CHAPTER 39 #2
“But I just—” She blows out a breath, and I know what’s coming. I’ve been on the receiving end of a few declarations tonight—I think I can recognize the signs by now. But when I look up and she locks her eyes with mine, I know this might be the first time such a declaration brings me to tears, too.
“I just need you to know. If you don’t already, that you—you and me, we’re like—you’re—”
She can’t say it. I think the hug has really taken it out of her, but just like when we were in that bathroom, I know what she wants to say. I know how she feels because it’s how I feel. I can even put it into words. She’s—
“You’re my favorite,” she blurts out, and I can’t stop the unquestionably ugly sob that tears out of me. The big, fat tears that fall. It’s not like those big rom-com declarations. It is short, simple, straight to the point. But it’s so Laurie, and that’s what makes it perfect.
“Oh my god, that’s such a relief,” I groan, dropping my head into her shoulder again as she pulls me in tighter. “ ’Cause you’re my favorite, too. Like, it really is a tragedy we’re both straight.”
A gust of amused air hits the top of my head and we both fall silent. Still. For the first time tonight, I feel calm. I feel genuinely safe. The kind of safe you feel when you’re with someone you can be your completely authentic self with. The kind of safe you only get with your best friend.
“I love you, baby girl,” I say, still not expecting to hear her say it back.
And when she responds with, “Yeah, I know… And for the record, next time I’m shoving your ass into the vent,” it’s the only answer I need.
“Ms. Prescott?”
I lift my gaze from the folding table that’s been set up in one of the tents.
A medic has been working on my injuries while I wait to be questioned and we’ve both been silent as she’s patched up my feet and removed the bandage from my arm to properly treat and suture the wound.
The police didn’t let my reunion with Laurie last for too long.
After another minute of hugging, where I could feel Laurie starting to get twitchy beneath my arms, a group of officers and medics broke us up.
I was led into the entrance of a tent that now frames an older woman with short gray hair and a stern, thin-lipped expression.
“My name is Captain Strode,” she says as she walks toward the empty chair on the other side of the table, and I recognize her voice.
She’s the one who told the officers to let me go so I could reach Laurie.
And while my ability to trust has been beaten within an inch of its life tonight, the gesture does work in her favor. “I have a few questions for you.”
“Police captains don’t usually conduct interviews with witnesses.”
It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. A fact I know from a Reddit trawl after a break from slashers and rom-coms led to a Brooklyn Nine-Nine marathon. It’s probably not the most unbelievable part of the evening, but she doesn’t get offended by the comment. The side of her mouth just twitches.
“No, we don’t. But this is an exceptional case.”
“Exceptional” really isn’t the word I’d use, but to each their own.
“I need you to help me understand what happened tonight,” she says as an officer strides through the tent and places a stack of folders in front of her.
The corner of a photo slides out and the glimpse of blond hair and rose petals makes me avert my eyes.
At least they’ve already started connecting the dots.
“We will be gathering other witness statements, and we will be pulling as much security footage as possible, but from what your friend Ms. Hamilton has already told us, I think we’ll be able to have better insight based on what you have to say.”
Right. This is the part of the movie that always cuts to the credits.
The audience doesn’t want to sit around for the fallout once they know the Final Girl escaped.
They don’t want to see how the Leading Lady and her man get on with their day after they’ve kissed, and the camera has pulled back to focus on the city skyline.
“I’ll tell you as much as I can,” I say, wincing as the medic finishes off the stitch and the pull of the thread isn’t fully dulled by the anesthetic.
When she replaces my silver blanket over my shoulders and exits the tent, I launch into the key plot points that underscore what happened in the club, leading with the spoilers: I stabbed John.
I did it because he was one of two killers with an astoundingly misplaced motive.
When I point to the folders and say, “John all but admitted that he was responsible for those murders, and earlier in the night Wes and I thought—” Captain Strode’s dark gray eyes flick up from the folders to meet mine.
“Detective Carpenter?”
It’s kind of weird to hear the title, but I’m quick to move on from it when I realize I haven’t seen him yet.
I haven’t seen him since I left him in that room with the other survivors.
I assumed everything went well on his end, but who’s to say he was actually successful?
Who’s to say there wasn’t a third killer waiting in the wings? Some kind of murderous triad… My god.
The panic in my voice grates against my ears when I ask, “Do you know if he—Is he—”
There’s yelling outside. An angry, desperate voice melds with quieter, pacifying ones before a gravelly statement cuts through the racket.
“Where is she?”
The agitated rasp draws my eyes away from the captain and I look outside just in time to see Wes stride into view.
His profile is visible through the opening of the tent, soaked and chest heaving like a Regency-era love interest, like the whole reason he wore that shirt tonight was so it would look as good as it does ripped and wet and stained with blood.
“Jamie!” he bellows, and I don’t think this is the first time he’s yelled it.
Captain Strode winces at the sound, her tone irritated when she yells back, “She’s in here, Carpenter.”
He freezes, turns, and spots the captain, but it isn’t until he looks beyond her and our eyes meet that he walks over, shrugging off the two officers determined to stay by his side.
When he’s inside the tent he takes in the whole scene, dark eyes darting between the two of us before they land back on Captain Strode, and the look of recognition, the immediate change in his posture, the way she knew his name…
I don’t think she’s just a captain, I think she’s his—
“Captain,” he says faintly, attempting to straighten even more. All he achieves is a pained grunt for his efforts.
“Detective,” she says coolly, one eyebrow arched in exasperation.
“While you’re Marlon Brandoing out there”—Ooh, I think I like her—“I’m trying to get to the bottom of the shit show that happened tonight so I can figure out a way to get both of you out of an even bigger shit show.
