He drew back the floral-patterned curtains from the window above the kitchen sink. Cedar Lake glittered below and he drank in the sight like a man who hadn’t known how thirsty he was until water hit his lips.
Life had taught Patrick the world was dangerous. At the Rialto, as the club’s lone Black member, he’d had to play the unnamed hunter who picks up the hitchhiking Slasher and gets killed in the first fifteen minutes. It wasn’t logical, and the trope had aged poorly, but because Patrick had made it inside the cabin he felt like he’d escaped his fate as the Black guy who dies first. He felt safe.
His shoulders sagged as he let out a long breath, releasing a tension he didn’t know he was carrying.
He was finally at the one place where he could be himself.
He slid out the largest of the chef’s knives again, weighing it in his hand before slipping it back in with satisfaction.
He was home.
3
Jen
Jen asked Tiffany for the tenth time that day if she was sure she wanted to share a room. Tiffany tossed her head, ponytail flicking like a horse swatting a fly, also for the tenth time. “Jason and I are done for good,” she declared.
As if Jen hadn’t heard that before. She rolled her eyes. “What’s his name?”
Tiffany had the grace to look a little embarrassed as she folded back the sheets on the double bed, her peachy complexion blushing to a rosy pink. “Clive. He was the TA in my psych class.”
Jen raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.” Only two syllables, but they carried a world of knowledge. Clive would offer everything Jason couldn’t—namely the sophistication and worldliness a small-town jock lacked—until the initial attraction withered and he realized Tiffany was the most basic bitch to have ever lived, laughed, and loved. Tiffany was great fun, but she couldn’t imagine a futureoutside a white picket fence and the PTA. Her mother’s life, really. Though to be fair, Mrs. Podemski seemed genuinely happy and Jen understood the appeal of a sedate, comfortable life.
Jen didn’t blame Tiffany. She was pursuing her own mother’s life herself—flaking out and leaving everyone behind, without considering anyone else’s feelings.
Tiffany cleared her throat and added, “I’d prefer if we shared a room. So I won’t get tempted to make any mistakes.”
“Sure.” Typical Tiffany, putting herself just out of reach in order to taunt Jason. Although Jen didn’t think it was going to work this time. She suspected Jason was bunking with Mikey to avoid his ex. Out of sight, out of mind. Still, Jen left her overnight bag packed, ready to play musical beds if Tiffany and Jason decided to take a vacation from Splitsville for the weekend. It was hard not to feel the romantic pull of nostalgia at the cabin, and who knew? The sound of the crackling fire, scent of burnt marshmallows, and taste of cheap beer might resurrect the good memories and send them into each other’s arms.
Better the good memories than the bad.
“I’m gonna see if the boys need help with anything,” Jen said, leaving Tiffany to unpack her suitcase.
She found Patrick in the kitchen, opening the fridge. A large picnic cooler sat by his feet. “Anything I can do?” she asked.
Patrick jerked up in surprise. “No!” He angled his body as if he didn’t want her to see what he’d brought.
“I see three years at Harvard didn’t untwist your panties.” God, Patrick was so fussy. He always had to have things exactly his way. Well, he was going to be in for a surprise later.
Patrick cleared his throat. “Sorry. You scared me, that’s all. I’m good, thanks. Why don’t you go see if the fire pit’s usable?”
The kitchen’s back door was already open, the screen letting in a breeze from the lake. Jen checked the time on the vintage stove’s clock, then went outside. It was early yet. She should enjoy the sunset before all hell broke loose.
Mikey had unlocked the shed and was splitting wood, shirtless, like Patrick and Jason used to. How adorable. He almost looked like a real grown-up. He’d come a long way from the nerd who’d worked at the school library, fiddling with the computers and printers between shelving books. In the years since, he’d ditched the thick glasses for contacts or corrective eye surgery, and his chest had broadened with muscle, although it only emphasized the stubbornness of his jaw. No amount of deadlifting would fix that. But hey, Mikey would be making Silicon Valley money when he graduated MIT and would be able to buy himself a new chin if he wanted.
He grinned at Jen and flexed his pecs. He should’ve known that wouldn’t impress her, for many reasons. She gave him a sardonic thumbs-up. “Good job, Squeaks. Glad to see you finally hit puberty.”
She probably shouldn’t have taunted him while he was holding an axe, but someone needed to take that endearing little geek down a peg. He’d always tried to ingratiate himself with everyone, and he never understood that trying too hard made others respect you less. Like her mother’s attempts to repair her relationship with Jen after she left Jen’s dad for her Pilates instructor. Mom had stopped dragging Jen out for mother-daughter spa days when Jen started dressing like Lydia Deetz.
Jen picked her way down to the lake, glad she’d worn combat boots to navigate the awkward zigzag path through the rocks and trees. The fire pit still sat on the scrubby beach. One of the rocks that made up the ring had rolled aside. Jen pushed it back, huffing from the effort. They were in business.
Cedar Lake was a gouge in the forest, filled with liquid fire as the sun lowered over the water. The dock looked freshly stained, but she didn’t see the canoe. Maybe it was being repaired before Slasher Summer started. The rental company wouldn’t have removed it permanently. The scene in which the Slasher dragged nerdy Ralph out of the canoe was iconic. All that blood in the water and ropy entrails floating like jellyfish? Chef’s kiss.
Jen walked out onto the dock and gazed across the lake, enjoyingthe tranquil moment. She was glad she’d come. One last hurrah before she blew this pop stand for greener pastures. Time to go out in a blaze of glory and kill the past. Next week she’d be twenty-one, and she was going to cash in Grandpa’s trust fund and fuck around Europe where no one from this tiny backwater would ever find her. She’d live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse for the poets to write about. Like Lord Byron, Jen aimed to have an ex-lover describe her asmad, bad, and dangerous to know.
That would provide more inspiration for her painting than boring art school. She’d run out of hearts to break in her college town anyway. Chloe, Tanis, Bree, and—what was her name? It had started with an M. Moira? Mara? It didn’t matter. She’d complained Jen had been too honest about avoiding commitment. Jen had thought honesty was a good thing. Whatever. Relationships-with-a-capital-R made shit complicated. Just look at Tiffany and Jason. Just look at her parents.
She was about to turn around and go back to the cabin when she saw the figure.
