Chapter One Evie
Chapter One
Evie
Six months later, end of April
“Where the hell did my sister go?” I say under my breath, looking around.
Her movie’s over. Well, technically our movie since I was there, too, that Halloween. Something I truly wish I could forget. Jesus, leave it to Goldie to be all inspired by art imitating life and make the memory live on in film forever.
I wonder if Stephen King does this shit to his family members? Gives Pet Sematary a whole new spin.
Either way, the credits are rolling in the background as everyone stands and talks, but she’s disappeared.
Honestly, it’s probably because she foresaw what was coming my way. My brow lifts as I glance at said issue—my mother with Chase.
For the last ten minutes, I’ve been unsuccessfully attempting to ignore my mother because she’s droning on and on about what a hero Chase is to Chase, who’s enjoying the attention like a pig in shit.
Goldie’s going to get it.
The fact that we were sat near him is an act of treason and war alone, so disappearing while I’m forced to listen to this garbage is unforgivable.
I crane my neck, looking over the small crowd for my hateful sister as my mother really lays it on thick.
“Chase, it’s because of you that our babies are safe and sound. Seriously. You’re a real-life Prince Charming for our Evie. We can never thank you enough.”
Somehow I remember that night so differently. Like how I had to help him walk back to the camp because he had a witty-bitty boo-boo.
I roll my eyes. “Oh my god, Mother. Stop inflating his ego. You know the movie is an overly dramatic rendition of what happened. Between everyone, he actually tapped out first. Noah was the hero.”
A deep and offended chuckle rises from beside me. Here we go.
“Uhhh, excuse you, Princess Diaries.” Did he just call me an ugly duckling? “I was stabbed inches away from my femoral artery.” He scoffs twice, then pauses for dramatic effect, his eyes burning a hole into my profile. “And let’s not forget I was also hit by a car—”
He is never going to forget that accident, or let us either.
“—I’m still answering questions about my failed marriage at my checkups.”
I scoff. “I promise to never pretend to be your wife just to help you again. I’ll only do it if they let me pull the plug.”
“Evie,” my mother huffs laughingly.
But Chase smirks. “This is how you treat your Prince Charming? Last time I checked, all you did was bite an ear to protect us. So ease up, Mike Tyson. Stow your haterade and let mommy love me.”
My head whips to his, our eyes connecting as I pull my fist back like I’m going to punch him before lowering it.
He winks as my mother gasps and hugs her, engulfing her with his size and turning up the boyish charm.
“Protégeme, Camilla.”
He’s such a kiss-ass saying it in Spanish. Disgusting. “Protect me? Really?”
Way to flex that Duolingo era, nerd. It works, though, because she laughs, wrapping her arms around him, and pats his face.
One day, I’m going to punch him directly in the throat. It’ll be glorious.
“I thought you two called a trauma truce?” my mom teases, setting him free again.
He is trauma.
“That was a year and a half ago. It’s expired.” I narrow my eyes at him.
His forehead wrinkles, a wry look on his face. I hate it.
“Was it that long since we enjoyed a truce?” Something about the way he said that makes me narrow them even more. “Hmm . . . how long ago was the wedding?”
Shit. My teeth grit with the disdain of shut your dirty damn mouth as I glare at him, noticing people begin to file out of the seat aisles.
But my mother doesn’t even notice my reaction as she counts on her fingers, then blurts out, “Six months. He’s right. You two seemed to have loads of fun at the wedding, so play nice now.”
I’m going to be sick, metaphorically . . . maybe literally.
She smiles at both of us. “I swear if you’d just stop hating each other, you’d see you’re a perfect match.”
I blanch. “Eww. Mom. Inappropriate. If I want a lifetime of regret, I’ll join a reality dating show like any other respectable member of my generation.”
My head shifts around again, hoping to catch a glimpse of Goldie, but all I see is Noah speaking to some of his old friends.
As I look back, Chase cocks his head. “Which island are we going to?”