Maybe even get you back to work sooner so you can return to your favorite pastime of annoying the crap out of me.
” Her other eyebrow joins the raised one as she adds, “So, can you shut the hell up?”
The directive makes his head dip and… yeah, I might love this woman, actually.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I just—”
“What?”
He swallows. His eyes shift away from hers and lock with mine, and I have to fight the urge to shove my chair back and throw myself into his arms. It looks like it’s taking all of his effort not to do the same thing when he swallows again—I swear I can see him counting down from three in his head—and then says evenly, “I had to know she was okay.”
“Why’s that, Carpenter?”
“Because…”
He doesn’t finish, just gestures at me like that’s answer enough, and stares at me with that look.
I think if I could step outside of myself and watch the scene, I’d be able to see a mirror image of it on my own face.
The “you had me at hello,” “I wrote you 365 letters,” “I wanted it to be you” look.
I drop my gaze to take all of him in. This is the first time I’ve seen him away from the club. Away from the red lighting or heavy fluorescents or the darkness of the hallways, and without all that…
He’s still Wes.
“Huh…” Captain Strode says, and when I hazard a glance at her, I see the puzzled realization cross her face. “Oh… well, that’s… interesting. Certainly explains the performance outside.”
“Ma’am, I—”
She cuts him off. “Ms. Prescott, would you like some coffee?” she says, pushing up from the table and taking the folders with her.
“You’re gonna need it and so am I. Even though he’s on leave, I’m sure Detective Carpenter here can hold things down while I’m gone for five minutes.
With two officers stationed outside and listening in, of course.
” She turns her attention back to Wes. “Then I want you to go see a medic and stop bleeding all over my tent.”
He ducks his head again, but I catch the quirk of his lips as this five-foot-five woman manages to look down her nose at a man who towers over her.
“Yes, ma’am, I will, thank you.”
“And while your instincts have proven to be impeccable, Carpenter, your ability to get into hot water leaves a lot to be desired… something we’ll need to fix when you return to work.”
She goes to move past him but pauses. Even though her voice is low, I still catch her say, “When I saw your name on that door list…” She reaches up, placing her palm on his shoulder. “You had me scared for a second there. I’m glad you’re okay, Wes.”
He offers her a thin smile, then after squeezing his shoulder, she walks out of the tent.
As soon as she’s gone, he closes the distance between us, one hand holding his ribs as he walks.
I think maybe we should delay our reunion so he can go see a paramedic, but then he slides his palms underneath my jaw as I rise from the chair, and I could cry because there was always a chance I wouldn’t get to feel it again.
His hands on me, the heat of his body close to mine, the “you complete me” look in his eyes.
Timing is everything when it comes to slashers and rom-coms, and if he’d been quicker unblocking the roof access and coming down to the dance floor, if John saw him before I—
This all could’ve ended so differently.
He doesn’t kiss me, he just stares down at me like he’s thinking the same thing, like he is well aware of the alternate ending.
His thumbs trail across my cheekbones, his pulse beating strongly against my fingertips when I curl my hands around his wrists, and for a moment, I’m unsure of how we pick up from where we left off.
Where we left off was with me on the way to meet a killer.
“Did you get them out?” I ask, going with the safest opener, and when he nods before pressing his forehead to mine, I really have to will the tears away. At this point I should be all cried out, but there seems to be a bottomless supply when it comes to surviving a slasher.
“They’re okay. They’re all okay.”
Him being here confirms it, but hearing the words still prompts a relieved sigh from deep in my chest.
“Is Laurie okay?” he asks.
My heart melts at the concern in his voice for my friend. For my girl.
“Yeah, she is. They’re talking to her now.”
He pulls back, his expression serious as he pushes my hair from my face and trails his palms back down to cradle my jaw.
“There’s gonna be a lot of that. It’s gonna be a long road from here, Jamie. They’re going to question all of us over and over again. Make us recount everything that happened. It doesn’t get tied up neatly like in the movies, you know?”
I’m getting an idea. In a perfect world I’d wash away the remnants of this evening and come back stronger, wiser, and maybe a little more jaded but still intact. But he’s right—it’s not like the movies. There are consequences and repercussions and widespread aftermath to what happened tonight.
“I heard you—they told me…” His voice is quiet, soft, and he doesn’t need to continue for me to know what they told him.
I was very forthcoming with what exactly a Final Girl does at the end of the movie.
But theory and reality are two different things, and maybe this—what I did to John—is the turnoff of all turnoffs.
Maybe this is the thing that stops us before we even had a chance to start.
But before I can say anything, Wes beats me to it.
“So, you know how you said you weren’t looking for anything long term?” he asks, tilting my chin up so I can see the reassuring look in his eyes that puts any uncertainty at ease.
Wes is made of stronger stuff than that.
So am I, it turns out.
“Yeah?”
“That’s a real deal-breaker for me, Jamie Prescott.”
I nod, moving my hands down to grip the remains of his shirt—mindful of his ribs—to pull him closer.
“Well, Detective Carpenter…” He closes his eyes when I murmur it, shaking his head and whispering a little “fuck” that would make me smile if I wasn’t tired and torn up inside. I wait until his eyes open again to say, “I’m willing to make an exception when it comes to the long-term thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Not to spoil the ending…”
I have the opportunity to chicken out here. I have the chance to downplay this thing between us, to keep my expectations low so I don’t get disappointed. But of all the risks I’ve taken tonight, I know—without having to refer to some movie scene for comparison—this one will pay off.
“…but I think I’m gonna fall in love with you, too.”
If this was a rom-com, he would laugh, but everything is too real and too raw right now. Instead, he breathes in through his nose and exhales sharply, his hands tightening on my jaw before he pulls my mouth firmly onto his and kisses me like his life depends on it.