One Was Lost Read online

  Also by Natalie D. Richards

  Six Months Later

  Gone Too Far

  My Secret to Tell

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  Copyright © 2016 by Natalie D. Richards

  Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Kerri Resnick

  Cover images © Roy Bishop/Arcangel; Valentin Agapov/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Richards, Natalie D., author.

  Title: One was lost / Natalie D. Richards.

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Fire, [2016] | Summary: On a senior class camping trip, four girls find themselves lost in the woods, their supplies destroyed, and hunted by a killer.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016004463 | (13 : alk. paper)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Camping--Fiction. | Survival--Fiction. | Horror stories. | Mystery and detective stories.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.R3927 On 2016 | DDC [Fic]--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016004463

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To Jody and Edie for helping me find the artist within

  Chapter 1

  No one said anything about rain in the brochures.

  Not that there were brochures. There was a handwritten sign-up sheet in the cafeteria, followed by permission slips recycled from ghosts of field trips past. I’m not really sure why I was expecting a world-class production. Must be the director in me.

  I stumble under the weight of my pack, sloshing through a puddle. Cold water oozes through my boots and socks. So much for Mr. Walker’s plastic ponchos keeping us dry. I guess after six straight hours of rain, dry is relative anyway.

  “I hope you packed your dirty clothes in the plastic bags I handed out last night,” Mr. Walker booms from the front of the line. “They might stink, but they’ll be dry.”

  The other girls cringe a little at the idea—all except Ms. Brighton, our younger, cooler teacher guide. She’s very Zen about these things, nodding along in her crystal earrings and mud-dyed Gaia Mother T-shirt.

  I’m in the last half of the group, behind Jude with his ever-present earbuds and imperious gaze. Since I’m five-two, the back of his poncho is about all I can see, but it’s better than looking at Lucas.

  Anything’s better than looking at Lucas.

  Even behind me, I can feel him. Looming. Everyone’s tall measured against me, but Lucas is ridiculous. He towers. If there were actually a sun to be found in this Appalachian monsoon, his shoulders would cast a shadow you could hide two of me in. I have no idea what you have to eat to grow like that. Corn? Eggs? Small children?

  I trudge onward, slowing to shift my backpack. The right strap is digging a painful trench into my shoulder, and I can’t find a way to move it. My poncho slips with the effort, and a river of icy water slithers down my back.

  “Holy crap!” I say, arching in a futile effort to escape.

  “Keep moving, Spielberg,” Lucas says behind me.

  I grit my teeth and walk on. If I respond, I might have to look at him, and I’ve worked very hard not to do that. I’ve not looked for sixty-two days. It’s a pretty good track record. I’m not going to wreck it just because he ended up on my Senior Life Experience Mission. At the last possible minute, no less.

  “Is this really top speed for you?” he asks, sounding like he’s on the verge of a laugh.

  I stare at the line of backpacks and ponchos ahead of me, resisting the urge to snap back at him. I need to be the bigger person here. It’s not like I don’t know why he’s picking at me.

  “Still sticking with the silent treatment?” he asks. “Gotta give it to you, you’re committed. Slow-moving as shit but committed.”

  OK, I’m bigger person-ed out.

  I whirl around. I shouldn’t—I know I shouldn’t—but the words blurt out. “Newsflash, Lucas! I’m moving as fast as I can. Not all of us are loping around with giraffe legs like you, so if you’re in such a rush, feel free to move ahead.”

  He steps closer, and it happens. I see him. Really see him.

  Fricking crap.

  He tilts his head until his face is visible inside his plastic hood. How does he do it? He’s just as wet and miserable as the rest of us, but somehow, he’s owning the hell out of a poncho that makes me look like I need a zip tie and a trip to the curb.

  I should walk away, at least look away. Lucas is all sharp lines and hooded eyes, and I should have learned my lesson. Because standing here brings me right back to that night on the porch. My ears go buzzy with the memory of crickets singing and the backdrop of the cast party inside. My face tingles because I remember other things too—his scratchy jaw and soft mouth and my heart beating faster than it ever should.

  My gaze drifts to his smirk and lead pools in my stomach. That’s what I’m really mad about. It’s not his teasing or the rain or anything else. It’s the fact that he turns me into the same fluttery mess I was all summer. He still turns me into my mother, and I hate it.

  I try to move away, but he catches the edge of my poncho—keeps me facing him. “Huh.”

  I cross my arms. “Huh, what?”

  “Look who suddenly remembers me,” he says softly.

  “Don’t
.”

  “I won’t,” he says, though his grin needs a parental advisory label. “I didn’t then, did—”

  Lightning flashes, bright enough that we both jerk.

