“When we found her, she almost got me.”Wes points down to a spot of blood near his collarbone.His shirt is sliced open an inch or two, but the stain has stopped spreading close to the cut, so it’s only a superficial wound.“A broken bottle.Inspired by you, no doubt.”
How he still manages the smallest of smiles at me when he’s explaining how he got stabbed, I’ll never know.
“I’m sorry… again,” Dani says, and when I look back at her she’s wincing, apologetic, but the soft chuckle ahead of me draws my eyes back to Wes.
“It’s fine.You did the right thing.”He’s shaking his head like they’ve already had this conversation before his eyes laser in on my arm again and his amusement vanishes.“What happened to you?”
“I got cut by Laurie’s bottle.”I try to wave it away like it’s not a big deal, but the movement just makes me wince, and a thin, fresh line of blood trails down my arm.I’m not trying to underplay it.It’s just that me getting accidentally sliced open by my best friend doesn’t feel like the key plot point of what played out on this level while Wes and Billie were down in the bar.We came within slashing distance of the killer, and though it feels like I’m burying the lede right nowand I want to tell him what happened, no one else has invited Wes up onto the landing.
He’s still in exile on the last step.
His stare lifts from my arm to look over our heads, but whatever he does or doesn’t see just makes his expression get darker.“Where’s John?”
“We heard a noise, he went to go check, and then he…” I shake my head.I don’t want to say the same words as Dani and take him out of the equation just yet.He walked into the side of the club that Laurie and I couldn’t remember.Maybe he got lost.Maybe he found a phone or a way out, or maybe—
“Did you find anything downstairs?”Laurie appears at my shoulder.
Wes drops his hands but still stays where he is.
“No maps.No fire extinguishers.No phones on any of the bod—people down there.We found a flashlight?”He says it like he knows it isn’t enough to make up for all the things theydidn’tfind, then he directs the next statement to the landing.“I—I took the knife from… from the host.”Jesus.He means he took itoutof her.Wes looks back up at us, worry written all over his face.“I think… I think this was planned.I think they planned out everything.”
Hearing it feels like a punch to the gut, but I think so, too.
I thought so when I saw the rose, and it may have even crossed my mind earlier.
“I realized I haven’t seen an emergency exit light all night, so we checked the perimeter of the basement and found the remains of a mount on the ceiling.”He blows out a frustrated breath.“It looked like it had been removed.Not to mention—” He nods above my head, and when I look up I see something that pulls my heart all the way up to the top of my throat.
The dome of a security camera.They’re designed to be subtle, a reminder that someone’s always watching, but if you’re not doing anything wrong you have nothing to worry about.The shield overthe camera doesn’t look like it should; it doesn’t have that smooth, glossy finish with a light glowing from within.It doesn’t look like that because it’s covered in black spray paint, some of the dark flecks flicking across the deep scarlet ceiling.The killer really wanted this to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
“Each one we’ve come across looks like that,” Wes remarks, and everything he says just makes our situation sound more and more dire.Because when you put all the pieces together—not just killing off the employees (the people who would know how to get out of here) first, or taking the phones, or locking the door and swiping the code, but also the roses and the mask and the never-ending supply of equipment he’s brought to play with—that kind of thing requires preparation.It requires forethought.
And that changes things.
It means we’ve fully ruled out that this is a crime of opportunity.It means the format is moreHostelthanHalloween.He’s not the kind of killer who counts on his victims making dumb decisions like Ghostface, or who relies on brute strength like Michael Myers.
He’s planned this, set it up, and we are all just side characters in the romantic evening he’s orchestrated for some poor woman who’s captured his obsession.
“Can I…” Wes’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts.
Both his hands are back in the air when he turns the first aid kit toward me, the other hand holding the knife pointing to the wound in my arm.It’s deeper than his, but I’ve gotten used to the pain.I’m about to say we should concentrate on finding a way out.That time is against us, and it’s dried over anyway, and it must be my lucky day since I wore a dress that hides the stains so well.
But Laurie answers for me.
“Yeah.Clean her up.”
I shoot her a dry look that just makes her say, “You’re a mess.”
I look back at Wes.He hasn’t moved from the last step, waiting for my go-ahead.
Even if he had gone down to the basement alone, he’s not the kind of guy who makes your figurative hackles stand up.His presence doesn’t pull at the intuitive divining rod of danger in your gut becausesomethingis a little off.Not to mention, I just don’t think I’d eye fuck a guy who would turn out to be a killer.So I nod and watch him step up onto the mezzanine.
It’s a slow, stunned, exhausted expedition to the booths that line the side of the mezzanine across from the bar, and when Wes points to the middle one, I move toward it without argument.Laurie, Jennifer, and Dani file into the one next to us within earshot.Laurie offers to hold my hand while Wes works on my arm, but we both know it isn’t her strong suit, and if anyone needs emotional support it’s Dani.She’s still crying.It’s one thing to be caught up in someone’s killing spree.It’s another to lose your new bestie in the middle of it.So Laurie sits with Jennifer while she tries to comfort Dani, offering practiced sounds of consolation and awkward back pats.Billie situates herself against the railing.She says it’s to be a lookout, but I think it’s more because she hates everyone’s guts.
“What exactly happened up here?”Wes asks.
I slide onto the seat and lay my arm on the table.It sticks to the surface, and I don’t know if that’s because of the blood or some residual spilled alcohol.He unzips the kit and takes stock of the contents, removing the bracelet from his wrist, his fingers skillfully loosening the strap like I taught him before he places the blade on top of the table and lowers himself into the booth beside me.His thigh is flush against my own, his shoulder at just the right height to rest my head on, and it’s a struggle to refrain from moving even closer.
“We heard a noise, and John went to look,” I say, shaking the image of his back disappearing into the corridor out of my head and concentrating on what Wes pulls out of the first aid kit instead: antiseptic wipes, gauze, adhesive dressing, a pair of gloves.Once he has them laid out in front of us, he pulls the gloves on, and for some reason, his consideration of hygiene despite the circumstances makes me smile.
