“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.”
“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—