Chapter Thirty-One
The rain’s down to a pissy drizzle. Seems the universe has finally run out of tears.
Fitting. Every step is a fucking war. My boots scuff the gravel as Wesley drags me toward the exit.
“Move your feet, champ. Not carrying you the rest of the way.”
The sky’s starting to lighten. Not sunrise yet. Just a bruise creeping along the horizon.
But even with the fresh air and the wind knifing through us, the gray light leaching into trees—
There’s nothing.
Nothing except the constant throb in my shoulder, my fingers. That fire in my gut.
Maybe everything else inside me is already dead.
When this is over—
If it’s ever over—
What comes next? Doesn’t matter.
The rest of my life is the next twenty fucking steps.
Payton walks ahead, gun raised, shoulders tight. She keeps glancing back—checking if I’m still conscious. Still breathing. Still hers.
Thirteen steps. Fourteen. If I can make it to fifteen, I can make it to the gates. To whatever comes after.
Keep moving. Get her safe.
Fuck.
What if Payton sees me as nothing but the monster she thinks she deserves? What if she spends the rest of her life haunted?
What if she finds someone else—
—gentler, safer, better?
What if—what if—
My next step lands wrong. A jolt of black. Crushing—
Wesley’s grip tightens.
Payton spins toward us, her mouth shaping my name. Eyes glassy but fierce. Daring me to stay upright.
The ground steadies. Barely.
“So,” Wesley huffs. “When the cops show, what do we tell them?”
One step. Two.
“The truth. See who blinks first.”
He scoffs. “Right. But, like. In order.”
I manage a crooked grin. “You worried they won’t believe you?”
“I’m worried they will,” he says, steering us around a patch of slick mud.
Ahead of us, Payton slows. The fanny pack bounces gently at her waist with each step, that pink teddy charm catching the dim light.
“We’ll need them to move the bodies,” she says. “All of them. Before … before the families come.”
Wesley nods, jaw tight. “Josh and Noah are still in the chapel.”
I squeeze his shoulder once.
“Got this one blackout.” Wesley nods at an ugly, faded tattoo on his forearm. “Don’t remember why. Point is, this shit? Barely top five.”
I chuckle—broken, bloody, real.
Payton glances back again, lips twitching like she wants to smile but forgot how.
“So, where you guys from?” Wesley asks, as if we’re not walking away from a graveyard.
“I live outside Portland. But my parents are in Salem.”
He looks at me. “And you’re the neighbor?”
“Across the street.”
A low laugh. “Must be one hell of a street.”
I don’t say anything. Neither does Payton.
Wesley adjusts his grip. His fingers dig in too tight—for the first time, I feel them tremble.
“Alright. I’m from McMinnville. Little town south of here.
There’s this bar—Lucky’s. Good fries, decent beer, and a jukebox that still plays CDs.
I always hit the third button from the top.
If we ever meet up, first round’s on me. Deal?”
Payton glances back at me.
Three of us trudging into the dawn.
Alive.
Together.
The Verge gates are maybe twenty yards away now. Looming through the trees like rusted iron teeth. Nearby, sprawled in the dirt—
Something twists in my gut—not the wound this time.
“Hey,” I croak, nodding toward the figure. “There.”
Payton sees it too. Stops short.
It’s White Lace. Rachel. The girl we pulled from the chapel.
Lying a few feet from the exit. Arms limp. Head tilted toward the gates like she tried to crawl and didn’t make it.
The second Wesley lets go, my knees almost buckle. I stagger, catch myself against a tree.
“Wes—” I rasp, but he’s already jogging ahead.
“Be careful,” Payton calls after him, voice too steady to be real.
Wesley reaches Rachel. Drops to a crouch. His fingers press to her throat.
He looks back, shakes his head.
Payton makes a sound. Quiet, broken. Like the wind got knocked out of her.
A shape rises behind Wesley.
Black robes. Blade gleaming.
“Behind—”
Payton screams. “Wesley!”
He turns—
The knife flashes—one slash, so fast I almost miss it.
Wesley spins toward us—a red gash across his throat. Jaw slack. Blinking. His hand lifts, fingers brushing the wound.
