Lucas tilts his head with a wary expression. “Unless they’re in the same shape we are.”
“The bridge was practically washed out,” I say. “Someone couldn’t have gotten to both sides of the river.”
“We couldn’t cross,” Jude says. “That doesn’t mean no one could.”
“Fair point,” Lucas says. “If there’s another bridge or even a zip line, it wouldn’t be an issue. Maybe this is the mountain equivalent of cow tipping or whatever.”
My face scrunches. “What?”
Lucas shrugs. “This feels like a prank, doesn’t it? Destroying our crap, writing creepy words on our arms. Let’s see if we can scare the city folk.”
I cock my head. “We’re from Marietta, Ohio. Wouldn’t exactly call us city folk.”
Emily frowns. “This is pretty elaborate for a prank anyway.”
“Good pranks are elaborate,” Lucas says. “Do you know how much planning it took to get the statue of Arthur St. Clair suspended from the rafters in the school auditorium?”
Jude turns to Lucas, brows arched. “That was you?”
He shrugs, and my head throbs. Of course it was him. I don’t know how blind I was this summer, but I should have put it together. It’s not like I haven’t seen his type before.
My mother left my dad and me over a guy like Lucas. Hot-headed and prone to snarkiness—and mischief—but still somehow charming. Funny. They’ve even got the same tall, dark vibe going, though Charlie looked like he belonged in a sweater on a Macy’s catalog, and Lucas…well, I can’t even imagine him inside a Macy’s.
Jude and Emily are grinning at Lucas as he explains the intricacies of the plan, but I’m thinking of when I met Charlie. It was after one of Mom’s shows. He played opposite her in 42nd Street—her biggest role—and my mom swore I’d love him to death. She was right—I really liked him.
Until I really didn’t.
“I’m almost impressed,” Jude says, sounding like he wishes it weren’t true.
Lucas glowers at him, and I grit my teeth. We don’t have time for this. “Can we all stroke Lucas’s ego about his many impressive crimes after we find Ms. Brighton?”
“You can stroke my ego anytime, Sera.”
Emily gasps before I can retort, her eyes on Mr. Walker’s tent. “What happened there?”
“He’s not dead, remember? Just knocked out cold,” Lucas says.
Emily clenches her fists, looking suddenly pale. “Not that. Look.”
Lucas and Jude must see the fear in her eyes because they follow her gaze. She’s looking at something beside the tent, something we missed.
I step sideways and see it: a square formed by sticks laid end on end. The ground in the middle has been cleared of leaves, and a careful number three is gouged into the soft soil. I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat, wanting it to disappear and knowing it won’t.
Lucas takes a breath. “What the hell is that?”
Jude gestures to the number and adopts a preschool teacher voice. “That’s a number three, Lucas. Preceded by number two and followed by—”
A muscle in Lucas’s jaw jumps. “What’s it doing there?”
“That’s how many days we were supposed to have left on our trip,” I say.
“I don’t think that’s about our camping trip,” Emily says, reading my mind. Then she looks around, shoulders hunched. “It’s too quiet. Isn’t it?”
A chill is rolling up my back because I think I know what she means. “You mean we should hear the others, right?”
“They’d be calling for us,” Emily says. She’s not wrong.
“There are three of them,” Lucas says, still staring at the number in the ground.
“We should hear them,” Jude says, tipping his chin to Lucas. “Madison would be bleating your name like a goat.”
It’s true, and the absence of said bleating is suddenly pressing fear into me. There are three of them. But the number on the dirt makes me wonder. Are there still three?
“OK, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Lucas says. “They probably took off when we didn’t answer. Maybe they think we left without them. Or that we need help.”
“He’s right. They could have even given up earlier when we were still unconscious. We’ll figure it out when we get there,” I say.
“I don’t want to go back to the water,” Emily says.
I don’t need to ask why. The terror is obvious in her tone. She’s afraid of what we’ll find there. A cold prickle in my center tells me I’m afraid of that too.
My eyes drift to Mr. Walker’s tent. We left the flap open so he’d stay cool, and I can see the faint rise and fall of his olive-green undershirt. But he’s still too pale. Worry pricks at my throat. He should be awake by now.
So why isn’t he?
I lick my lips. God, I’m thirsty. “Let’s try to wake him up, like Emily suggested. Just one more time. Can’t hurt anything, right?”
I must look desperate. Either that or Emily and I aren’t the only ones hesitant to return to the water alone.