Page 70 of Dead Girls Can't Tell Secrets

All I know is that we have to get down the mountain. Those texts on Sam’s phone—and whatever else he’s hiding—are about to be destroyed before the cops ever get the chance to see them.

“All right,” Mr. Davis says, taking a seat on a large, shady rock. “We’ll rest for a few minutes, until Savannah’s in good enough shape to walk. If it’s really bad, I have my radio.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Can we just go already?”

“Savannah,” Mr. Davis says, tugging his floppy hat down, “you could have a concussion.”

“I’m a soccer player. I know what a concussion feels like. Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

I’ve never actually had a concussion from soccer, but the hard line of Mr. Davis’s mouth softens. Like he’s considering what I’ve said.

“All right, but if you need to stop, let me know. I’ll use the radio, and we’ll have the med team meet us.”

“Deal,” I say, even though I’m in more pain than the time I broke my wrist trying to make a two-story blanket fort out of folding chairs with Piper and Jacey.

When he turns to gather his gear, Jacey sidles up next to the log, shaking a travel-size bottle in front of me. “Grant said you were looking for painkillers. Do you remember anything else yet?” she whispers, dropping a couple of pills into my palm and sitting down beside me.

“My back was to whoever hit me.” I throw the pills back, washing them down with a swig of water. “But I found a text. A very bad text. One of them—Sam or Abby—hurt Piper that day. And they’re onto us.” We glance back at the others, and a tingle runs from my toes all the way up to the back of my neck.

“So, then,” she says, gnawing on her dirty fingernails, “what are we going to do?”

***

When everyone’s standing, backpacks strapped on, we begin our descent. Jacey walks on my left, Grant on my right, both making sure I don’t keel over. The pills are starting to dull the pain, but it’s still there. Blurring my vision, my hearing, my thoughts.

We keep Sam and Abby ahead of us, where we can see them. Mr. Davis’s khaki hat leads the way like before, but he moves more slowly after this morning’s fiasco at the river.

I don’t know if the cops will listen to us. Not without Sam’s phone. But I have to try. If Piper wakes up, I want her to know that I tried. That I did everything I could to find the person who did this to her. Maybe it’ll mean something.

A shadow falls over me, and I flinch. But it’s only the rock formations bordering the trail.

I try to focus on our footsteps thudding against the ground like a drum, to let Grant’s tall and steady figure at my side ease my fears like it always has. But it doesn’t work. I can’t relax or feel anything but this knot in my stomach that won’t unravel until I get to the police station. I’m impatient. Sam already tried to hurt me once; he could try again.

We reach the fork in the trail, and my thoughts start to climb up the narrow, winding path on the right. I tug my focus back down to the path we’re on, locking my neck so that I can’t even glimpse that trail. I never want to see the Point again.

Let it find me in my nightmares.

I stop, shrugging my backpack off. “You guys keep going. I’ll try my phone. We might have reception here.”

“Good idea,” Jacey says, but she drags her feet. Grant hesitates, lips twisted as he turns to watch me. But I wave him on. With one last long look, he concedes.

I find my phone, which has been off a record number of hours, and hold the power button until the screen lights up.

A spike of adrenaline runs through me. The phone still has some juice. Just enough.

I catch an unwanted glimpse of my reflection in the screen and cringe. I haven’t seen a mirror in days—another record. My lips aren’t glossed in Roses Are Pink. My face is more than just tired; it’s feral. Leaves and twigs are trapped in my hair, Friday’s mascara dried and crusted on the skin beneath my eyes.

The sun casts a glare onto the screen, blotting out my reflection. When I unlock the phone, my stomach pushes up into my throat. There are text messages—tons of them.

The space between me and the others has grown, so I heft my backpack on again and force myself to move forward. But my nerves are frayed, open and raw. Jacey slows her pace to fall in step with me. I catch her glancing at me in my periphery, but my gaze is on the phone, on the text messages.

“Savannah?” Jacey asks. “Are you okay? Is it your head?”

It’s not my head. The thrashing pain is the least of my worries now.

I’m focused on my phone. Or maybe not really even on my phone anymore, but rather something just above it. Or maybe nothing, because I’m shaking so much I can barely see at all. My eyes don’t even feel like they belong to me.

“Savannah, you’re really pale,” Jacey says. In front of us, Tyler turns around to look at me.

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