CHAPTER 16
“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to kill and be killed in return.”
—Not Moulin Rouge!
I jerk forward, hand outstretched beneath the glass, and it hits the surface of my skin.
Soundlessly.
My fingers lock, my arm drops just in front of Laurie’s face, and then I freeze.
The rim digs into the crease of my thumb and the nail of my pinkie, and I squeeze, gripping my other fingers into the perimeter of the glass until my hand shakes.
Drawing my arm back into my chest, I place the glass lightly in my lap, and it takes all my self-control to keep from sighing in relief when Laurie extracts her nails from my hand.
That was too close.
When I meet Laurie’s eye and see the look of shocked, apologetic gratitude, I know she thinks so, too.
Flexing the feeling back into my hand, I glance over my shoulder just in time to see the killer hook the rope back into place across the doorframe.
Whatever he was doing in the room, he’s done for now, and he takes a step back—a step away from us—before turning on his heel and continuing down the corridor.
A hot, wet trail drips down my cheek, and my first instinct is that I’ve cut myself again.
When another follows on the other side of my face, I realize the tears I’ve been holding back since he unclipped the barricade have finally fallen.
That was way too close.
We don’t move. Not when his steps eventually turn inaudible.
Not when the pins and needles start up in my legs.
Not when Jennifer lifts her head, spots the martini glass in my lap, and confusion crosses her pale face.
And not when my breathing comes back to normal, my shoulders settling against the bar.
I can feel Laurie’s eyes on the side of my face, awaiting further instruction, but I keep waiting.
Rule two: always hide for longer than you think you should.
I broke one rule by splitting away from the group and this is where it got us.
I fucked around, and holy shit, did I find out.
So I wait to make sure he doesn’t circle back, that he’s not idling just outside the entry, or any of the other endless killer tricks I’ve watched that would leave us dead for moving out of our hiding place too early.
When there hasn’t been even a hint of movement or sound after what might be ten minutes, I place the martini glass on the ground and slowly rise from behind the bar.
I instantly wish I hadn’t, though, because when I do, I spy an addition to the champagne flutes and ice bucket that are carefully displayed in the middle of the chaises.
A bloom of color. I know it wasn’t there before, and the sight makes me feel sick.
More so than when Curtis was bleeding out in front of me, or when we came upon those bodies discarded in the middle of the hallway.
Because there in the previously empty silver ice bucket is a single crimson rose.
It’s only after we’ve checked that the hallway is clear that I move toward the rose.
There’s a card, too, propped in front of the bucket, and I hesitate before picking it up.
It’s rigid, weighty, a perfect pure white, and I can’t stop my hands from shaking as I slip a finger into the fold and prepare to open it.
This isn’t like the rose petals downstairs. This feels more like a gift. A gesture.
He wanted us to find this. He knew someone was hiding in this room, he knew we were in here, and he didn’t look for us. He’s killed so many people tonight, but when he had us cornered he just… left. There has to be a reason, and I feel like we’ll find it inside this card.
“That wasn’t here before.” Laurie’s voice is steady as she situates herself near the doorframe to keep watch. Her eyes are locked on the card in my hand.
No, it was not. And the appearance of a rose is completely uninspired.
This whole night is uninspired. Even the mask is uninspired.
I’m sure there’s a slasher flick where the killer wears a mask like his.
I can’t remember it right now, but I’m certain it’s out there.
That’s why I know for sure that I was right in my predictions for the night.
He’s following the formula.
“Should we open it?” Jennifer whispers, stepping up next to me and leaning over the table.
She reaches for the flower, sliding it out of the bucket, and looking at it like she’s never seen a rose before.
Pinching a petal between her fingers, she pulls it away from the bud. It’s real. He’s spared no expense.
It’s not like the killer is going to jump out of a greeting card, but I have to psych myself up to open it as if he was.
With a stunted exhale I flick my thumb up, and I’m immediately struck by the familiarity of the single line that’s etched in black ink.
I hear a choking noise at my shoulder, and when I glance away from the card, Jennifer is staring at it with terrified incredulity.
“Is that—” She gasps. “Is that a… Taylor Swift lyric?”
Can’t you see? You belong to me.
Disregarding the misquote, I’m struck by the handwriting. I feel like I’ve seen those sharp letters before, caged within the red barrier of a flimsy name tag. We all agreed whoever’s been doing this must be one of the daters, but this confirms it for me.
The killer is one of us.
Jennifer stares at me with wide eyes, the petal dropping from her fingers when she says, “Why would he leave song lyrics and a rose?”
It’s the same question playing on my mind, and when I look down at the card again, rereading the lyric that is meant to be a declaration of romantic compatibility, different film scenes start playing through my head.
Ones with less blood and more makeover montages.
Ones with soft, gentle lighting rather than a reliance on underexposure.
Marion did say we could find our “perfect match” tonight. So what if someone did?
What if somebody was so enamored with one of their dates that they’re doing everything in their power to get rid of the rest of us?
Shit. This whole time I’ve thought that the murders were a deviation from the main event, but what if they’re just part of it?
“Those rose petals downstairs, and now this…” Laurie’s contemplative voice pulls me out of my own musings, and while I planned on keeping my theory to myself, I’m flanked by two smart women. Jennifer’s sharp gasp is indication enough that she’s come to the same conclusion.
Her eyes dart between the card in my hand and the rose gripped in hers. “He’s leaving them on purpose.”
Speaking the theory into existence kicks me into gear, and I slide the card into my bra for safekeeping.
If we meet back with the others—when we meet back with the others—we can see if anyone recognizes the handwriting.
But first, we need to find some more weapons to replace the ones we lost. I stride back over to the bar and start searching among the tools for swizzling and muddling to find something more akin to slitting or stabbing.
“My god,” Laurie says, slumping against the doorframe where she still keeps watch. “Is he… Is this whole thing for someone?”
She turns to me, and whatever look she sees on my face when I glance up from trawling the bar makes her shoulders drop farther.
“Jamie?”
“I think so. When Wes and I were following that trail downstairs, we thought the rose petals might be a calling card, but this is different. I think…”
I think a lot of things.
I think the broken bottles haven’t worked for us so far, not when we’re up against the never-ending supply of knives this guy seems to have.
There’s a reason all the Big Bads prefer metal blades, and it’s not just for the theatrics.
Freddy’s were crafted onto his hand, Michael and Jason always sourced something that had a great ergonomic grip.
Even Leatherface utilized weapons that could be found at your local hardware store.
They all chose their weapons based on ease of use, and I don’t think our guy is any different.
“Jamie, what do you think?” Laurie asks from the doorway, her gaze locked on the hall beyond it.
I couldn’t be prouder of her for developing a keener sense of her surroundings in the last couple of hours.
At home she trips over our robo-vacuum even though we’ve had it for two years.
“I think,” I say as I continue rummaging around the bar, “the killer met someone at one of the dates tonight and this is his way of showing he’s interested.
” I spot a corkscrew and place it on the bar top.
When I find two more stacked near some slightly dusty wineglasses, I put them next to it.
“I think the killing is just a means to an end,” I say as I try to find a paring knife or any kind of blade that could do even a fraction of the damage the killer has managed so far tonight, but it’s no use.
It would be bad business practice to leave out anything that could be used as a weapon.
Still, I slide the spiral of one of the corkscrews between my index and middle finger, gripping the handle in my hands as I circle back around the bar.
The tip is dull, but it’s better than nothing.
“We need to get out of here. If he comes back, we’ll be cornered,” Laurie says once I’ve handed her one of the other corkscrews and passed the spare to Jennifer. “Did you see which way he went?”