CHAPTER 12 #2
“It’s dangerous to assume it’s Stu or to start making accusations based on fear,” Wes says. He tries to soften the gravity of his statement by directing a grim smile at her when he adds, “That’s how innocent people get hurt. We just need to focus on staying alive and getting the hell out of here.”
Jennifer sighs, nodding in acceptance before she gestures at me to continue.
“Splitting up leaves you vulnerable,” I explain.
“You don’t have anyone to help you if you get hurt, not to mention anyone to watch your back.
Which is its own rule. Watching your back, that is.
You need to always be aware of what’s happening behind you because the killer can sneak up on their victim.
The next one is not to run up the stairs, because—”
“Are you fucking crazy?” Billie spits, that look of disgust etched into every facet of her face as I pause and arch a brow in her direction.
Wes and John try to defuse the situation with a matching, surprised “Hey!” but we both ignore it. Billie’s had a problem with me—with everyone—since we pulled the curtain back on her. But if I didn’t care about what Curtis or Stu thought about me, I’m certainly not going to back down now.
“This isn’t a movie, Jamie. Are you even taking this seriously?”
She glares at me from across the counter, and I stare squarely back at her, unable to stop the scoff that falls out of my mouth. “Am I taking this seriously? Who’s the one who said, ‘The night is still young,’ after they found out five people died?”
She doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t show a hint of remorse, just doubles down and leans into the counter. Her dark lips curl up in reproach as she hisses, “I just want to get through this night without adding myself to that number if possible.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, too.”
“By going on about some ridiculous ‘rules’ that only make sense in shitty films?”
I’m about to point out that they aren’t shitty.
They’re some of the most successful and influential films in the industry that set the precedent for slasher films—and for the night we’re currently trying to live through.
I’m also tempted to say she’s currently ticking every box for the “annoying skeptic,” and those characters never last very long in situations like ours.
Laurie intervenes. “Have you been paying attention at all this whole fucking time?” Her hand pauses over her rough sketch of the mezzanine, and she shoots Billie a look I’ve only seen her direct to the one Hallmark movie I ever dared her to watch.
“Everything Jamie has said and done has been to keep us alive and safe. You should count yourself lucky she knows what to do, because the alternative is waiting for you down at the end of that corridor.”
Her voice is venom, and it brings the conversation to an abrupt end.
After a moment of dead air, Billie scoffs and says, “I don’t feel very lucky right now.” She strides over to the booth closest to the entrance of the dance floor and flops onto the velvet seat, shooting daggers in my direction. After giving me an apologetic look, Jennifer joins her.
I get it. I’ve got Laurie in my corner and Jennifer, by default, needs to be in Billie’s.
I don’t want to descend into an “us versus them” mentality, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence the ones who stayed in the basement are the ones who still stand at the counter, stone-faced and trying to figure out our next steps.
We witnessed the aftermath of the violence that occurred in the blackout. We know what we’re trying to avoid.
Laurie slides the newly created “map” across the desk to me.
“That’s all I can remember. Does it look right to you?”
I cast my eyes over her rendition of the three levels of the club.
She’s been working diligently on it this whole time, and the scale is all over the place.
There are unfinished corridors, and parts of the building are blank or annotated with question marks.
But she’s managed to get the bones of the club to align with my faint recollection of Cravin’ and the more recent experience of trying to escape the lower levels of Serendipity.
“It looks good, given we haven’t been in here in years. Though—” I take the pen and draw in the bar on the mezzanine that she’s missed, then I look at a section of booths she’s drawn flush against the stairs on this side of the club.
“There’s a wall that runs behind those booths, right?” I ask, tracing a faint line that slices the booths in half. “It makes another corridor that runs the length of the stairs.”
Laurie lets out an affirmative sound and I pass back the pen so she can turn my light mark into a clearly defined line. “I think you’re right. How do you remember that?”
“I found you there once. Your dress ripped and you had your back against the wall so no one could see you were wearing those weird panties with the cat face on the back. We had to leave the club with me shielding your whisker-decked ass with my body.” I hear a soft huff of amusement.
“And to think,” Laurie mutters, “I thought that was the worst night I spent in this club.”