The Bakersville Dozen

by Kristina McBride

  “Before I go,” he said, “we have a few things to sort out.”

  “What things?” I asked, parting the grasses with my arms, feeling the itch of their spiky edges.

  “I feel like this deserves your full attention,” he said, following me.

  Taking one step, two, and then three, the grasses swallowed me whole. But not fast enough. Wes was there, right behind me, the heat of him blazing against my skin.

  “Like I gave you every day last summer?” I asked.

  “Let’s not talk about last summer.”

  “The whole thing was doomed from the start. Your plan was flawed.”

  “It was a master plan.” Wes’s voice was soft, so familiar it hurt. “And you know it.”

  “It was a mistake.” I whipped my hair over my shoulder, taking a few steps to my right, going deeper, closer to the trampled patch that I’d seen from up above. I caught a fleck of yellow. Then, with each step closer, more yellow, until my eyes put the puzzle together and I understood it was the edge of a blanket. Jude had probably planned something romantic, which meant that Wes was the last person I needed by my side.

  Wes grabbed my elbow, spinning me around, forcing me to face him. I was too tired to resist. And I saw him—really saw him for the first time in what felt like forever. His freckled nose, the sharp line of his jaw, the nearly invisible scar where he’d pierced his ear in middle school and then changed his mind.

  “What?” I asked, my voice cracking.

  Wes’s eyes searched mine. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. It was just us, here, together, like before. Like it had been for most of our lives.

  “What do you want me to say?” I backed toward the blanket, ready to find whatever treasure was waiting for me and to grab my next clue. Then I’d just dodge around Wes and run, as fast and as far as I could.

  His gaze flicked over the top of my head, and he sucked in a deep breath, pulling me to his side, then twisting me around until I was behind him, one of his arms wrapped around my waist, pressing me up against his back.

  “What the fuck, B?” he asked, his voice high-pitched, shaking, his free arm reaching out and spreading the final grass curtain wide open. “What the fuck is that?”

  I stood on my tiptoes, peering around his shoulder.

  And then I saw her.

  The whole world tilted as my eyes took in the scene.

  She was lying in the grass, a fuzzy yellow blanket spread beneath her.

  My lungs tightened, unable to take in enough air.

  Her hair was fanned out, her legs crossed at the ankles, and her lips were painted a shiny red, screaming out against the pale white of her skin.

  My vision blurred, pinprick lights distorting the image before me.

  Her hands were perched on her chest, her fingers clutched tightly around the edges of an envelope.

  A red envelope.

  With two words emblazoned across its front.

  BAILEY HOLZMAN.

  CHAPTER 4

  3:31 PM

  “Holy shit,” I said, grabbing the waistband of Wes’s shorts to keep myself upright. I wanted to run, needed to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. Instead, I tipped sideways, throwing up, the splatter of my sickness splashing across my ankles, and I knew for sure the whole scene was real.

  “That’s a dead body, Bailey.” Wes whipped around so fast I lost my hold on him and almost plunged to the ground. “That’s a dead fucking body and you were just—”

  “Wes,” I said, my voice as thin as a sliver of glass. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re asking me?” His eyes were wild.

  I swiveled, seeing her once more—recognition hitting me. The echo of her name tripping through my mind before I had a chance to shoveshoveshove it away. I bent at the waist, vomiting again because I knew her, could see her sitting on the couch in Sylvie Warner’s basement, the center of our group of thirteen, her laughter ringing through the room as Sylvie tried to take control, telling us to focus and consider all possible suspects behind The Bakersville Dozen. Leena Grabman was always laughing—even about the stupid tagline attached to the footage of her on that video: I LIKE IT HARD.

  But then I remembered a time when she wasn’t laughing; she’d been crying, swollen tears sliding down her cheeks as she gripped my hand, her fingernails digging into my skin. That was the day we’d found out Emily Simms had disappeared. The day the video went from an obnoxious prank to something way more sinister.

