CHAPTER 31
“I can’t believe you’re gonna let a few little murders keep us apart. It is a detail!”
—Not Only You
When starting a fire to escape a masked killer you need three things: a source of heat, some kind of fuel, and a way to contain it so you don’t accidentally go full Carrie and burn down the building and yourselves in the process.
Dying of smoke inhalation or immolation after all we’ve been through tonight would be a true form of cruel irony.
Once we straighten out our clothing and wipe away the smudged lipstick, we find a lighter, along with a pretty impressive stash of weed, in an unlocked metal box slid to the back of one of the top shelves.
It was half hidden behind an empty mop bucket, and after Wes pulls it down, he pockets the lighter and leaves the pot.
It’s a sound choice. We’ve broken enough rules tonight, some more willingly than others, but I think trying to escape while being high as shit is where I must draw the line.
The effect of the espresso martinis from earlier in the evening has fully worn off and sobriety increases our chances of survival (thank you, rule nine).
I pass Wes a sleeve of paper towels to act as kindling and he shoves them into the bucket before getting to work on fastening the knife back to his wrist.
“Do you see anything that could be used as a weapon?”
“Your hands are getting pretty full,” I say as I toss the bottle of hand sanitizer into the bucket.
“For you, Jamie. Just in case…”
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence, and I don’t want him to.
It was nice not having to think about living up to the expectations of the Final Girl for a while.
It was nice living in a rom-com instead of a slasher, but we need to go back to the real world even though our real world is unbelievable.
Once we walk out that door our roles change again, and I’ve been without a weapon for too long. My luck is bound to run out.
“Right.” I spot the broom the same time he does, and before I ask he’s slipping the knife off again. “Do you think you can make me another shaft?”
That draws a chuckle from Wes as he picks up the broom and studies it. The mottled veneer of the wood hints to water damage and he tries breaking it with just his hands. There’s a promising crack but no clean break, so he moves across to the sink again, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Jamie, now more than ever is not a time to be using that word.”
There’s a short, satisfying snap and he turns back holding a rod with an intimidatingly sharp point. I know it’s not going to be enough to go up against Heart Eyes, but it’s enough to keep him at bay for a while if—when we come face-to-face.
“Sorry,” I say as I reach for the new weapon. “But you were the one who stopped me from—”
His free arm slips around my waist and pulls me into his chest before I can get too detailed about what I would’ve done had he let me undo his belt buckle.
“From what?” Wes murmurs, and I make sure I hold his stare, take a second to appreciate the bittersweet-chocolate shade and the way it threatens to make me melt.
Not for the first time in these cramped quarters do I forget why we’re even in here at all.
The rom-com effect is hard to resist. Or maybe it’s the post-orgasm effect.
“From making that”—I jut my head toward the wall he had me up against—“a little more mutual.”
“Like I said.” He ducks his head and I’m already tilting my chin up to him without thinking. It’s instinct at this point. “Just wait till I get you out of here. It’s not going to be quick, or quiet, and it’s going to be very mutual.”
His lips fall onto mine, the most innocent of pecks to counteract the heady effect of his statement, and then I’m wrapping my fingers around his shaft… the broken one in his hand.
“Thank you.” I slide the stake out of his grip and survey his handiwork. “This is the nicest thing a man’s ever made me.”
And that’s true. Women don’t need flashy presents like intestine hearts and killing sprees; we just want somebody to make the effort. Cleaning a bleeding gash, fashioning a weapon out of a household item. It’s simpler. More personal.
Wes lets go of my waist and works at fastening the knife onto his wrist again, shrugging as he says, “I just want to spoil you, Jamie.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. At his sense of humor. The fact it’s still intact. We really are the same kind of crazy. Maybe that’s why we’ve made it this far.
When his knife is firmly gripped in his fist and the flashlight is in his other hand, I pick up the fire-starting bucket, tighten my hold around the rod, and turn to the locked door. A quick glance at him and I know we’re thinking the same thing.
Once we step out into the hallway, we’re back in the fray, back in the scene. Out of the frying pan, some might say, but this time the fire could save us.
When we navigate our way out of the janitor’s closet, we turn left and head for the back of the building instead of going right in the direction of the dance floor.
This path leads to a corridor that runs the same length as the one at the front of the club.
Each of the five dark and scary hallways end here, and it’s the farthest we’ve ventured into the club all night.
Just like the other floors, there aren’t any clearly distinguishable exits, no glowing emergency signs, but before I can get riled up about the numerous code violations this building has, I get distracted by the blood.
So. Much. Blood.
We haven’t been down this hallway before and it’s everywhere.
On the walls, on the floor, even on the foggy surfaces of the gas lamps, the red blemishes flickering from the dim light source behind the glass.
Some of the blood drags across the walls in intermittent patterns of five lines—five fingers—almost indistinguishable from the wallpaper except for the way it glistens in contrast to the matte finish of the wall.
It’s not even shocking anymore, and I hope it’s not a bad sign about my mental state when I muse it isn’t any worse than what we’ve already witnessed tonight.
Still, it’s bad enough.
When the marks start to get bigger, heavier, wetter, the hallway becomes darker.
The corridor that leads back to the VIP room where we’re supposed to meet Stu, Jennifer, and Dani is lit by the glow of two sconce lights, but past that there’s only heavy blackness.
A click sounds near my hip and then Wes lifts the flashlight, pointing it ahead of us.
The light isn’t bright enough to fully illuminate the hallway, but from what I can see it’s carnage.
Pure carnage.
Whatever happened down here was violent. Brutal. Deadly.
The cold beam of light picks up more bloodstains and a minefield of broken glass and destroyed furniture.
That’s why, with a shared look, Wes and I forego walking farther into the darkness.
