Drip, drip, drip.
That’s the sound the blood makes as it slithers down the dead student’s arm, a crimson pool forming below the fingers of his outstretched hand. It’s the only noise I can hear above the rushing surge of my pulse and the ragged, frantic inhales of my breath.
“Chuck.”
I turn around and find Spencer standing there, dressed in a black hoodie and smelling like cigarettes.
A black hoodie.
Why the hell is he wearing a black hoodie?!
“I saw you running—” he starts as I scramble away and find my feet. It’s like, way early in the morning, and Spencer is out here smoking? It doesn’t make sense. Add in the black hoodie, and Church with the knife, and … “What the fuck is that?!” He chokes out, pointing behind me in the direction of the shrine.
“I …” There’s not enough time for me to get a single sentence out before two of the killers come crashing through the bushes.
Two killers … and Spencer Hargrove in a hoodie, awake at an hour he never is.
No. No. This is my forever crew; these are my friends.
“Spencer, run!” I scream, grabbing his hand and jerking him along with me in the way I should’ve grabbed Church. Why did I leave him there? The killer was waiting for me in the hallway, that’s why. But I can’t get past the feelings of fear and guilt that choke me as we sprint into the woods, and towards the other hot springs pool.
Branches slap my face as I run, my feet bleeding from the rocks and sticks and brambles that line the forest floor. Spencer stays right beside me, matching me stride for stride. That’s when we come around the corner and run into several adults wearing masks.
Masks.
Like something out of a fucking horror movie.
They look like foxes, these wily, grinning things that bring chills up across my skin.
“Holy shit,” I murmur, but Spencer doesn’t pause even long enough to take notice. He shoves me to the left, and then takes off with my hand in his, dragging me along with him. Within a few seconds, we’re emerging out of the trees and stumbling over the rocks that line the pool.
Together, we fall into the warm water, exploding through the surface with ragged breaths.
“Swim, Chuck,” Spencer urges, making sure I’ve got a head start before he takes off for the shore. We’re barely out of the water before huge hands are grabbing onto my shoulders and yanking me up the rest of the way.
It’s Church.
There’s blood everywhere, all over his hands, on his face, his yukata stained and hanging off one, smooth porcelain shoulder.
Now, there’s even blood on me.
“Let go of me!” I shout, freeing myself from the hands of the Student Council President. Spencer slides in front of me, arms out on either side, ready to fight.
“Don’t fucking touch her!” he snaps, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the woods. But there’s nobody there, just the boy who gave me an engagement ring … and then put a knife through our teacher.
“I need you both to calm down,” Church says calmly, swiping his palms down the front of his yukata and leaving crimson streaks.
“I saw you stab Mr. Dave,” I whisper, pointing at him, hand shaking. I want to believe it was self-defense. But then Spencer, and the hoodie, and … It occurs to me that this could be some sort of long game that the guys are playing, the ultimate exercise in bullying. Every incident I’ve suffered—the first knife chase that led me to Ranger, the twins discovering my secret right off the bat, the headless bird and candles—they’ve all been connected back to the guys somehow.
“You saw him what?!” Spencer chokes out, and his reaction is so genuine, it feels impossible to doubt him. And yet, some primal instinct in me remains wary. He rakes his fingers through his silver hair and glances back at me. The thing is, Church isn’t the only one with some explaining to do.
“I wasn’t stabbing him; I was removing the knife.” Church stays absurdly calm, moving toward us with slow, easy footfalls, the slap of his bare feet on the patio the only sound besides the lapping of the water against the shore. Spencer blocks him, dripping from his soggy hoodie, the hoodie that makes him seem so damn guilty. “It wasn’t deep—it hadn’t hit anything vital—and he asked me to help.”
“There’s a dead kid in those woods,” Spencer growls out, panting hard. He swipes his hand down his face and flicks the excess water aside. “There’s blood everywhere, and then here you are, covered in it.”
“Please, Spencer, don’t make an ass out of yourself,” Church says, his gaze fully trained on me. I feel like squirming, under that stare of his. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling here: guilt, relief, suspicion. All of the above, most like.