  “That’s Leena Grabman,” Wes said, his voice shaking. “Leena Fucking Grabman is lying right there, Bailey. Dead.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Leena and I hadn’t been close before the video, but since the fall she’d become like family. The thirteen of us had little in common, but we’d spent countless hours together trying to find answers about why we’d been chosen and who was behind the video. As each girl vanished, the group had pulled together more tightly. Even though I hated the reason I was connected with the girls, I loved them all. Seeing Leena like this, it made me feel detached from my body, like nothing was real anymore.

  “Why are you out here, Bailey?” Wes asked. “Why are you searching through the same patch of weeds where Leena Grabman is lying, dead?”

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. I knew it was important, yet I had no idea why. Nothing felt more important than the way Leena’s feet were crossed, so casually. She was so still.

  But then I saw the red envelope clutched in her hands. “It was the clue. It led me out here and—”

  “Clue?” Wes’s hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me upright so he could look into my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “A scavenger hunt. The first clue was in my locker. It led me out here. I thought it was a game, a surprise from Jude.”

  Wes winced. Then he shook his head. “Jude did this?”

  “What? No! I—”

  “Jude left you the clue?”

  “I thought so, but . . . this obviously isn’t him.”

  Wes reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out his phone.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, my hand reaching out for his.

  His eyes met mine, his breath coming in short, billowy gasps. “I’m calling the police. There are five missing girls, B. One of them is officially dead. And you’re in the middle of this whole thing. We have to call the cops, or else—”

  “But there’s a rule,” I said, panic rising in my chest. “The first clue warned me. I have to play this out to the end.”

  “Bailey, no. You can’t—”

  “She’s dead, Wes.” I pointed toward Leena without looking at her. “I do not want to face that kind of penalty.”

  “Maybe the penalty happens no matter what. Maybe this whole thing means you’re the next missing girl, B. Ever think of that?” Wes held his phone up between us. “We have to call the cops. It’s their job to figure this out.”

  “Let me think for a minute,” I said, looking at the red envelope, everything inside me screaming that the game had begun and that ignoring the clues would be dangerous. “There’s another clue. Whoever did this, they’re expecting me to—”

  “You’re not suggesting we read it,” Wes said. “Please tell me you’re not suggesting—”

  “Not we. Me. And I don’t want to, but what happens if I don’t?” I knew I sounded hysterical—the alarmed look on Wes’s face told me more than the tremble in my voice—but I couldn’t help it.

  Wes turned facing Leena who was lying so very still on the buttercup-colored blanket. He ran his hand through his hair, the stubble on his chin glinting in the sunlight.

  “The cops sure as hell won’t let us see it,” he said, more to himself than me. “Not if we call them before we take a look. Maybe you’re right. It’s not like we can help her. To keep you safe, we need to know as much as possible. Okay, we read the clue. Then we go back to the house and figure out what to do. And by that, I mean we’re calling the cops.”

&
nbsp; The words pounded through my head as Wes stepped toward the blanket. I followed, my hands pressed against his back, feeling like my connection to him was the only thing real about the moment.

  He bent forward, one hand outstretched, grabbing the envelope with two fingers and yanking it free. Jerking back, he bumped into me, and we fell in a heap at Leena’s feet, jostling her so roughly that her ankles uncrossed, the top leg slipping away from the bottom. Time stopped, flies buzzing all around us, and my eyes took in every detail, searing a snapshot of her into my brain.

  “Shit!” Wes said, jerking away from the blanket, pulling me with him. The last thing I saw was her legs, the skin tinted gray with death, dark blue-black splotches pooling along the underside of each calf.

  Leena would die if she could see herself now, I thought, the words firing through my mind before I understood their irony. It felt out-of-this-world crazy to think that the Leena I had known since elementary school—girly and popular and untouchably gorgeous—was the same Leena who had been left in the woods, the same Leena who was lying in front of me. Dead.

  Wes pushed me away from the body toward the tree and the water’s edge, toward everything I had considered safe that would now forever be haunted.

