“This building would have a monitored fire alarm system,” Wes says as he walks back across the room.
I don’t know what that is exactly, but the way he says it is reverent, cautious, like he doesn’t want to get too excited about the prospect.
“I’d say most places have smoke detectors, asshole.”
Stu’s voice makes my shoulders flinch, and this time I make sure he sees my middle finger clearly from across the room.
“It’s different from a smoke detector, dumbass,” Wes retorts, letting the statement hang in the air before he explains.“Monitoredfire alarms send a signal to a central station when the smoke alarm is triggered.Emergency services get dispatched, and the building manager gets notified.There should be a manual call point somewhere, but if we can’t find it, we just need to set the detectors off.”
For the first time since I watched Laurie’s ass shimmy through a metal tunnel, hope rears its beautiful head again.If she’s still navigating her way through the building, if she’s out or—I don’t want to think about it, but there’s always the possibility—she’s hurt and needs us to save her, then what Wes is suggesting could help.There’s another way to sound the alarm.Literally.
“If we set off the system, the fire department will be deployed.Since the building is supposed to be empty, they’ll send police, too.”
I did not know that was a thing.Granted my only experience with fire alarms is when Laurie and I accidentally set ours off by not turning on the exhaust fan over our oven, or in the films I watch, where the building is already a blazing inferno before the firefighters show up.But this… this could get us out of here.
“Wes, are you sure?”
I can’t allow myself to get too excited at the prospect.As beautiful as hope is at first sight, its effect can fade just as quickly.The samefeeling has been ripped away so many times tonight it’s hard not to be wary of getting burned.
He nods.“The signal is transmitted through internet and phone lines, and the NFPA—the National Fire Protection Association—requires all systems to have backup—”
“Wait.”Stu holds up his free palm, raising the other to point his knife across at Wes, directly at his chest.“How doyouknow all this?”
I feel like that shouldn’t really matter right now, but then I catch sight of the guarded looks on not just Stu’s face, but on Jennifer’s and Dani’s faces, too.They haven’t moved from their spot a few feet from us, but their bodies lean back from where Wes and I are standing beneath the chandelier.If they aren’t afraid—because who can tell the difference between any new kind of fear and the constant terror this evening has imprinted on our faces—then they’re wary.That’s when I remember they didn’t see Heart Eyes while Wes was standing right next to them.They didn’t see what we saw, whatIsaw.
Wes reads the room as easily as I do.His gaze flicks toward the knife in Stu’s hand and I watch the moment it dawns on him that if Stu doesn’t like whatever answer he gives, they’re evenly matched.He needs to convince them he isn’t a threat.
My instinct is to jump to his defense, especially since he’s trying to get us the hell out of here.But then there’s a fleeting moment where I think my own words—a good Final Girl doesn’t take anyone off the suspect list until the killer is unveiled—might come back and bite me in the ass.
It doesn’t stick around for long, though.I’m still 100 percent certain I would not eye fuck a killer.
“I know because—” His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and when he finally says it, admits it, the relief doesn’t set in like I thought it would, but some things start to make a lot more sense.
“?’Cause I’m a cop.”
CHAPTER 28
“Kill me.Kill me as if it were the last time.”
—NotCasablanca
“You’re acop?”
The look of pissed-off confusion is the only expression I’ve seen on Stu’s smug face that seems appropriate for the situation.I think this may be the first and only time tonight we are on the same page.
“Detective,” Wes says.“I’m investigating a string of recent homicides.That’s why I came here tonight.”
For the first time, I look at Wes and see a different man from the one who sat across from me during our speed date.For the first time, the things he’s said and the things he’s done appear in a different light.This whole time I thought he was just one of those people who perform well under pressure.But the way he was able to quickly create a plan, the way he assessed a space for danger, the way he’s been holding his weapons all night and holding his shit together… He patched up my arm like he’d just completed his first aid training refresher.
That’s why I came here tonight.
The admission makes my throat feel thick and scratchy.He’sbeenworking.Everything tonight has been part of his job.HeShe’s All That’d me.But instead of being a fucking bet, I was a fuckingbeard.
What was the point of all those weighted looks and lingering touches and intimate assurances if he was just playing out some undercover role to catch the killer?The humiliating realization makes heat flare up in my cheeks.
What if what I’ve been feeling since our eyes locked was one-sided?That thought feeds into a particular flavor of fear.The kind I feel when I’m struggling with my dissertation or getting ready for a date or, recently, trying to think and act like a Final Girl.It’s a slippery slope that will lead to hurtful thoughts about self-worth… and I don’t have the emotional capacity to deal with it.
I’m investigating a string of recent homicides.