“Shut it, STD.”
“Evie,” my mother chastises, this time swatting my arm.
But he smirks. Still hate it.
Regardless, it still holds my attention. And for too long.
It’s because he mentioned the wedding. That damn wedding.
His tongue darts out before he draws his bottom lip between his teeth then lets it glide out slowly.
I can’t help but watch, because I’ve been suddenly transported outside to a cobblestone street.
Sitting at a supremely long table on a closed-off road in Beacon Hill.
Where I’m irresponsibly sipping my fifth extra-dirty martini and watching him lick a piece of lime off that same bottom lip.
All from across pristine table linens while music wafts in the air for all Boston to hear. I’m right back at Goldie and Noah’s wedding, where the best man and the maid of honor became the oldest wedding cliché known to man.
Shit.
I clear my throat, blinking a few times as he chuckles and our eyes become fixed. It’s momentary, but enough time for me to see two things: I’ve been caught, and he’s got stubble on his face.
Gross.
My lips part to say something snarky, but he beats me to the punch.
“You know, Camilla, in order for us to fall in love, your daughter would have to text me back. I’ve been waiting since . . . oh yeah, the wedding.”
My eyes pop open. Fucker.
“What?” my mom gasps too excitedly. “Evie . . .”
Oh my god. He’s such a son of a bitch.
My mom’s staring at me for an explanation, but all I have to offer is a panicked chuckle that tries to escape before I hide it and turn away quickly.
“Speaking of texts,” I begin, hurrying out of the aisle while hitching a finger over my shoulder as I look back. “Where is my favorite contact? Probably the ladies’. I’m gonna go congratulate her . . . Seriously, what kind of sister would I be?”
I don’t even chance another peek over my shoulder to see their expressions because I already know my mother has begun plotting my future wedding to Boston’s most prominent jackass, and Chase is delighting in making it awkward.
He’s just so . . . ugh . . . like the worst . . .
This is why I begged my sister to kill him off in the movie, but she said it was too mean. I guess I see her point since we literally all survived by the skin of our teeth. Still, I stand by it. One version of me should be able to live out the dream of being rid of him.
Never will I ever save his life again.
I’m lost in about ten different thoughts between how I’m going to either explain the texting or alternatively hide his body when I push out of the theater into the hallway.
Like, just stop bringing up the wedding. God, I can’t believe I . . .
A deep exhale leaves me as I glare at the ground, truly irritated he outed me in front of my mother and not wanting to finish that thought.
This is why nobody likes you . . . except Noah and Goldie and my mom . . . whatever.
I look up suddenly, wondering how crazy I appear to anyone watching, but my steps slow to a stop as I glance around.
The hallway’s empty and much darker than I remember from when we first came in. But it was close enough to sunset to be dark. It’s just this old theater was a lot less spooky in the daylight.
I look up and down past the vintage garnet velvet walls banked in old, out-of-date movie posters framed in tarnished gold.
A shiver hits me. I swear there were people here earlier.
The swallow in my throat feels thick because I’m surrounded by the kind of silence that makes your heart beat a little bit faster and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.
At least, it does ever since . . . Un-uh, don’t even think his name.
My brows draw together. “Where’d everyone go?”
I pull the sleeves of my crewneck over my hands, shaking off my unease with a deep inhale as I start back toward the lobby because that’s where I remember seeing the bathrooms.
But with each step, I can’t help the growing anxiety. I hate moments like this, ones where I feel afraid. Like someone’s watching me, just waiting to get me alone.
I swallow, crossing one arm over my chest to hold my other, now walking a bit faster as I gnaw at my bottom lip.
You’re fine. Stop. I let out a held breath. But a loud slam makes my shoulders jump and my head whip around. I’m barely blinking, frozen in place, my lips parted by small, quiet breaths as I stare into the darkness.
My chest begins rising quicker as I search the blackness beyond the theater I just left.