  I pulled ahead of him, my phone buzzing again as I broke free of the itchy prison. My mind was working more clearly by then, and I remembered Hannah and her check-in texts. I pulled my phone free and typed a quick reply so she wouldn’t charge into the woods with reinforcements. Wes pushed his way into the clearing a minute later. His hands shook as he held out the red envelope so that my name was facing me, but upside down.

  “You sure you wanna read it?” he asked.

  “I don’t think I have a choice.” I grabbed the envelope, my fingers fumbling under the flap, and tore it open before I had the chance to talk myself out of facing whatever might come next.

  Wes reached my side as I pulled the cream-colored cardstock free and the envelope fell to the ground.

  IT’S OFFICIAL.

  THE GAME

  IS

  ON.

  I’M GUESSING YOU’RE A BIT SHOCKED,

  SO LET ME REMIND YOU

  TO OBEY THE RULES.

  RULE # 1 REMAINS THE SAME.

  FOLLOW EACH CLUE

  UNTIL YOU’VE

  PLAYED THROUGH TO THE END.

  RULE #2 SHOULD BE OBVIOUS.

  NO COPS.

  CALL THEM AND I’LL KNOW.

  TRUST ME. DON’T TEST ME.

  FIND YOUR NEXT CLUE

  IN THE HAYLOFT AT THE JONES’S FARM.

  TOMORROW NIGHT.

  10PM.

  FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS PRECISELY,

  AND YOU’LL HAVE THE CHANCE TO

  SAVE

  ONE OF YOUR GIRLS.

  BREAK A RULE,

  I’LL PICK OFF

  THE WHOLE BAKERSVILLE DOZEN,

  ONE BY ONE.

  HAPPY HUNTING!

  “Bailey,” Wes said, his breath grazing my cheek, “this is fucking crazy. We need to call the cops. We can’t just blindly follow—”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Wait. Just, fine? You’ll let me call them?”

  My fingers gripped the cardstock tighter, crinkling it in my hand. “If we have a chance to save one of the girls, we have to get this right.”

  Wes leaned down and plucked the envelope from the ground, then tugged the card from my hands, stuffing it back into hiding. He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me in, his arms wrapping around me and holding tight. “We’ll figure this out. Okay?”

  “Not here,” I said, my voice a whisper. “We have to go back to my house. In case someone’s watching.”

  I closed my eyes and pressed my face against his chest, the familiar scent invading me, giving me a sense of security that I knew was dangerous, but that I was grateful for, nonetheless.

  I nodded, suddenly glad to have him there—listening and feeling and caring—to find the two of us connected again after so much time.

  CHAPTER 5

  3:49 PM

  Stepping into my airy kitchen, I felt like I was floating—a prickly, unsteady kind of floating that made the entire scene seem unreal. I jumped when the screen door slammed behind me, steadying again only when Wes’s hand pressed against my back, his body sliding up to mine in a way that I wouldn’t have allowed a half hour before.

  “Jesus, B. I was starting to get worried.” Hannah was sitting at the butcher-block table, her chair turned toward the television in the adjoining family room. She aimed the remote at the screen, lowering the volume until the sound of agitated newscasters faded to nothing. “What the hell took so long?”

  Tripp swiveled toward us, the old Led Zeppelin T-shirt he was wearing blocking my view of the TV. “I can’t believe you had something more important to do than welcome me home. And Wes, I thought you were just going next door to get that CD.”

  Tripp glanced at me, then Wes, and then back to me in a flash. I looked past him to the sliver of TV screen beyond his right shoulder, focused on the fragments flickering by, willing myself to act normal.

  “I’m just glad you’re back,” Hannah said. “Wait’ll you hear the latest news. Totally crazy, and I think—”

  “Shut up, Han,” Tripp said, walking around the side of the table, his gaze fixed on me. “What’s wrong, Bailey?”

  I looked down at his bare feet. I couldn’t say a word. If I did, he’d know something was really wrong. And I couldn’t tell him. He’d try to take over, and then he’d be at risk, too.