  One Mississippi.

  Two Mississ—

  The sound that follows is like the sky being torn in two. It ends with a bone-deep rumble that rattles the ground and bunches my spine. I close my eyes and take a breath, yoga-slow. It doesn’t cleanse anything, so I try another.

  Across from me, Lucas is searching the sky. I take the opportunity to turn and bolt ahead on the trail. Not that there’s anywhere to go. Away from him is good enough.

  I plow into Jude’s back in my eagerness to escape. He spares me one millisecond of irritation, and then he’s back to pretending we’re all part of the scenery.

  The trail widens here, or maybe the forest is less dense. Who knows? It gives me enough room to move past Jude until I’m next to Emily, my tent mate for the last two nights.

  Emily looks back at me—a sparkle of dark eyes under her poncho—and her mouth twitches. Is she smiling at me? That’s new.

  “Some trip, right?” I ask.

  She ducks her head. And that’s as close to a conversation as we’ve gotten. I sigh. We have three more days of awkwardness in the woods. Three. More. Days.

  “Hold up.” Mr. Walker is ultra-alert. “Everybody stay right here. Don’t move.”

  Our single file line separates, students clustering into a group. The rain is a touch lighter now, and everything’s hazy and foggy. Mr. Walker clomps ahead while we wait. I roll my achy shoulders and try to ignore how damp and sticky I am under my trash bag poncho.

  I can’t see much, but it wouldn’t matter if I could. We all look alike. I mean, Lucas is an easy spot, towering six inches over everyone here. Mr. Walker would stand out too if he hadn’t walked off—he’s the only one with an actual rain jacket, plus he’s got that bright-yellow plastic-sleeve-protected GPS strapped to his arm. I can’t see where he went though. Being short offers few advantages.

  “What’s going on?” Madison asks, turning to touch Lucas’s arm for the fiftieth time this hour. “Can you see anything, Lucas?”

  “Is something wrong with the bridge?” Hayley this time, I think. It doesn’t matter. Hayley and Madison are sort of interchangeable in my head. Like bookends. In a tent.

  Ms. Brighton holds up a hand high enough that even I can see it. I focus on her short, decidedly not-earthy purple nails. “Just hold tight. Mr. Walker’s checking it out.”

  She says that like it will solve everything. It might. Back in Marietta, Mr. Walker was a math teacher with bad breath and a collection of football bobbleheads. Out here, he’s Dr. Doomsday Prepper. He’s got enough gear in his pack to start a new society should we get lost. I glance around the sea of drippy trees surrounding us. Scary thought.

  “He’s checking the bridge,” Lucas says. “Something with the ballast maybe.”

  Plastic rustles as Madison clings harder to his arm. “Are we going to die? Oh my God, I can’t die out here.”

  Ms. Brighton laughs. “No one’s dying. Native Americans lived in these forests for generations.”

  Lucas snorts. “Uh, last night, you said those same Native Americans still have guru ghosts running around. Driving hunters off cliffs.”

  She smirks. “Guru is a Sanskrit word. That was from my first story.”

  “Whatever. There were ghosts flinging people off cliffs in the other one.”

  “No, the hunters found the cliff on their own,” Ms. Brighton says, correcting him. “The Cherokee spirits just led them away from the sacred animals they were hunting.”

  “The only thing I’m hunting out here is a hot shower and cable TV,” Lucas says.

  Ms. Brighton’s smile goes wide. “Then I’m sure you’re safe. So let’s all stay positive.”

  I’m positive I’m soaked. I’m positive I hate hiking. I’m positive this trip will go down as the worst choice of my young life, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to hear any of those things, so I keep my mouth shut. I squeeze my way between Jude and my tent mate, Emily, so I can see better.

  “Oh, the things the forest will teach us!” Ms. Brighton seems delighted at the prospect.

  I bite back a grin. Kooky or not, I like her. Granted, the Church of Brighton would be a cobbled-up mash-up of her choice—part Buddhism, part Cherokee spirituality, and a whole lot of all-organic-all-the-time. But she’s nice.

  She points ahead. “Oh, Mr. Walker’s headed back. See? It’s probably fine.”

  Mr. Walker stomps up the streambed, looking grim. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Or it’s not fine at all.

  “What problem?” I ask.

  “Bridge is out.” He wipes his rain-soaked face like there’s nothing more to say.

  I look up at the narrow metal structure. It’s a little rusty and worse for the wear, but overall, it seems intact.

  “It’s suspended over the water,” Jude says, his soft voice surprising me. “Isn’t that how bridges are supposed to function?”

