off her dresser, folding over and over, an accordion of silk against the bedroom wall.

“No,” he says. “What’s happened?”

“There is a murderer out here,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve said the word, and I have to fight off a shudder. “We think Ms. Brighton has been killed. We don’t know about Madison and Hayley, but we called for them. They didn’t answer. There were—” I think of the birds, the swarms of flies buzzing. “I don’t think they made it. We haven’t been hurt, but we were all drugged. You most of all. We think they used sleeping pills or some other sedatives. They put it in our water.”

He struggles like he wants to argue, but I hold up a hand and fill him in on the rest, bit by bit. The destroyed supplies, the words on our arms, the numbers we’ve found, building the sled, our plans to head north, and the noise that led us here. When I finish, Mr. Walker’s eyes search the area.

“Where exactly is here?” he asks. “Does anyone have a compass? Anything useful?”

“No on all counts,” Lucas says.

“How far are we from where we started? From where we left the girls?”

“Maybe three or four miles?” Lucas guesses. “I’ve been trying to cut north for the road.”

“You shouldn’t be too far off it. Maybe a day’s hike, six or seven miles? But we need to head back to the river first. That bridge is out, but there should be another a mile to the west. Or there will be places where the water may be low by now.”

We prickle so fast at the idea, it’s like we’re turning into cacti. Lucas picks up on it and leans forward.

“We’re not going back to the river. It was a hard hike, there were bears baited to our camp…and we think we’re being followed.”

Mr. Walker’s expression twitches. It’s like he’s holding himself in check. Forcing himself not to sigh or roll his eyes. I can see it written all over his face—he’s in denial.

He doesn’t believe us. He doesn’t believe us because he can’t handle this.

“I know it sounds crazy,” I say. “But someone is out here, and they aren’t hunting deer. They are hunting us.”

Mr. Walker shakes his head, making a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan and a complete dismissal. He does this in school sometimes when a kid makes a joke. He tries to play along, but then he’ll make a sound—just like this one. It’s his version of a fade-out. Yes, the joke was funny, so har-har-har, but could we all turn to page sixty-nine and get serious about these polynomials?

He makes the sound again, eyes going a little wide when no one laughs or opens a textbook. I feel so bad for him when I lift my arm to show him the word again. Lucas shuffles to my doll and holds it in the air with a tight smirk.

Mr. Walker’s eyes fix on that mess of twigs, and I see the realization sliding down over every feature. Just as fast, his guard slams back up. I can’t blame him. None of this is easy to swallow.

“Let’s try to stick with the facts here and save the boogeyman talks for later.” He licks his lips, obviously determined to hold on to his disbelief.

I get it. If I could cling to the world where camping trips mean mosquito bites and leaking tents and maybe a sprained ankle, I would.

Ms. Brighton would have been better at this. God knows she would have bastardized bits and pieces of half a dozen religions to explain it, but I’m pretty sure she could handle mystery words and voodoo dolls better than Mr. Walker.

Jude sighs. “It doesn’t matter if you believe us. We just need you to help us get out of here before our neighborhood psychopath figures out you’re awake and comes back for us.”

Mr. Walker holds up a hand that looks pale and shaky. “Something’s going on—that’s clear—but murder? We’re in the middle of nowhere. Now, you saw something. I believe that, but we can’t just—”

“I saw a body,” I say softly, interrupting him. “I think it was Ms. Brighton. It was—” I pull a breath that feels like spun glass, thinking of the dark, wet thing behind the bushes. “Someone cut off her finger, Mr. Walker. Hung it from a tree. There were flies. Vultures.”