  Hannah stood, pushing her chair back with a long scraping sound. “Shit, B. You’re white as death. What happened out there?”

  I grabbed for the table, curling my fingers around the edge. “Nothing. I just . . . got a little dizzy. Wes found me on the trail and helped me back to the house.”

  “Have you eaten?” Tripp asked, moving toward the refrigerator and pulling the door open. “Are you sick?”

  “No.” My mouth still tasted like bile.

  “Maybe a little water.” Wes pulled a chair out and pressed my shoulders until I sat.

  “So?” Hannah asked, leaning her hip against the table, narrowing her eyes at me. “What’d you find?”

  “Nothing,” I said, a little too fast and way too loud.

  “Nothing?” Hannah crossed her arms over her chest and looked from me to Wes.

  I hated her for knowing me too well, and I hoped she wasn’t going to push. When Hannah pushed, she wouldn’t let up until she had exactly what she wanted. And I could not let her get involved. The situation was too dangerous. Leena was proof of that.

  “Drink,” Tripp said, placing an open bottle of water in front of me.

  I tipped the bottle to my lips, swishing the cool water around my mouth before swallowing. But then I thought of Leena, of how she would never swallow a drink of cold water again, and I almost threw up right there on the table.

  Hannah swiveled her chair back to the table so she was facing me. “For the record, I don’t believe you, but if you’re not gonna spill, you’re gonna listen.” I could have kissed her for letting me off the hook. “I was talking to Tripp about beverages for tonight when he got a call. So it was just me sitting here, flipping through channels while I waited for you, right? I hit the string of obnoxious news channels, which are always, like, my least favorite because they’re a freaking horror show, but they totally suck me in at the same time. Anyway—”

  “Hannah,” Wes said, “I’m not sure now’s the best—”

  “I’m getting to the good part, I swear. Bailey’s gonna want to hear this.” She slid the remote across the tabletop and started spinning it in circles. I wondered if Wes and I should have gone to his house instead of mine. Calling the police without Hannah and Tripp finding out about Leena was going to be tricky, but it felt important to keep them in the dark as long as possible. “As I’m sure we all know, the reporters are gearing up for more news in The Bakersville Dozen story. Again, sick and twisted,
but whatever. I thought they were just doing a standard recap and terror drill—the kind where they make sure we all know about the pattern and how someone else could go missing within the next five days, seven hours, thirty-three minutes, and twelve seconds. You know some blog actually posted a countdown clock? It’s insanity.”

  I tried to look past her to the TV screen, but couldn’t make out anything. My eyes wouldn’t focus. All I could see was Leena lying on that blanket—the details washing over me again—a butterfly ring on the middle finger of her left hand, dirt and blood caked under her broken fingernails, the splotchy purple marks on her ankles.

  “Bailey?” Hannah’s voice snapped me back to attention and the images on the screen swam apart, forming five distinct faces. Yearbook photos from last year, one of each missing girl. I locked on Leena. Her sky-blue eyes, which would never again see. Her perfectly pink lips, which would never again smile. “What the hell? Are you even listening to me?”

  “Yeah,” I said, before taking another sip of water. “The reporters are doing their terrorize the public thing. I’m with you.”

  “Well, that’s what I thought at first. But then I heard them saying stuff about Roger Turley.”

  “Suspect zero,” I said, my voice a whisper, as I pictured the balding man who, in addition to being the first suspect, was also Emily Simms’s step-father. Emily had been the first from The Bakersville Dozen to go missing, and the police had flagged Roger Turley from day one. The media had stalked him, blasting the airwaves with footage of things being confiscated as the police searched his home—a laptop, a few boxes of files, a bag of something that looked like clothing or blankets, a pair of tennis shoes—items that supposedly supported the rumors that Mr. Turley had sexually abused Emily. The list of evidence had included a diary with information on each girl in the video, proof, according to some pundits. Roger Turley had been escorted to the police station three times for questioning, but had never actually been charged. “I thought he’d been cleared.”

  “Not officially,” Hannah said. “And today, the man is in even deeper.”