“Shanezzz,” she slurs. “He lets me keep it.”
“Good for him,” I say soberly.
“I can set it down… for a minute?” she asks.
“I guess so.”
She puts the knife on the edge of the bed and carefully picks up a pair of trousers. “My pants,” she mumbles. Dropping to the edge of the bed, she puts her feet slowly in the legs. It’s fucking maddening to watch. I want to help her, but I don’t want to leave the door unattended for him to double-back and lock us in.
She rises to her feet, stumbles to get the pants up and zips them. Her finger touches a small zipper at the waist band.
“Pocket for my knife.”
I nearly burst out laughing because it’s fucking absurd that this naked, drugged girl full-on slashed a serial killer. And got his fucking femoral artery in the process.
She arranges herself back into the bra.
“I could use some clothes, too,” I say. “But I don’t know where mine are. Bring that shitty blanket, I guess. I’ll throw it around me when we get out.”
“You know the way?”
“Not at all.”
“Oh.” She opens the trunk and gasps. “Doh-don’t look.”
I decide to take that advice.
She carries a dress to me.
“I can’t. My arms won’t go.” I hold up the metal plate in illustration. “Pants I could do. And a strapless bra. But nothing that my arms have to go through.”
Avery nods, licks her lips and weaves slowly back to the trunk. “I can’t get them. They’re under.”
“Never mind, Avery. I feel like we should go. Just forget it. Grab the blanket.”
There’s a lone lantern on a stool in the corner. In the flickering light, the white mask in the corner catches my eye. It lies on a trunk, staring with empty eye sockets at the ceiling.
Jesus.
“Tucked,” she mumbles, pulling fabric from the creepy chest.
Something slithers free, and she holds up my own fucking stretch pants. What the hell? My clothes were what? A trophy? Or were they like doll clothes in the chest for Avery for later?
Avery hurries over and helps me by holding them so I can step in. I raise the plate over my head while she jerks them up to my waist.
From an angle, I see an edge of plastic in the trunk and waxy skin.
Jesus.
Turning my head away quickly, I ask, “Two dead girls or one in that trunk?”
“One.”
“So, one girl is still unaccounted for.” I blow out a breath. “If we find her alive along the way, good. If not, we’ll come back for her. Hold the door for one second, Avery.”
Avery moves to the door, gripping the edge with her hands. I stalk over to the stool and bring the plate down hard on the mask, shattering it. As I grab the lantern, I spit on the shards.
“Get your knife, Bride of Chuckie. Just in case.”
