Page 51

Fuck. Fucking-fuck. What a nuisance.

What if the masked man has been watching me all this time? Not just from today but in the last couple of weeks? What if I wasn’t the only one marked?

Lucas would be an easy target. He’s loud as fuck, obnoxious in his own way. Amani’s more careful, but that doesn’t rule her out. He could easily overpower her. The masked man would be smart to take them out first to get to me. This would be a logistical disaster, and my jaw tightens with the thought of it.

Xavier is still ‘missing’. Soon, the authorities will start filing him away, but if Lucas disappears next—if Amani does too—the pattern won’t take long to draw itself.

Coincidence only works once. And I refuse to become the common denominator.

I push into the darker stretch beyond the food trucks, circling the perimeter and checking the merchandise tent, bathrooms, and generators. Lucas would be somewhere off-limits, drawn to whatever was happening behind the scenes.

He’s nowhere obvious. And I keep looking.

I slow near a darker strip between two lighting rigs and scan the open ground beyond the tent spill. And then I see him.

The fucker in the ram skull mask.

He moves through the outer edge of the crowd like smoke given a spine with the utmost unhurried stride. Tall enough to break the line of sight even without the mask.

A cluster of girls stops him. One grabs her friend’s arm. They ask for a photo, leaning in close, fingers brushing the edge of the skull. He doesn’t flinch. He tilts his head slightly, offering his profile with the firelight catching along his chest and collarbone.

This psycho is clearly a scare actor, which means he works for Phantom Productions. What are the fucking odds of that?

I watch the interaction without moving, scrunching my nose in the slightest.

Another figure approaches from the tent entrance—the wolf skull mask from earlier. Taller than the girls, slightly broader than the ram skull. The two masks face each other briefly.

A signal passes between them and a canister somewhere near the ground hisses. Smoke surges upward, swallowing them both in seconds. The girls squeal and clap as they’ve just witnessed a magic trick. When the smoke thins, only the wolf skull remains, and the girls giggle, delighted.

“How did he do that?” one chimes, scanning the air.

I pivot slowly, widening my field of vision. Shit, where is he now? The open ground feels smaller as every shadow deepens. Every tall silhouette could be him. The exits feel farther away than they were five minutes ago. And I still can’t fucking find Lucas.

As I turn to move again, a face slams into my space.

All pale makeup, blackened eyes, and a fake hatchet inches from my cheek.

“Got ya!” the woman shrieks, dragging the fake blade down near my shoulder with exaggerated menace.

I don’t flinch.

My eyes track the angle of the prop instead, with its foam edges, painted scratches, and plastic grip. She waits for a reaction that doesn’t come.

I tilt my head slightly. “If you’re going to swing,” I say evenly, “commit to it.”

Her grin falters, forehead furrowing as she seemingly falls out of character.

“Uh-”

I push past her. The path narrows into a fabricated alley with wooden cutouts of crooked houses that lean toward each other overhead. Painted windows glow sickly yellow. Pumpkins line the baseboards in uneven rows as fake leaves lie scattered, crunching underfoot.

I move through this theatrical suburbia without slowing.

My irritation has settled deep within my bones, vibrating as I breathe. Just the steady pulse of being inconvenienced at scale.

I pull out my phone and call Lucas.

It rings.