Chapter 22

I'm engaged in a stare-down with the tent poles.

"What are you doing?" Jacey is eyeing me from a safe distance.

"Trying to speed this show along. Mr. Davis has no intention of leaving, ever."

She checks over her shoulder before inching closer. "You haven't said anything to Grant, have you?"

"He had nothing to do with Piper," I say, words dosed with anger.

"We don't know that. He's on the soccer team."

I sling her a withering look. "You'd love for this to get pinned on Grant, wouldn't you? A little retribution?"

She glowers at me, and I feel the progress we've made this weekend start to slip away.

"Any idea how to take this thing down?" I ask, changing the subject.

"You weren't able to coax it into breaking itself down with menacing glares?"

I huff and start beating the nylon thing into submission.

"Or you could try that." She sidesteps to avoid losing an eye to a pole.

A few minutes later, Jacey has the last pieces of our tent secured within her backpack.

"What do you guys say we practice some hunting methods?" Mr. Davis asks while tidying up the breakfast area. "Just technique," he clarifies when Alexandra's mouth drops open. "No animals will be harmed in the making of this educational moment, I assure you."

"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 as we're the 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. His underwear is 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.

That's when I see it. Stuck to the side of the roll, curving to hide beneath the frayed edge. A strand of hair.

A wavy, blond strand of hair.

Don't panic. But my lungs don't receive the message, because they seem to be shutting down. I have to decide what to do with this tape. If it's Piper's hair, the cops will need to test it, right? For DNA? But if I steal it, they might think I planted the hair.

I grit my teeth and begin to stuff the tape back down into the pocket. But there's something else inside—rectangular, about the size of a phone. One side is hard and flat—maybe a screen—and ridges line the edge. A twisted mash-up of fear and excitement spikes in my chest. This could be his pay-as-you-go drug phone. I slide my hand inside and reach until I'm nearly shoulder deep, grasping for it. Then I yank, my knuckles rubbing against the fibers of the rope until the phone pops free.

Except it's not a phone; it's an audio recorder. It's silver, with a speaker in the front and buttons along the side.

And it belongs to my sister.