CHAPTER 19
“You have butchered me, body and soul.”
—Not Pride and Prejudice
I’d consider myself well versed in what makes a romantic gesture.
Noah Calhoun restoring an entire house for Allie Hamilton in The Notebook in the hopes it would bring her back to him after years and parental prejudice separated them?
Swoon.
Mia Thermopolis, princess of Genovia, apologizing to Michael Moscovitz with an M&M’s-studded pizza that leads to their first foot-popping kiss among a garden of fairy lights in The Princess Diaries?
Iconic.
But fashioning a giant heart out of intestines with the entrails forming your prospective lover’s name?
Yeah, that’s downright psychotic.
“How did none of you see that when you came up from the basement?” Jennifer asks, shock audible in the shaking of her voice.
“There’s a wall that runs along the dance floor,” Billie replies. “You can’t see anything when you’re on the stairs.”
“Jamie—” Wes says.
“Oh my god… he could’ve been there when we came up,” Dani cries.
“Did anyone see anything from up here?” Wes asks, but then his voice drops to a low murmur—one meant just for me—as he says, “Jamie—”
“It’s not like someone just sat by and watched him do that,” Billie says irritably. “It’s out of the sight line when you’re not standing at the railing.”
“Well, it’s in our fucking sight line now!” Laurie’s agitated voice sounds echoey so she must still be propped over the ice bucket.
“Jamie!”
“Just give her a minute, Dani.” Jennifer’s voice is quiet, tight, trying to remain calm, while I’m standing here with my eyes closed, squeezing them tight like I might be able to wring out the image of the heart from under my eyelids.
It doesn’t work. There’s another retching sound and I’m reminded of the times in the past where Laurie and I have swapped some of our red flag stories.
The ick some guys give off really can make you sick to your stomach.
“She can have all the time she wants, ’cause I’m out of here.”
“Billie—”
“No, I’m not sticking around and getting slaughtered because of her. I’ll take my chances.”
My eyes are still closed as I hear her footsteps. Hard, determined footfalls aimed at putting as much distance between us—between her and me—as she can, because it’s me.
He’s doing it all because of me.
This is not exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted a man to go the extra mile for me.
I meant unprompted good morning messages, noticing when I’ve done something different with my hair, buying tampons every now and then.
Not slowly but surely knocking off complete strangers in creative and gruesome ways.
“Billie!” Jennifer calls out, but even with my eyes closed I know she doesn’t follow her.
Everyone who has left our group alone hasn’t come back.
Everyone except me, and that’s when I should’ve known the role Heart Eyes had cast me in.
My name spelled out on the floor is as good as top billing on the film poster.
I know now what he’s been trying to say this whole time.
You’re the One.
“Jamie?”
Wes’s voice is soft, close, and when I exhale a shaky breath, start nodding, willing myself to open my eyes, a hand slides under my jaw.
Even though the contact is light it makes me flinch.
I open my eyes and he’s right in front of me, his thumb on my cheekbone, his fingers on my jaw as he pulls my head up to meet his gaze.
It’s concerned, serious, and I don’t want him looking at me like that.
I don’t want him looking at me like I’m primed to be another statistic.
I want the soft, warm, inviting glaze over his eyes I saw before.
Not this. And I certainly don’t want him to say, “It’s going to be oka—”
“It’s not,” I croak. “I had a feeling that—fuck—I had a feeling it was one of us. After he left the rose, I thought—This is bad, Wes, it’s really, really bad.”
Because everything I predicted is coming true.
Coming face-to-face with the killer? Check.
Escalation? Check.
The group fracturing again? Check.
Not to mention who we’ve lost. Two more people—Colette and the guy in the hallway—are gone.
“We’re going to find a way out.”
Wes’s voice is assured, soothing, but already I’m starting to see the repercussions of this plot twist. The consequences of being the object of Heart Eyes’s desire. All of them—Laurie, Wes, Dani, Jennifer. They’re all in so much more danger now.
“You should—”
“No.” Laurie doesn’t even let me finish, and I watch as she extracts her head from the bucket to shoot a watery glare at me.
“Whatever you’re about to suggest. Fuck. No.”
“Billie’s right.”
“She hasn’t been right all night!”
Laurie spits into the bucket one more time and pushes off the table. Her palms instinctively drop to smooth out the front of her jumpsuit, and I can see the gleam of sweat they leave behind. “That’s not going to change now.”
