“So are you.”
Patrick’s arms tightened, holding Jason so close to his chest he could hear his friend’s heartbeat. Or maybe it was his own, thumping weakly.
“I told you we should’ve gone to Vegas,” Jason said, the words fading into a whisper. Patrick brought his face closer to his, and Jason stared at his split lip. He brought up his hand and gently traced the cut.
“Hey,” Patrick said, grabbing Jason’s questing hand. Patrick’s fingers burned so hotly it was almost painful. But Jason wouldn’t have let go for a million dollars. “We still can. We’re going to get you out of here. Just stay with me.”
“Sorry.” Jason wasn’t sure if he’d said the word out loud or just mouthed it. He was so cold. But he was happy. Why did Patrick look worried? Their nightmare was over, and Patrick was all right. Now Jason could let go. He didn’t have to be the hero anymore.
“Jason!”
Jason’s fingers slipped from Patrick’s and he let himself get lost in his eyes. They were very, very dark, and shining. They filled his field of vision. There were worse ways to die. Jason smiled, and let the darkness envelop him.
28
Patrick
Nine months later
Patrick guided his Audi smoothly off the freeway and onto a narrow rural road, taking the opportunity to lower his window now that he’d reduced his driving speed. Spring was in the air, finally, after a long, gray fall and winter full of funerals and hospital visits and incessant questions from authorities and journalists. It had been months and Patrick still twitched every time an unknown number called his cell phone.
At least the media had fled Cedar Lake a week after the murders, when a mass shooting on the other side of the country hit the news cycle and there was another fresh face to point fingers at.How could this happen?people cried again, clutching their well-worn pearls.
At night, though, he slept surprisingly soundly. No more tossing and turning, imagining how Clare had felt every agonizing second before she’d died. He understood now. The mystery of herdeath still niggled, however. Like Carrie, was the killer someone Clare had known, who’d wanted to peg it on an outsider?
He’d never know, and that was fine. Sometimes life—and death—simply took you by surprise, and no amount of planning could prepare you. He had to remind himself of that, when the debilitating weight of survivor’s guilt occasionally delayed him from getting out of bed in the morning. It had all been a roll of the dice that he’d escaped death and others hadn’t. If Jen were here, she’d smack him upside the head and tell him if he wanted to do right by his dead friends, he should live.
Reallylive. His parents hadn’t been happy about him dropping out of Harvard before the start of the school year, but they knew as well as he did that life was too damned short and fickle.
Patrick breathed deeply as wind rushed through the open window, appreciating the clear blue skies and the tang of salt water on the breeze. There was nothing on the horizon but rolling hills and sandy bluffs. Some trees, but not a single cedar forest for miles around. The final knot of tension he’d been carrying since the previous year unfurled. Slasher Summer was over.
Literally over. In light of the murders, the festival had been canceled until further notice, and the plans to rebuild theSlashercabin and open a museum had been postponed indefinitely.
Carrie had gotten her revenge on Cedar Lake in the end.
Patrick’s heart lightened as he pulled into the town and parked along the main street. The town’s business district was similar to Cedar Lake’s, lined with charming little mom-and-pop cafés and boutiques, mostly catering to tourists. A lighthouse thrust from the horizon instead of oppressive trees. Flower baskets, as well as decorative lights in the shape of Easter eggs and rabbits, hung from the wrought-iron lampposts.
Patrick found the place he was looking for, a diner with a cozy, retro feel. The door chimes jingled as he entered and strode across the scuffed black-and-white-checkered floor. The brunch rush hadn’t started yet. Only a single server stood behind the laminatecountertop, refilling a coffee cup for an old white man hunched on a vinyl-upholstered barstool. The old man glanced up from his newspaper crossword and tilted his baseball cap at Patrick in salute. Patrick nodded in return and then focused his attention on the server.
“I hear you’re looking for a line cook for the summer.”
The young man’s eyes narrowed. “I might be. Can I afford you? You look like a fancy Boston culinary school type.”
“I’ll work for cheap. Got a boyfriend in town I want to stay close to.” Patrick’s mouth quirked. “I have to warn you, though. I only cook vegetarian.”
Having seen his friends reduced to meat had turned him off all animal butchery.
The young man eyed him appraisingly. “I think I can work with that.”
Patrick grinned and then went behind the counter to throw his arms around Jason, enjoying the feel of his wiry body against his. Jason had lost some of his football-playing bulk while recovering from Mikey’s stabbing, but he wore his new leanness well. It suited the friendly manager of this sleepy small-town diner.
God, Patrick had missed him, and had felt bad he’d had to stay in Boston to prep for his end-of-year culinary school tests during the past month. Patrick might sleep soundly, but Jason slept with a restlessness that only Patrick’s presence could abate. The dark circles under his eyes were a testament to how much Jason needed him, and Patrick’s heart bled at the sight.
“Oh, just kiss already,” the old man grumbled.
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Patrick took Jason’s face between his hands and kissed him enthusiastically.
The world wasn’t safe. Clare’s death and Carrie’s murder spree had taught him that. But Jason was safe. TheSlashercabin had always felt like home to Patrick, because he was home wherever Jason was.
