One Was Lost(57)

“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 doppelg?nger, but it’s close enough.

I shut my eyes, picturing the doll 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.

Partially consumed. I flip the page open, pain buzzing through my bad hand, for the rest of the article, scan the paragraph for anything helpful. There isn’t much. A few quotes from the community. Tragic loss. The principal’s heartfelt condolences. And then a single name that stands out like a beacon. Peter Walker, a new, local teacher who grew up near the site of the incident.

“Hannah was a special girl,” Walker said. “I hope her death serves as a warning. People die in those woods all the time.”

The paper drops from my hands, rippling through the air like a falling bird. It lands in the dirt, and I leave it.

“What is it?” Lucas says, picking up the paper. He reads for a minute and then says, “Mr. Walker’s in this article.”

I nod, and he pulls in a long breath, tracing his finger under our teacher’s name.

“He killed that girl, didn’t he?” I ask, pacing three steps left and then back again. “He killed Hannah, and now he’s coming after me.”

Because I look like her. And I look like my mother. My face has brought me nothing but trouble.

I laugh. It dissolves into a shriek. And then a sob. I cover my mouth and shove it all back down.

Lucas drops the paper and wraps an arm around my back, his gaze flicking from tree to tree, shadow to shadow.

I grind my muddy boot into the newspaper. In the corner, the number one twists, and my eyes drag to the date on the paper. It’s tomorrow. There’s one more day left.

“Hannah died tomorrow,” I say. “Tomorrow eighteen years ago.”

Lucas’s soft mouth goes impossibly hard. “Well, you’re not Hannah.”