Page 56 of Dead Girls Can't Tell Secrets

“We already did that,” I say. “We woke up early while the woods were quiet.”

Mr. Davis’s eyes widen. “Unsupervised?”

“Tyler was teaching us,” I say, sacrificing Tyler—Alex—whoever the hell he is. “It wasn’t dangerous.”

Tyler’s mouth twists as he turns to hide the bruise blooming over his jaw. “Yeah, just showing them your basic atlatl throw. Stuff my dad taught me.” Brilliant dead dad diversion tactic.

“Well, I’d like to try,” Sam says, earning a big smile from Mr. Davis. Abby stops humming to join them, and Grant soon wanders after them too.

“I’ll keep an eye on things,” Noah whispers to me before jogging to catch up.

I bite back a growl. We are seriously going to be here all day.

“Do you guys really think Mr. Davis did something to Piper?” Jacey asks as Tyler sidles up next to us. “He’s my favorite teacher. Piper’s too. I just can’t see it. I need more proof before we talk to the cops.”

“It’s going to be tough to prove anything when we’re stuck up here,” I mutter.

Tyler glances at where the others have disappeared into the trees. “We could do some digging now.” He makes a grand gesture toward Mr. Davis’s tent.

“Now?” Jacey asks. “We don’t know when he’s coming back.”

“I’ll be the lookout,” Tyler says, shrugging. “And I can try to move the group a little farther into the woods. If Mr. Davis ends the hunting expedition, I’ll give you a signal.”

“Gonna clank your chains in the wind?” I ask.

Tyler presses his lips flat, holding back a smile. “I’ll yell, ‘Hey, Mr. Davis,’ and then make up a question he can’t answer about primitive survival skills. That should buy you enough time to get out of his tent.”

I let out a long sigh. The plan sounds risky, but reasonable. “What are we looking for?”

“Find his phone, if it’s in there. It’ll be locked, but I know a guy down in Foothill who deals with that sort of thing.”

Jacey throws me a wary look.

“Just check his bag,” Tyler says. “If he’s guilty, he probably cleaned up after himself. But it’s worth a look.”

“Oh, sure,” I say. “It’s worth a look, as long aswe’rethe ones breaking and entering.”

“Exactly.” Tyler grins and strides after the group, leaving Jacey and me staring at Mr. Davis’s closed tent.

I check behind us. Alexandra must’ve joined the hunt, because the camp is empty. “Stand right outside the tent,” I whisper, and Jacey nods, spinning to face the woods, back pressed up against the fabric. I unzip the flap and enter, closing it behind me.

The inside is clean apart from Mr. Davis’s backpack in one corner, stuffed and ready to go. Immediately, this feels wrong. I’m violating my teacher’s privacy. Hisunderwearis in here somewhere, for good old Aunt Mildred’s sake. Speaking of my crimp-faced great-aunt, what would she think of me if she knew everything I’d done to my sister? I cringe and dip my hand inside the smallest pocket on Mr. Davis’s backpack, feeling a stab of disappointment. His phone isn’t inside like I hoped it would be. Just some lint and a pack of breath mints.

The next pouch is slightly larger, but the only thing in there is a first aid box.

I’m elbow deep in my chemistry teacher’s things, and so far, I’m only finding items to keep kids alive, which is the opposite of tossing kids off cliffs.

I turn my attention to the main compartment and go for it, plunging my hand into the rolled clothing and used socks and whatever else a twenty-something-year-old man needs for a weekend away. I feel for anything out of place—a sharp edge, anything heavy. But there’s nothing.

I slide my hand back out, tucking everything neatly away like it was before. I’ve got to get out of here. I put the pack down in the corner, then turn to make my way out the flap.

But my sneaker catches on the nylon floor, and the backpack tips over with a thump, startling me. I freeze. My heart is beating like a million little soccer spectators applauding in my chest. I peer through the little mesh window. The camp still looks empty, but I press my ear to the fabric wall. Just chirping birds and rustling trees. Good.

I right the pack and push it back into the corner, trying to balance it the way Mr. Davis had it. But something I didn’t see before snags my eye. Beneath the straps is another compartment that runs from top to bottom. I unzip it, feeling around inside until my fingertips pass over something rough and fibrous. I tug on the object until a coiled rope emerges. Setting it down, I dig even deeper this time, removing a roll of duct tape.

Okay.Just breathe.This is perfectly normal. Hikers use ropes, right? For scaling cliffs and lassoing wildlife? Mr. Davis probably keeps a rope in his hiking pack all the time. And the duct tape? As Grant would say, what can’t you use duct tape for? There’s always a reason for duct tape. But my brain is thumping now, in time with my heart.

I shake the worries away, shoving the rope back inside the compartment. Then I grab the tape. The edge is frayed and jagged. Torn in a hurry, maybe. The edge sticks to my hand as I lift the roll, and I reach to pull it off.

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