While I appreciate the sentiment, the fact remains. He’s chosen me. Out of every other person here tonight, I’m the one he wants, and that makes the rest of them obstacles between us.
For the first time ever, I disagree with Kate Winslet. I do not want to be the Leading Lady of my own life if this is what my life has led to.
Not only that, but I don’t think I’m even capable of being a Leading Lady or a Final Girl anyway.
Not just because Heart Eyes has got it wrong and I’m too old to be a Final Girl and too young to be a Leading Lady.
And while I’ve studied them, wanted to be like them, used the fictional life lessons and motivational messages to pump me up before anything that induces social anxiety, I’ve never put myself in either category.
“It’s dangerous to be around me,” I say, trying to keep my voice even as I reach up and wrap my fingers around Wes’s wrist. Last time it was to pull him closer, and now I’m pulling his palm from my cheek.
Before I drop his hand he manages to twist in my grip until he grabs mine and squeezes.
Then he doesn’t let go. Even though I mean the words, I can’t bring myself to let go, either.
“It’s deadly not to be around you,” Laurie says, moving forward and grasping my free hand. She squeezes it almost painfully.
“Everyone who has died… well, it wasn’t when they were close to you, was it? I hate to say it, baby girl, but you’re our collateral.”
It’s brutal and factual and so Laurie but—“It’s not going to stay like that,” I say. “If anything, it’s a fluke. In a slasher, when the—”
“Nothing has changed, Jamie,” Wes says, but judging by the tight expression on his face… Everything has changed. “We’re just… better informed.”
That’s one way of looking at it.
“Jamie?” Jennifer says, and when I look across, she and Dani have inched closer.
They’re looking at me differently now. Wary.
Afraid. As if I’m as good as the killer.
They walked into this building expecting a mediocre date at best, some awkward silences at worst, and now Dani’s blue dress is covered in bloodstains and Jennifer’s blowout has gone flat from too much time pressing herself up against walls. God, none of us were prepared for this.
“I understand if you agree with Billie—”
“I don’t,” she says, cutting me off. She’s far more composed than I’ve seen her since we found her hidden in the alcove. Less anxious. And I can’t help but think that kind of character growth is to be expected this far in. “I think we’re safer together. Like you said.”
“Me, too,” Dani says, but she’s still wringing her hands so hard I can see the skin turning red.
“But now that we know he’s doing this for you—”
“Which is not your fault,” Laurie interjects.
“Definitely not your fault,” Jennifer agrees, gritting her teeth almost comically. “Men are crazy…”
We sit in the silence of the statement a little longer than is comfortable, until Jennifer realizes Wes is still very much a part of our group and the conversation. She winces.
“No offense.”
“None taken,” he replies, and the low, accepting tone of his voice draws the smallest of smiles to my lips. When he spots it, it doesn’t take long for him to match it.
With Wes’s eyes on me, my back to the dance floor, and the group clustered in an intimate huddle, it’s easier to swallow the panic. It’s easier to push aside the implications of my name inside that heart and focus on how to use this new knowledge to our advantage.
“Was there anyone who was just…” Jennifer struggles for the right word until her eyes drop to mine knowingly. “You know. On any of your dates?”
What she means is if I got the pull with one of the guys tonight.
Not the giddy, unbridled kind that makes everything rose colored, where all you have is possibilities and romanticized ideals.
The kind that conjures up images of prolonged eye contact and slow smiles and light, tentative touches.
I thought I was lucky enough to have two of those tonight.
Jennifer means the kind of feeling you get from a date that makes you keep an eye on your drink. The kind that makes you censor the personal information you include in small talk, so you don’t end up “accidentally” running into the creep in a less-controlled environment.
“I didn’t pick up any serial killer vibes,” I say.
“But it’s not like I can remember everyone I had a date with tonight, either.
” There’s only so much space in my brain after all, and the majority of it is taken up by film quotes and genre tropes.
Wes drops my hand, his palm digging into his back pocket to draw out two postcard-sized sheets of stiff paper.
When he turns them over, I recognize them even though there are red smudges marring the yes/no columns.
The match cards.
“I grabbed these when I was downstairs,” he says, handing them over. “I thought it might come in handy with figuring out who is still unaccounted for, but maybe it’ll help jog your memory.”