His knees hit the dirt.
Looming over him—Derek. Mask gone, his face a ruin of blood and fury. He’s smiling.
Smiling.
“Death comes for us all. Even you, Grim.”
“Payton. Give me the gun.”
But she’s already moving. Aiming.
And here I am. Too weak to even lift a finger as Wesley chokes on his own blood.
Fuck. I lurch after her.
Brass rains around her as she fires.
Five shots.
Three go wide.
One grazes Derek’s arm—the knife drops.
The last punches into his ribs. He jolts. Slumps against the iron gates.
Payton sways, chest heaving, the gun wavering in her grip.
click.
click.
Empty.
Derek mouths something.
The ringing. His laugh. I can’t hear the difference.
She drops the Glock. Grabs the knife off the ground. The blade glints—bloody, bright.
He grins wider. “Go on. Make it count.”
Payton steps toward him. Measured. Controlled. Like prey pretending not to be prey.
Derek sees it too, his smile curdling.
He lunges. Fast—too fast for someone with one foot already in hell.
Payton stumbles. They crash hard to the ground.
All I can do is stagger forward.
Derek straddles her. “You’re not my Lana. You’re nothing.”
Payton thrashes.
He wrenches the knife free, slams it into the dirt beside her head.
Not killing her.
Not yet.
He wants to hurt her first.
“You know what your problem is?” he spits. “You hesitate.”
My vision swims. I push harder. Close enough to see her fingers raking his arms.
She goes still. Not limp—coiled. Her free hand darts into Kristy’s fanny pack.
She rams something into his neck.
Derek howls. Reels back. His spine hits the gates, one hand clawing at the jagged tine jutting from his throat—
Payton scrambles up, snatches the knife from the ground.
He lunges again—swinging left to right. Right to left.
I close my hand over hers. Drive the fucking blade—my cheap-ass, blood-slick Halloween prop—straight into his chest.
And twist.
“There,” I breathe. “Feel that give? That’s how you know you got it right.”
Payton’s eyes meet mine. Wild. Wide. Alive.
She remembers.
We wrench the knife free. I keep hold of it.
Derek’s head thumps against the iron gates. One last defiant chuckle. He collapses, face-first.
Payton drops beside him, hands moving fast.
Care to fetch it, little fox?
The memory scorches through me like acid.
“Right pocket,” I rasp.
She finds it—yanks it out, blood smearing the metal.
The fucking access key.
The last piece. The way out.
Somehow, I’m still standing. Still here for her.
Payton’s already at the panel, flipping it open with shaky hands. She shoves the key in, turns it—
Every inch of me is fire and static. Don’t even realize how tight I’m gripping the knife until—
Movement.
Fast. Coming through the trees.
I lurch forward. The blade comes up.
“Kade, no!”
A blonde in a lace bodysuit stumbles into view—soaked, scraped raw, barefoot.
“Amanda,” Payton gasps.
“I thought I heard gunshots.” Amanda’s wide eyes bounce between me, Payton, the bodies on the ground. “Are they … wh-what’s going on?”
“Long story,” Payton mutters.
She throws her weight against the gates and pushes—
—until the creak of iron gives way to a clear view of the parking lot.
Of freedom beyond.
I let go. The knife slips from my fingers.
I sway. Stumble. The ground tilts.
All the pain I shoved down comes roaring in at once.
The world narrows to Payton. I want to tell her it’s okay. That she’ll be okay.
“Go …”
She sinks beside me, hands on my chest. Her voice cracks through the haze.
“Kade. Please. We need you. I need you. Please. Get up.”
My legs aren’t listening. They won’t.
She tries again, wrapping my hand in both of hers.
Nothing left in me to give. Nothing except the certainty I’d do it all over again.
She heaves. Collapses against my chest.
“Please,” she whispers into my neck. “Stay with me. Please.”
If this is really it—then I can be honest. It was always her. Just her.
The girl who should’ve died a hundred times over and still fought like hell.
Payton Reed was the only one I cared about saving.
Now she gets to walk out those gates.
And I can finally rest.