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.”
Chapter 24
We make our way through the valley quickly, but there isn’t a road on the other side. More mountains. More trees. Neither of us says a word as we weave our way through undergrowth that’s denser with every step.
Shadows stretch longer as we walk. It’s hard not to think about the figure I saw. Harder still to not imagine Mr. Walker in every rustle of leaves or snapping branch I hear. I’m jerking my head back and forth so much, I’m about to get whiplash.
“I don’t think he’ll come tonight,” Lucas says. “I think it’ll be tomorrow.”
“Because that’s the anniversary?”
“Makes sense, right?” he says. “None of this was spur of the moment. This all leads up to something, I think. And the article said she died tomorrow.”
True. Doesn’t mean he’s not in the trees right now, waiting for midnight. Watching us walk. We crest over one mountain and collapse just past the top. It’s grown dark, and the terrain is rough. The mountains are sharper here, rocky outcrops jutting up more often, the occasional drop-off reminding me of Ms. Brighton’s ghosts.
Lucas offers me our remaining water. Thirsty as I am, I’m not sure I shouldn’t use some of it on my hand. That situation is getting worse by the hour. It’s throbbing up to my elbow now. The moon is high and bright, but I still can’t see well enough to assess redness or swelling.
“Hand bothering you?”
“It needs to be dealt with.”
“We’re getting close,” he says. “We’re heading north again. I bet the road cuts right through one of those valleys up there. I’ve got a good feeling.”
I don’t feel good about anything. I’m convinced that even if we do manage to avoid Mr. Walker, we’ll end up lost out here until my arm falls off and I die of gangrene.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asks.
I smirk. “I wouldn’t say I’m drowning in optimism.”
“I could climb a tree when we get a little higher. I might be able to spot headlights.”
“You’re suggesting climbing a tree. In the dark. Do you want to end up like Hayley?”
“Good point.” Lucas downs another few sips and stands up. “I don’t like all the cliffs now that it’s getting dark. We could fall if we’re not careful.”
It’s a real risk. The drop-offs barely have rhyme or reason, cliffs that run along the ragged mountain ridges and fissures—those are even worse—that spring up without warning. Tree, tree, three-hundred-foot fall to our deaths.