Chapter Six

1.

On Sunday morning, Kinsley, Rory, and Tyler sat in one of the interview rooms at the Woodsboro police station. A sniffling Rory dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a tissue that should’ve been tossed twelve dabs ago. Without a fresh box of Kleenex in sight, she had no choice but to milk the tatters in her hand. Tyler, his knee bouncing, had a comforting arm around her. Kinsley sat with her arms crossed, staring at the table, looking despondent.

“I know it’s hot outside, but it feels like Antarctica in here,” Tyler said, trying to fill the space with something other than his girlfriend’s sobs.

“I think that’s to make perps uncomfortable enough to confess,” Kinsley said.

“Perps?” Tyler’s eyes widened. “You don’t think we’re suspects, do you?”

Kinsley shrugged.

They were alone. From the big-picture window, they could see a few officers in the main work area—two on their phones at their desks, one at the fax machine, and another tapping on his tablet. Although the interview room was quiet, it felt like a regular workday; still, frantic nervousness hung in the air like the smell of disease in a hospital.

“I hate how places like this are so bright,” Rory pouted.

Glancing up at the humming fluorescents, Tyler said, “We’ll get’cha outta here soon.”

After the news of Marta and Mark’s murder broke, Dewey decided to bring the three friends in. He assured them they weren’t suspects. Rory didn’t necessarily believe this, and now, after Kinsley’s observation, neither did Tyler. But since they were close friends with the couple, and since Rory had gotten a call, he wanted to bring them in for questioning. “Friendly questioning,” as he put it.

“I can’t believe they’re gone,” Rory whimpered.

“I know, babe,” Tyler said, rubbing her arm. “Me neither.”

Licking her lips, trying to wet her dry mouth, Kinsley said, “They didn’t deserve that.”

“Nobody deserves that,” Rory added, a hint of annoyance hidden within her tone.

The door opened, and Dewey entered, flanked by Deputy Judy and Sidney. Under normal circumstances, Rory might’ve brightened at seeing the great Sidney Prescott. However, considering two of her best friends were butchered, she only mustered a clipped smile in the form of a lip twitch.

“Girls,” Dewey said, then caught himself. “And… and guy—I mean, gentleman.” He shook his head at his awkwardness. “We’re, ah… we’re trying to figure out what’s going on.” Dewey didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone in particular. In fact, he spoke as if he were in a daze.

“We’re sorry, ladies,” Judy said, taking some pressure off her husband. “If we sound a little off, it’s because we’re dealing with a mystery of our own.”

Sidney sat down in a chair across from them. She looked around the room, and troubled recognition swept her eyes. While helping Kinsley with her research, Rory recalled a passage from one of Gale’s books regarding Sidney being in an interview room with Jill Roberts, Kirby Reed, and Olivia Morris. Judging by Sidney’s reaction, Rory wondered if this was the same room.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” Kinsley said to Sidney. “But we met about five years ago—at the Barnes and Noble in Santa Rosa. You signed my copy of your book, Out of Darkness, at an event.”

“I’m sorry,” Sidney said, offering a sympathetic smile.

Judy then formally introduced the girls to Sidney. She concluded by telling Sid that Rory had been the only one who’d gotten a call. “That’s correct, isn’t it?” she asked the group.

All three nodded

“Tell me,” Sidney asked, leaning forward, “do you have any idea who could’ve done this to your two friends?”

“Of course not,” Rory blurted, suddenly not caring that she was talking to Sidney Prescott.

“I understand you’re angry,” Sidney said, “but I’m here to help.”

Ashamed, Rory looked away. “Sorry.”

“Mark and Marta didn’t have any enemies,” Tyler said. “I’ve probably known them the longest. Nobody wanted to hurt them.”

Kinsley picked up her phone. “Sheriff,” she said, “I want to send you something. What’s your number?”

Dewey gave it to her, and Kinsley sent the text thread in which Brad told her that Evan Harris had his YouTube login. It took a moment for the text to go through and for Dewey to read it. After, he showed his phone to Judy and Sidney. Their expressions conveyed understanding. The text thread might’ve been their first big break.

“And Evan is having a memorial service for Brad tonight,” Kinsley added.

“At his house?” Dewey asked.

She nodded.

Deputy Sandra Sprig opened the door. “Sheriff,” she said. “Trace amounts of blood was found in the parking lot. The rain washed most of it away, though. Also, Officer Ward’s wife said he never came home last night, and Officer Wyman isn’t answering his phone.”

Running a hand through his graying hair, Dewey sighed. “What is Higgins saying?”

“That he left around one-thirty in the morning. He didn’t notice anything suspicious when he went to his car. He said Ward’s truck was gone.”

“Judy,” Dewey said to his wife, “take over here, I hafta,” he motioned with his head that he had to leave and tend to other matters.

“So we’re going with the plan?” Judy asked, as astute as ever.

“Yes,” he answered.

Crinkling her brow, Kinsley asked, “Did something happen here at the police station?”

