She turns to me, and whatever look she sees on my face when I glance up from trawling the bar makes her shoulders drop farther.
“Jamie?”
“I think so.When Wes and I were following that trail downstairs, we thought the rose petals might be a calling card, but this is different.I think…”
I think a lot of things.
I think the broken bottles haven’t worked for us so far, not when we’re up against the never-ending supply of knives this guy seems to have.There’s a reason all the Big Bads prefer metal blades, and it’s not just for the theatrics.Freddy’s were crafted onto his hand, Michael and Jason always sourced something that had a great ergonomic grip.Even Leatherface utilized weapons that could be found at your local hardware store.They all chose their weapons based on ease of use, and I don’t think our guy is any different.
“Jamie,whatdo you think?”Laurie asks from the doorway, her gaze locked on the hall beyond it.I couldn’t be prouder of her for developing a keener sense of her surroundings in the last couple of hours.At home she trips over our robo-vacuum even though we’ve had it for two years.“I think,” I say as I continue rummaging around the bar, “the killer met someone at one of the dates tonight and this is his way of showing he’s interested.”I spot a corkscrew and placeit on the bar top.When I find two more stacked near some slightly dusty wineglasses, I put them next to it.
“I think the killing is just a means to an end,” I say as I try to find a paring knife oranykind of blade that could do even a fraction of the damage the killer has managed so far tonight, but it’s no use.It would be bad business practice to leave out anything that could be used as a weapon.Still, I slide the spiral of one of the corkscrews between my index and middle finger, gripping the handle in my hands as I circle back around the bar.The tip is dull, but it’s better than nothing.
“We need to get out of here.If he comes back, we’ll be cornered,” Laurie says once I’ve handed her one of the other corkscrews and passed the spare to Jennifer.“Did you see which way he went?”
The question is directed at me because I’m the only one who has seen him so far.The only one, that is, who has seen him and lived, and that makes my stomach curl in on itself.I don’t know what that means for me.What it means for the three of us.Or maybe I do, and I just don’t want to admit it to myself.I don’t want to admit he probably could’ve chased us down if he wanted to.He could have walked around this room and found us.He’s killed eight people so far and I can guarantee at least one of them would have had better cardiovascular capabilities or been able to find a better hiding spot than the three women in this room.There’s only one kind of person who’s able to have so many near misses.One kind of woman…
One kind of girl.
I ignore the twist of suspicion in my chest and point down the corridor.“That way.”
“Should we go back to where we were then?”Jennifer asks as we start to move out.She looks like she’s about to leave the rose behind, but I gesture for her to bring it with us.It’s a gift.One that is clearly unwanted, but it’s a clue, too, and despite what Wes said downstairs, we might need to start playing detective soon.The problem-solvingin a slasher usually does begin in the second act anyway.“What if he’s waiting there?”
“He could be anywhere,” Laurie says, and it’s good she can take the lead while my brain is still running through the improbability that we survived the killer coming into the VIP section.
“But,” she continues, “we need to see if Wes and Billie have come back.If they were able to find anything.If John’s okay.If they’re…”
I can tell what she was going to say before thinking better of it and deciding not to jinx it.
If they’re still alive.
And that makes a sharp twinge, not unlike when my arm was sliced open, tighten inside my chest.We’ve been in such a state of panic I haven’t allowed myself to consider something has happened to them.A small, intrusive thought breaks through my survival mode:We didn’t even get to have arealdate.
It must come from some part of my brain that believes it’s possible for boom boxes blasting Peter Gabriel and meetings on top of the Empire State Building to coexist in a world where twenty strangers can be trapped in a club while being methodically slaughtered by a masked killer.I adjust my grip around the corkscrew.That kind of thinking isn’t going to help us in this situation, so I turn in the direction we came from and start down the hallway.
“Let’s go.”
We walk in a straight line.Me, Laurie, then Jennifer, armed only with corkscrews that I doubt could even pull a thread on that huge dinner jacket the killer was wearing.
The minutes extend while we retrace our steps to the front of the building, and I realize we ran a lot farther than I’d anticipated.Either that or the journey just feels longer without terror propelling us.When we reach the end of the hallway and we haven’t been attacked by some hulking, murderous asshole, we pause a few feet from the top of thestairs, deciding to wait a couple of minutes to catch our breath or in case any of the others come back.Our backs are flat against the wall.Jennifer is propped up on the wall across from us, giving us the option of four different escape routes in case the killer presents himself again.
“Jamie?”Laurie says.
“Yeah?”
“Who do you think the card was meant for?”
The question prompts Jennifer to look over at us from where she’s had her eyes trained on the corridor we came from.Her brows are furrowed, hands balled into fists—one clutched around the corkscrew I gave her, the other around the rose—instead of gripping her arms.
“I don’t know.”
But I think if I had to guess, I’d have a one-in-three chance of being right.
I can’t ignore that every other person who has come as close to the killer as we did is now dead.I can’t ignore the fact that a man doesn’t whip out Taylor Swift lyrics on a whim, especially not in the middle of a killing spree.And I can’t ignore that the intended recipient of that card, of the rose in Jennifer’s hand, is most likely standing in this corridor right now.And if that’s true, one of us is in the deepest shit imaginable.
“What’s the end?”Jennifer asks.“Before, you said that the…killingwas a means to an end.What’s the end?”
“For him?Getting the person he thinks he belongs with.”I tap my chest where the card sits, wincing at the idea that this murderer has bastardized a Taylor Swift lyric and ruined an objectively catchy song for everyone standing in this hallway.