“Hello?” I call out with much less of a spine than I’d like.
But only silence bounces back. It makes my skin prickle with goose bumps.
“Is anyone there?” Nobody answers, but shadows are cast in too many places, and that makes me grip my sweatshirt tighter. “This isn’t funny. Who’s there? Come out.”
Maybe it was a door? Or someone leaving?
Rational thought’s trying to make a good impression, but it’s ignored as my eyes shift around the space and I wait. Almost holding my breath, warring between the fear that’s growing and reality.
But that’s the thing about knowing what could happen just might. I can never unsee that reality. There’s no Uno Reverse for living through what we did.
The memory of the glint of a knife forces my eyes to half blink because I can almost hear myself gasp again the way I did when Billy reached up and removed his mask. Staring back at us before his voice was burned into my brain.
“Gotcha.”
I shudder, breaking free from the past.
“Fuck, get a grip,” I say under my breath. “The movie’s over. Billy’s dead, ya weirdo.”
I walk backward a few steps before I turn around, still staring into the darkness.
Because I just need to make sure nobody’s there.
Damn, being almost massacred really fucks you up.
I mean that sarcastically and literally because it’s left me in a headspace where I can’t help but always think what if.
Usually, the thought’s so far back in the recesses of my mind I almost don’t hear it. Except when I do. Then it’s inescapable.
Like now. Because the thoughts are so loud they’re making my pulse thrum fast enough to warrant me running, but I’m standing still.
It’s all . . . What if Billy comes back from the dead looking for revenge . . . He did it once. What if someone wants to become Billy part deux. What if, what if, what fucking if.
I really should’ve gone to therapy for more than a month.
Goldie did it right. She went and stayed, worked out the trauma by writing a movie. Still hate/love that for me. Still, she’s definitely not where I am.
Where I am is a constant state of scared shitless while privately panicking and forcing myself to do shit like become a nepo baby for said movie about my life. All the while telling myself it’s as good as exposure therapy.
It wasn’t. Not by a long shot. And this is why Google doesn’t always help.
You can’t actually diagnose or treat yourself by taking a ten-question quiz you find on Reddit. Because if it did work, I wouldn’t be a formerly bold girl who currently feels like someone’s closing in on her.
The thought makes my feet hustle, all but running me toward the ladies’ room before I push through the door quickly, calling out my sister’s name.
“Goldie.”
But as I do, I’m immediately met with a scream that makes me jump and my soul almost leave my body.
“What the hell?” and “Oh my god. What is wrong with you?” are said at the same time between us as I lift my hands, scowling at her from the entrance of the bathroom, now a little out of breath from shock.
“Sorry,” we both say again at the same time, but I wave her off, trying to play it cool. “I have to pee. What are you doing?”
She tucks her hair behind her ears, clearly trying to do the same thing I am—act unaffected. But that’s the Monroe way—we fake it till we make it back to pretrauma us.
“I was . . .” She falters, then shrugs. “Nothing.”
She averts her eyes as she heads toward the sinks, and I walk inside and go to the first stall.
But we’re too quiet, and that feels awkward, so I say, “Wait for me?” Because I’m too scared to be alone. “Mom’s trying to make a love connection with me and Chase again. I swear she’d force an arranged marriage just because he was stabbed in the leg.”
Goldie chuckles and turns to point at the stall I’m about to open. “That’s out of—”
Before she can finish, the door squeaks open, and I turn my head, my eyes locking onto a red wall staring back at me. Wait . . . that’s not right. The tiles are white . . . but why is it . . .
Blood. It’s everywhere.
Every moment I’ve prayed to forget floods back, seizing all my senses. I’m paralyzed. Frozen. My entire body trembles as I process what I’m seeing.
A human heart, staked to the wall, two words smeared above.
She’s mine.
It’s happening again.
I distinctly hear someone screaming before I realize it’s me. That’s when my knees buckle, and I faint right into Goldie’s arms.