I leaned against the boulder and hobbled around it, hauling the bike along with me.

“This way!” someone shouted, and as she did, I spotted it.

An opening in the rock.

It wasn’t just a rocky ridge; it was a wide-mouthed cave, its opening hidden under an outcropping about three feet off the ground. From here I couldn’t tell how deep the nook was. It might’ve been more of a hollow than a cave, but it was low and angled away from the house, and if they walked past it, they’d have to stoop to see me.

It was the best option I had.

I dropped onto my knees and backed into the cave, dragging the bike in on its side after me.

It unnerved me, backing into total darkness, not even trying to see through it, but I couldn’t risk a flashlight this close to the opening.

I crawled backward and pulled the bike about three feet before the damp, crumbly leaves lining the stone floor gave way to smooth stone and the metal bike frame scraped loudly against it.

Pulling it any farther would just risk drawing attention. I released the handlebar and leaned against the stone wall on my left, its damp, uneven surface soaking through my sweatshirt to kiss my shoulder blade.

I looked toward the entrance, a barely lighter square of black. If the sheriff stood far enough from the cave mouth and shone his light this way, I’d be in full view.

In the stillness, a steady drip echoed from deep within the stone walls.

Which meant the cave went deeper.

There was nothing I could do about the bike, but maybe if I followed the tunnels, I could find another way out of the cave. I could sneak out, report my bike missing, pretend it was stolen—whatever it took to separate myself from what was happening on Jenkins Lane.

I reached up through the darkness, feeling for stone overhead, but my fingers met nothing but cold, wet air. The ceiling was higher back here.

I pushed myself up from the wet ground, slowly straightening my neck until I felt the cold graze of stone. I ducked again, slid my bare hand along the rock on my right as I moved deeper.

One small step, then two, three. I kept moving.

A few yards in, I paused and listened. The drip had grown louder. I took another few steps. The earthy smell of loam and tangy sulfur hit the back of my nose as the wall led me around a sharp right angle, leaving watery grit behind on my fingertips. Now the drip was nearby, ahead on my left, growing into a soft trickle.

I looked back the way I’d come but couldn’t make out the entrance. A few more steps around this corner, and it would be safe to get out my flashlight.

It was cold in here, a true bone-cold, and when the slick ground dipped suddenly, I lost my footing.

For the second time in ten minutes, I hit the ground. I managed to bite back a grunt, but the contents of my hoodie pocket went flying, the zing of metal and plastic against rock as my compass and flashlight skated down the sloped ground.

For a beat, I lay frozen where I’d fallen, splayed out on my stomach, listening for voices.

But I was deep enough that the sound of the outside world was cut off; I could only hope the reverse was true.

I pushed myself onto all fours and felt over the ground, the glove on my left hand and the bare fingers of my right splashing through shallow puddles as I crawled. I found my flashlight first. The plastic was cracked but the light came on when I flipped the switch, slicing through the black to catch the copper-streaked rock face across from me and the water trickling down it from a crack above. The ceiling lifted even farther here, and I could stand upright with a yard to spare.

As I hoisted myself to my feet, I trailed the light along the miniature waterfall and found my compass halfway between it and me. My ankle stung as I hobbled over to it, steps echoing off the cavern walls, and bent to grab it.

My yellow-gloved hand froze in front of me. The flashlight cast a glare across the compass’s face, but it didn’t wash it out entirely: A shock of color was visible beneath the light.

The thin red needle.

It was spinning wildly.

My neck prickled.

I drew my hand back but kept the light trained on the compass, and the spinning didn’t slow.

The prickling slithered down to my tailbone as I lifted the flashlight, across the glistening floors, into the dark ahead until it hit the back wall of the cave.

The elongated stalactites pointed accusingly down at the twisted metal stacked in front of it. The tower that the disc had lopped off, the massive steely coil, a loop of cables, a stack of metal beams.

I picked up the compass and moved closer.

The needle accelerated into manic spirals.

Something caught under my boot, and I stopped, dropping my light to it. My skin chilled at the sight of the sleek metal cylinder.

I bent and picked the bullet up between gritty fingers.

Something scuffed heavily behind me, and I spun, flashlight extended protectively and bullet clenched in my other fist.

“Is that the same kind you found the morning after the crash?” came a serious, feminine voice.

Dark green eyes, ringed in white. Long brown hair, wet in spots where the ceiling had dripped, and a fire-truck-red flashlight clutched in one hand.

“Sofía,” I gasped. “You scared me.”

She tipped her chin toward the bullet, and her mouth shrank. “Is it? Do you think whoever dropped that stole the wreckage and hid it here?”

I looked back at the careful arrangement of debris.

Did this mean someone had witnessed the whole thing?