There were a few short replies under Damon's message.

Charlie wrote, [OK.]

Russ replied, [Got it.]

And Ken typed, [Alright.]

Ten minutes later, they drove straight into that deadly stretch of road.

Thirty minutes after that, the recording started.

I couldn't take my eyes off the words "that girl", "let her sleep through the whole thing", and "dead weight". My whole body went cold.

So that was what I was to them. To Damon, I wasn't a teammate. I was nothing but baggage.

My lips were pressed so tightly that they turned pale.

Alex slid a tablet across the table toward me. "Did you know you guys actually had two group chats?"

I looked up, confused.

"One was the all-team chat—the one with you, Damon, Ken, everyone. That one was for planning routes, splitting costs, all that."

He tapped the tablet. "But this one here, the one I just showed you—that was their private chat group. That's where they talked trash about you and made plans. You really mean to tell me you never noticed how they felt about you?"

The glow of the screen lit my face, which carried a blank expression.

Of course, I'd noticed.

Back when we were in Stonevale, looking for a place to stay, the cheap hostel didn't have enough beds. Charlie had joked in the chat, [Having a girl on the team just makes things complicated. Why don't we handle it like last time? Could even be fun again…]

And that night, when I was dizzy from the altitude, falling behind by about 30 feet, I heard Damon whisper to Ken, "If she slows us down one more time, we'll just deal with her at the next stop."

I didn't know exactly what they meant, but I didn't miss the malice in their eyes.

"Hannah, did you ever get mad at them?" Alex asked, sliding the tablet away. His gaze sharpened, studying me.

My voice came out raw. "Yeah."

"But not just mad. Did you ever, even just for a second, wish something bad would happen to them? Or that this whole messed-up trip would just end, maybe even gruesomely?"

His words cut straight through me, ripping open feelings I'd been trying hard to bury.

I jerked my head up, meeting his calm, piercing stare.

"Yes, I hated the way they treated me. But I never hurt them! Don't put this on me just because you can't find the real killer!"

Alex let out a low, cold laugh. "But I have proof you're not innocent."

He pulled out a photo, printed from Ken's camera. It was from the picnic by Blackmoor Lake.

I was off to the side, sitting on a rock, hugging my knees inside a bulky jacket. I wasn't smiling, my eyes drifting somewhere else.

Meanwhile, the others were crowded on the picnic blanket, all tight and happy together. Damon was raising a bottle, Ken was throwing up a peace sign, and Charlie and Russ were fighting over a cookie, while Mike dozed under a blanket.

They were the center of the frame—close, alive, having fun.

And me? I looked like some stranger who just happened to wander into the shot.

"You claimed you knocked out early, around 10 PM. But this picture was taken after 11 PM. Which means you were right there with them. You weren't asleep at all.

"You've been lying this whole time. You killed them!"