My brain starts cataloguing everything that’s happened tonight with the brief snippets of information I’ve picked up about the other murders with the same calling card.I haven’t been paying close attention to them because—and I know this sounds morbid, but—it’s like watching a film you already know the ending to.One that relies tooheavily on a prescriptive format.There’s nothingnewabout those murders.It’s the same movie, different cast.
Tonight, though?
“If this is connected, this would be an escalation, wouldn’t it?Going from murdering one woman at a time to trapping a bunch of people in a building and methodically killing them off one by one seems like a change in methodology.Or a change in MO, if we want to use the correct termi—”
I cut myself off when Wes moves his gaze from the corridor back to me, his mouth set in a firm line.Heat starts to flow up my neck and I drop my stare to the petals crushed beneath my feet.
“Sorry.”I shouldn’t be talking so much.Weshouldn’t be talking so much.Not when our goal is to avoid the killer and find an exit.I could kick myself for almost going fullmeand—
“Why are you apologizing?”
I start when his hand brushes against the back of mine.This time the contact is on purpose, and when I glance at him that grave expression is gone.He looks confused.
“I just…” I pause.There’s got to be a better way to sayI was about to go on a verbal tangent that would put my “dating is a dangerous pastime” word vomit to shame.“Sometimes I get on a roll with a topic, and it seems like I’m eager or excited about things that people shouldn’t be eager and excited about.For the record, I’m definitely not into what’s happening.I just get caught up in my head, and when it comes out of my mouth…” I shrug, like the reactions I get from people who think I should speak less don’t bother me.“It doesn’t always land well.”
Wes’s eyes trace over my face.The warmth in my cheeks feels different when he shakes his head and murmurs, “It lands well with me.I don’t see anything wrong with it.”
He curls his hand around my wrist again, shifting his attentionforward to where the corridor turns another corner, and that brings the conversation to a halt.Wes’s grip tightens against my skin, mine tightens around my weapons, and we skim along the wall.
“What did you mean when you were talking about the rules before?”Wes asks quietly after we inch our heads out around the edge and are greeted by more darkness.
“It’s a poster Laurie and I have in our apartment,” I say once we start to move down the corridor, side by side.“How to Survive a Slasher.There are ten rules to follow if you want to survive that kind of movie.‘Don’t split up’ is number five.”
When we’re this close and I don’t have to speak above a whisper, I can keep my eyes on the path ahead of us.The sight isn’t a promising one.There’s more rose petals littering the floor, smooth walls that are punctuated by syncopated, flickering gas lamps, and not an exit to be found.
“You really are into horror movies then.”
I glance at him, spotting a smile amid the glow of the artificial flames illuminating his face.
“I really am.I never thought I’d live one out, though.”
I may have watchedOnly YouorThe Wedding Singerand hoped for some semblance of those storylines to appear in my life, but not for a second did I watchThe Town That Dreaded SundownorWolf Creekand think:Man, just once I’d love for that to happen to me.
“I know it sounds dumb, but following the rules, it helps with the…” With the reality of what is happening to us right now.That people have died, could be dying,willdie, and that nobody on the outside—no police oranyone—has turned up to save us probably means that nobody is coming.I can’t say that, though, not to this guy I met a couple of hours ago who is doing everything in his power to keep us alive.So instead I say, “It helps with not being scared.”
If we were in a slasher, or even a rom-com, this would be the partwhere he tells me I don’t have to be scared because he’s not going to let anything happen to me.Then there’d be a series of events that would lead to him being disemboweled by an ice hook and leave me incapable of trusting men at their word.
Wes doesn’t do that, though; he just shifts closer as we make it to the halfway point of the hallway.
“I count down from three.”His voice is right at my ear, his breath fanning across my temple, and when I look up, I see just how close he is.His gaze is still focused straight ahead when he adds, “Whenever I’m scared or stressed or need to make a tough decision… I give myself three seconds, and then I do it.”
It’s so simple.I’ve only known him a short time, but it makes sense.He seems like the kind of guy who goes with his gut.The kind of guy who knows being brave isn’t about being fearless, it’s about doing what you need to do despite the fear.
“My parents taught me to do it when they realized I had poor impulse control as a kid and I guess it stuck.”
I like it, but I can’t ignore—
“Hadpoor impulse control?”
I catch the amused twitch at the side of his mouth as he lifts his head to look back the way we came.“It comes back every now and then.”
His chin grazes the top of my head, and I can imagine him doing the same thing on a street corner while we wait for the lights to change, or in a café when his coffee order is called.Sans bloody shoes and improvised weapons, of course.
“Counting works every time.I can anticipate what will happen, but I don’t have enough time to back out.It puts the pressure on.I work better under pressure.”
“I’ve noticed.”
His smile turns into a grin.Even though it looks like his entirebody is ready to strike at the first sign of danger, his eyes are soft.I’m reminded of when we were sitting on either side of the table during our date.Bedroom eyes.