  Mr. Walker turns away from Jude like he didn’t say anything at all.

  “Something’s wrong with the supports, smart-ass,” Lucas says.

  Mr. Walker nods at Lucas and points out a sagging seam and some cracks in the dirt that are apparently scary dangerous signs or something. I don’t care enough to make suggestions. This is somebody else’s show falling apart, and I’m just going to stand here like a stagehand waiting for someone to tell me what to do.

  “OK, so now what?” Ms. Brighton asks, her oh-so-positive voice dipping a little.

  “We can’t trust the bridge. We’ll go down and cross the river on foot.” Mr. Walker taps the GPS on his arm. “We got a flash flood warning a while back, so I want to get on the other side while we still can.”

  “But we’ll get wet if we don’t use the bridge!” Hayley (Madison?) gripes.

  A laugh coughs out of me.

  “I’m already freezing,” Madison adds. Or is it Hayley? No, it’s definitely Madison. I can tell because she’s the one whose arm is always snaking toward Lucas.

  “I want to go home,” Hayley says.

  We will probably lather, rinse, and repeat this twelve more times in the next hour. These two have been a torrent of complaints. I can’t blame them. This place is like woodsy purgatory.

  Still, Mr. Walker has a point. It’s an easy descent to the stream, and it still looks shallow, but with all this rain, that might change. And then we’re stuck here. We’re at the halfway point of the trip now, so any kind of delay could mean another day out here. I’d cross a leech-infested river of blood if it means getting out of this forest sooner rather than later.

  “Should we just camp here tonight?” Ms. Brighton asks.

  “Camping by the stream is risky. We could run into a bear. Plus, we might not be able to cross tomorrow.”

  Ms. Brighton takes a breath like she wants to argue but goes quiet again.

  “It’s a bad idea,” Madison says. “I don’t want to cross.”

  “Let’s stay upbeat,” Ms. Brighton says. “We could talk about what purpose this might serve.”

  Please let’s not.

  Gauging from the grumbles of my fellow campers, I’m not the only one thinking it as we scrabble down the hill, mud caking thicker on my boots with every step.

  “Maybe we’re going to be fish in our next life.”

  Ms. Brighton laughs, looking pink cheeked and pretty despite the rain. “Never say never.”

  Madison sighs. “This whole thing is proof that I shouldn’t have signed up so late.”

  “The homeless shelter mission had openings too,” Ms. Brighton says.

  “Well, this mission had certain motivating factors.” Madison’s eyes trail to Lucas. Again.

  Hayl
ey sighs. “Also, our parents didn’t want us in the bad part of town.”

  Lucas snorts. “You do realize poor isn’t contagious.”

  “Isn’t it?” Jude asks him. They’ve been at it since the parking lot. It’s annoying as crap.

  “Everyone, quiet. We need to move.” Mr. Walker’s voice is tight. Something’s wrong. But he’s halfway across, and the water is still below his knees. It’s moving quickly, but it seems OK. So why is Mr. Walker scanning the horizon like a soldier?

  When he’s on the other side, he relaxes. “All right, let’s move. You’ll get to test those waterproof boots here. Emily, you first. Then Jude and right down the line.”

  I stumble to the edge of the stream, rocks slipping and scattering under my boots. Jude’s next to me, earbuds in and his chin tipped up like we need a reminder that he’s better than us.

  Emily begins to cross with Jude behind her. Then me and Lucas and the rest of the group after. I can’t help but think about what we must look like, this conga line of plastic-wrapped hikers splashing its way through the river.

  Jude gasps ahead of me. Before I can ask, cold water gushes over the tops of my boots, then past my ankles. I stop when it reaches my knees. It’s higher. We’re not even halfway across.

  Lucas splashes up from behind, rising over me. “Need me to carry you?”

  I don’t dignify the question with a response. Behind me, Hayley and Madison shriek. I turn to see a glimpse of all three of them, Hayley on her butt in the water and Madison and Ms. Brighton rushing back for her. The girls are laughing hysterically.

  “We’re almost halfway,” Lucas says, ignoring them. “Keep going.”

  “Should we help?”

  “They’re fine. Move.”

  “Stop playing around back there! Get them up, Ms. Brighton,” Mr. Walker barks, then more softly to the ones climbing out, “Good job, Emily. Jude! Earbuds out!”

  Mr. Walker looks downstream, and his expression hardens. “Sera, speed up now.”

  I look up and wish I hadn’t. I don’t like the urgency in his tone any more than I like the rushing sound of water I hear off to the east.

  “Is that rain?” I ask because I want it to be rain. Or hail. I want it to be anything other than what I already know it is.