One Was Lost(56)

“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.”