We turn down the corridor that leads back to where we’ll meet the others, and Stu comes into view immediately, already standing in front of the doorframe.
Alone.
His knife is crossed over his chest, up near his shoulder like he’s ready to bring it down at any moment.
He’s bouncing on his toes, on edge, and when we’re a few feet away Wes reaches out to pull me closer to his side.
Stu jerks his head across to us, and that’s when I spot the blood spray on his face.
It makes his beard glisten like he’s sprayed it with glitter.
He holds his ground, as we do, but his voice still cuts across the distance between us like an accusation.
“Dani’s dead.”
Shit.
Wes mutters a stronger curse word as Stu turns and points his knife at us, his voice heavy with fury and frustration and… God, he’s terrified.
“We went to look for the control panel. There were only two offices, or rooms, or whatever down that corridor.”
His shoulders shake from the anger and adrenaline of someone who doesn’t know how to process something real and devastating that makes you consider your own vulnerability.
He’s acting like we told him to go there, like he didn’t send Wes and me away because he thought we were the biggest liabilities in the group.
I think back to when I was first talking to Curtis and recognized the kind of fuel that’s powering Stu right now.
The kind that explodes. The kind that hurts people on the periphery.
I keep my voice steady as I try to remind him, “You were the one who—”
“This whole place is fucked.” His voice is getting louder, but I can’t tell if we should be worried or not.
I don’t know if the killer is within earshot or if he’s standing right in front of us.
“One room wouldn’t open. The handle turned but the door wouldn’t budge.
Then the other room wouldn’t lock, so I told the girls to keep watch, but Jennifer said we should all go in together. ”
I knew she was smart. Is. Is smart.
“And?” Wes asks. He stands on the diagonal, turns his head back and forth between Stu and the space behind us, making sure we’re covered on all angles.
When I glance down, his grip on the flashlight has changed; it’s not overhand anymore.
It’s not the kind of grip you’d use to direct the light.
It’s the kind of grip you’d use if you wanted to bludgeon someone who has killed half of your most recent acquaintances.
“And I didn’t want to have an argument with her,” Stu snaps, and I can’t stop myself from lifting the rod from my thigh. Just in case he decides to use that knife he’s waving wildly in the air. “We all went in, looked around for-fucking-ever. There was nothing. You were wrong.”
“Or you were in the wrong room,” I say, but Stu is on a roll.
“It was a stupid fucking plan. So we went back to trying to find an exit.”
That wasn’t what we agreed on. They were supposed to come back here, but I’m not going to mention it when Stu is just getting more and more irate.
“We walked past a room, and he jumped out and fucking—two knives right in her neck. Me and Jennifer, we just ran.”
And that’s why Wes and I don’t drop our weapons. Stu left with two of the group and came back with none. This isn’t the first time, either. It’s becoming a pattern. A lethal one.
“So where is she?” I ask, maintaining that same measured tone. Calm and controlled, even though both of those words feel unnatural at this point. Like I’ve never felt them before. It does nothing, though. Stu’s glare could cut through skin.
“Do you have a disorder? I just told you, Dani is—”
“Not Dani.” And I can tell if Stu wasn’t so riled up Wes would add a “dumbass” for good measure before saying, “Jennifer.”
Stu looks around like he’s only just realized she isn’t there, and if Laurie still had some kind of thing for him, this is the moment where the other shoe would have dropped. This would’ve been the final red flag. The major ick.
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, redirecting the knife away from us and behind him.
“We ran in opposite directions. I guess I was faster. I hid in another room, I waited and then I…” He stops, looks between the knife Wes holds just above his hip and the stake I’m overtly holding out from my chest. “You don’t believe me? ”
“No,” Wes and I say in unison, and Stu looks genuinely shocked at the answer.
“What the hell? Why not?”
“I don’t know, Stu, maybe it’s the fact people keep going missing around you.”
It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and as expected, he doesn’t like the inference.
He takes a step forward until he’s right in front of the doorframe of the VIP room.
Which is where we need to go to set the detector off.
Where we were going to put our plan in place and finally get out of here. And now he’s blocking it.
“That’s bullshit,” he snarls, stabbing the knife in the space between us.
It does a lot for emphasizing his point, but not so much for convincing anyone he isn’t a psycho.
“You know I’m not the killer. And you wanna know why?
Because you’re the reason this is all happening, Jamie, and I’m at the bottom of the fucking list of people who would do shit for you. ”
He’s not wrong. We’ve been snapping at each other all night, but when the others were around there was a little bit of restraint.
Now that it’s just him and his two least favorite people, though, he’s like a dog gone rabid.
Wes goes to move forward, but I grab his sleeve and pull him back because Stu is too far gone.
I can see too much of the whites of his eyes, and there’s not a single shred of rationality going through that bearded head right now.
“You need to calm down.” Wes’s tone is low, a warning, but it doesn’t stop Stu’s head from jerking toward him, his stare sharp and cold.
“Fuck you,” he spits. “If anything, you’re the one who’s doing this shit. And if you aren’t? Then your hours are fucking numbered, buddy, because once he finds out about you two, you’re going to be next. So you need to figure out whether her know-it-all fucking snatch is worth dying for.”
I flinch. Wes does, too. The silence that follows Stu’s statement is deafening, because even among the rage, he’s hit on something that we know is true. Or at least I know it’s true.
It never ends well for the love interest.
Stu’s stare drops to where I’m gripping Wes’s sleeve before he lets out a cold scoff, his arms opening wide, the boning knife still held firmly in his hand. “But, no, go ahead. If you guys think it’s me, then maybe I should jus—”
We don’t get to find out what Stu plans to do because before he can enlighten us, there’s movement just inside the doorframe. The darkness is pierced by a glint of silver, and then an ax swings down into his skull.