Page 52 of Dead Girls Can't Tell Secrets

“It’s not enough.” I wind a section of hair around my finger so tightly some strands snap off. Their frazzled ends blow in the wind. “Piper’s pack is gone. The only proof we have she even went to see Mr. Davis is your word.”

“The recorder.” Tyler stops plucking pine needles and looks up. “Piper always had that recorder on her.”

“In her jacket pocket,” Jacey adds, nodding.

“So, then,” Tyler says, dropping the branch and trampling it, “where is it?” He looks at me, and I freeze.

“It could’ve been in the bag with the rest of her stuff at the hospital,” I say, a tremor in my voice. Only I’m not sure. When I had that hospital bag, I was too busy searching for Piper’s phone to register anything else.

“Maybe the recorder wasn’t on her,” Noah says with a shrug, wandering over to peer down the face of the cliff. “It could be down there somewhere.”

“We should talk to Mr. Davis,” Jacey offers. “If Piper spoke to him that day, maybe he can tell us something about her state of mind or where she was headed.”

“But if they did meet, why is he keeping it a secret?” I ask. “If he saw Piper that afternoon and she was distraught enough to hurt herself, why not tell my parents? He never even bothered to mention it.”

Alexandra hugs her notebook to her chest. “We should head down the mountain. We can tell the cops—good cops—everything we know, and they can question Mr. Davis.”

“If we accuse our teacher of hurting Piper,” Jacey says, getting worked up, “it willruinhim. Drug gossip is one thing, but you can’t just shake off a rumor that you tried to kill a student. We need more proof.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, even though a second ago I was on her side. I have no idea what to do. “I think Alexandra has a point.”

“Of course you do, Savannah.” Jacey’s voice is low and caustic. “You didn’t hesitate to sell out your own sister. So why would you stop to consider the life of your teacher?”

Whatever has been keeping me levelheaded suddenly breaks off with a crack. “Oh, and you’re so much better?” I trample a clump of wildflowers on my way toward her, blond locks blowing in front of my face, sticking to my lips. I must look feral.

“Hey, let’s talk this out like rational campers,” Noah says with a forced, grating calm. He glances around, scratching his head. “We could tell Mr. Davis we need to take Savannah back down the mountain. We’ll say she’s not doing well with the Piper situation. He’ll let us leave, as long as nobody tips him off about this drug cover-up theory.”

“I don’t know,” Alexandra says, a panicked trill to her voice. “If Mr. Davis wrote that threat on the tent, he’s more aware of how much Savannah knows than we’re giving him credit for.”

“That’s why we should go now,” I say, “before he makes it back down and covers his tracks.” Somewhere in the trees, a bird makes a high-pitched chirp like a wakeup call. The rest of camp—Mr. Davis included—will be up soon.

“The best thing we can do is split up,” Noah says. “Two people can head down while the rest of us stay.”

“And you think Mr. Davis is just going to ignore the fact that two students are missing?” Tyler throws his hands up. “Today is Sunday. We’re all headed down in a few hours anyway. Let’s play it cool. As soon as we get back, we’ll go to the cops.”

A few heads nod, followed by a low murmur of consent. Tyler and Alexandra walk toward the trail, a fervor in their steps. Noah and Jacey hesitate, then follow.

I stay where I am in the weeds, wanting to argue some more.

But there’s no point. I trudge after them, spinning the useless chain link around my thumb.

I don’t have to convince these people.

I just have to get away.

***

An hour later, my eyelids are heavy, and my limbs are sore. We near camp, and the smell of smoke trickles into the air. Tyler points ahead to where the treetops are bathed in a white haze.

My stomach sinks.He’s awake.And now we have to explain why we were all up and out of camp at the crack of dawn.

We scrounge up small bundles of wood. My heart is ready to leap from my chest as we enter camp, but only one lone resident sits in the campfire circle.

Sam. He’s crouched in the dirt, whittling a branch with his knife.

My gaze shoots from the tents to the trees, then back to the fire. “Where’s Mr. Davis?”

“Not awake yet, I guess,” says Sam.

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