Chapter Seventeen
Kristy tears ahead, neon shorts flashing like a rave ghost, our breaths tangled in a panicked chorus of ohgodohgodohgod.
She stops—so sudden I nearly crash right into her.
Her shoulders shake.
Crying?
No.
Laughing. Sharp. High. Wrong.
I grab her shoulder. “Hey.”
She folds in on herself. Elbows digging into her thighs.
“Kristy, breathe.”
“F-fuck—” A shuddering gasp. “Fuck, we’re dead.”
I place a hand on her back. “We’re not.”
“Lana’s dead.” Her voice cracks. “Vanessa’s dead.” A giggle bubbles up. “And we’re next—hiding behind fucking poop shacks—”
A branch snaps in the dark.
We duck lower behind the plastic walls.
Kristy kills the flashlight on her phone.
Footsteps crunch through dead leaves.
Closer.
Closer.
Then—
A shape stumbles into the clearing.
Tall. Shirtless. Neon body paint snaking across his chest in the same dizzying swirls they all wear.
Staggering like he’s drunk.
Or dying.
And tucked under his arm is a Ghostface mask.
“Psycho little bitches,” he rasps, voice raw.
Kade.
Kristy squeezes my arm—a silent ‘What the fuck?’
He lurches past our hiding spot. If he so much as glances sideways, we’re busted. But he keeps walking. The world’s worst zombie extra. Muttering to himself.
Then he’s gone, swallowed by the trees.
We wait.
One second.
Five.
Kristy finally exhales. Another shaky giggle. “Was he … crying?”
“Shhh.”
“He’s hurt. Maybe we could—”
“No,” I snap.
“Don’t tell me”—she laughs—“you’re still”—hiccups—“sweet on him.”
I shoot her a glare. “What do you wanna do, huh? Hose him down again? Stab him?”
“He killed those girls. He killed Lana. And I’ll”—hiccup—“make sure he fucking”—hiccup—“pays.”
I don’t answer. My brain’s too busy replaying the worst hits:
Lana’s scream.
Vanessa’s recording.
Kade yelling at us.
My gut twists.
“What if,” I say slowly, “Kade wasn’t lying?”
Kristy scoffs, eyes blazing. “Oh, come on.”
“He said ‘He’ll kill you both.’ Not ‘I’”
“He followed you here. He was standing right under a gutted girl holding her fucking phone. He’s Ghostface. He’s the killer.”
“But what if he’s not?” My voice sounds small, stupid even to me. “All the hunters are shirtless, covered in body paint. In the dark, they pretty much look the same. I-I was only focused on the mask. What if—”
“What if nothing. He’s a deranged stalker who’d say shit like that to mess with your head.”
She’s right. She has to be right.
Because the alternative—that I hurt the one person who could’ve helped us—is worse.
“Hey …” Kristy hiccups again, her voice softer now. “If I don’t make it—”
My breath hitches. I turn to her. “We’re getting out. Together.”
She shakes her head. “No, listen. If I die, tell my kids I love them.”
Her kids? Then it hits me—her students.
“If there was something I could do to—to start over …” She swipes at her face. “Fuck. Why am I even talking about this now?”
“I’m … sorry.” For what happened. For not knowing what to say to fix any of this. “Look—when we get out of here, let’s go somewhere. Just like old times.”
“Not really,” she whispers.
A sob clogs my throat.
Because Lana’s dead.
The words don’t fit inside my skull. They’re too big, too jagged. Like trying to swallow a fucking lightbulb.
Don’t lose it now.
Kristy wipes her nose. “Where do you think he went?”
“The Sanctum.”
“Bet he’s scrubbing his eyes raw right now.” A bitter chuckle. “Good.”
I open my mouth—something dumb about giving him a chance to explain—then snap it shut.
Why bother defending Kade? Whatever we had? Gone. Like Lana. Jessica. Vanessa.
Kristy flicks on her flashlight. “Ready?”
My fingers tighten around the pepper spray. I nod.
We peek around the potty. No sign of Kade or Ghostface or any other monsters. Just trees. And the trail beckoning us forward.
Out of these shitty woods.
Out of this shitty night.
The Cleanse Your Filth trailer is up ahead. The door isn’t merely shut though. There’s a rusted metal latch slung across the frame, the kind meant to keep something out. Or in.
Kristy doesn’t even look twice.
I do.
Is Kade inside?
And if he is … who the hell barred the door?
“Kristy …” I whisper.
She cocks her head. We both hear it.
Laughter.
“Told you,” Kristy mutters. “Psycho’s celebrating in there.”
I creep closer.
“Payton.” She darts over. “What are you doing?”
I lift a finger to my lips.
“Oh, you’re so dead, little fox.”
That’s him. And he wants me dead.
Kristy mouths, ‘Oh. My. God.’
The laughter spirals higher, wetter.
“Let’s go. Hurry.”
Ninety-nine percent sure Kade’s the killer. That’s what I think as Kristy tugs at my hoodie.
Then who barred the door?
I crush the one-percent like a bug.
At least the monster’s locked in a box … for now.