Dewey gave her a tired look. “I know you work with Gale, so I’m not sure if you’re asking as a member of the press or out of curiosity, but either way…” He paused and shifted his weight from side to side as he scanned the faces in front of him. To Kinsley, it looked like he lost his train of thought. In fact, he looked like a man suddenly realizing that not only did he have the wrong answers to all the questions, but that he no longer knew what the questions were. “But either way, I’m not going to comment.” With that, he left the room.

For a moment after the door closed, the room was silent. Dewey’s exit seemed like a reset.

“Are we suspects or something?” Tyler asked, breaking the silence. His tenor wasn’t nasty. Though annoyance clung to his words.

“No,” Judy said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Why did you hesitate?” Kinsley asked.

“You’re not suspects,” Sidney said, her voice wavering.

Leaning over and whispering in her ear, Tyler said to Rory, “I didn’t know she was on the force.”

“I’m consulting on this matter,” Sidney said, overhearing the comment.

“Really?” Kinsley asked. “How so?”

Rory side-eyed her friend, hating how much venom her words carried. Yes, the three of them were walking a tightrope between fear and trouble, with safety too far ahead of them. And, yes, Rory snapped at Sidney earlier, but that was out of sadness. Kinsley’s frustration seemed to be something else. Maybe she was upset Sidney hadn’t remembered signing her book.

Offering another smile, this one lacking appeal, Sidney said, “I’ve been through this before. If I can help in any way, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“And we want you to,” Rory spoke up. “We’re all just really upset…” Thinking of Marta and Mark, she couldn’t finish. Instead, she broke down and folded into Tyler’s arms.

Glancing at Rory, then back at Sidney, Kinsley said, “Rory’s right. I’m sorry. It’s just scary being in the crosshairs of a killer”

“We understand that,” Judy said. “And that’s why we’d like to put the three of you in a safehouse. That way, we’ll ensure you’ll get through this safely.”

“What do you mean: a safehouse?” Tyler asked.

“A place that’s under constant surveillance,” Sidney clarified.

“So you want to turn this into Halloween: Resurrection?” Tyler asked.

“I never saw it,” Sidney said.

Tyler held up a hand, indicating it wasn’t important.

“It’ll be in an undisclosed location,” Judy added. “You’ll be provided with food, surveilled internet access, streaming, PlayStation; whatever you need to stay entertained until we capture the perp… or perps.”

“Hold on,” Kinsley said. “Do you really want to keep us safe, or are you putting us in this safehouse because you think one of us is the killer?”

Judy opened her mouth to say something, but then didn’t. Instead, Sidney said, “It’s both.” The blunt suddenness of her statement took all three of them aback.

Irked, Tyler chuckled. “I can’t believe this,” he said.

“I couldn’t kill anybody,” Rory said.

“So when you said we weren’t suspects, you were lying?” Kinsley asked.

“We’re not exactly lying,” Sidney said. “Look, if, when I first met Billy Loomis, someone told me he was capable of doing what he did, I would’ve called them crazy. The same with my cousin, Jill. It might hurt your feelings, but we’re being honest with you.”

“You’re being honest after you lied,” Kinsley said.

“Kins,” Rory said, sighing.

“And,” Judy said, “if you’re innocent, you’ll be safe. You don’t have to go; we can’t make you. But we hope you will.”

“What about the memorial at Evan’s house?” Kinsley asked.

“We’ll take care of that,” Judy said.

Kinsley picked up her phone again and began texting. Noting a strange silence enveloping her, she looked up. Both Judy and Sidney were staring. Raising her brow and offering a clipped chuckle, Kinsley said, “I’m texting Quillory. I’m letting Gale know I won’t be in today.” She then added under her breath, “Which is a major kick in the ass.”

“I should add that if you decide to take our offer, we’ll need your phones,” Judy said.

“Our phones?” Tyler asked.

“Just for a bit,” Judy said. “Forensics will put a surveillance app on it. They’ll take it off once this ordeal is over. There will also be a landline at the house.”

“This is an unconventional investigation idea,” Sidney said. “We need to have access to what you’re doing online, and your phone calls.”

“Perfect,” Tyler said, with a huff.

“Something doesn’t make sense to me,” Rory said, her voice delicate and cracking under the few remaining tears. “If we’re suspects, how will you catch us in a safehouse?”

Sidney and Judy looked at one another. Judy decided to answer it. “If the murders stop while you’re in there, we’ll have a better idea where to look.”

2.

Sitting behind Stephen Jackson’s old desk, Gale read an email on her MacBook. Disgust, more than concentration, masked her face. A block of unformatted text filled her screen. No breaks, no indents, just writing after writing after writing. Eventually, she shook her head and rubbed her temples with her right hand. Next, she pressed the call button on the phone and said, “Wilson, get in here, now.”

A few moments later, Wilson, doing his best impression of Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, sulked into Stephen’s old office. “Yes.”

“What is this?” she asked, throwing a hand at her computer.

Clunking over, standing behind her chair, and leaning over her shoulder, he said, “Email.”

“I know that, chuckle-head. But what does it say? I’m going cross-eyed trying to read it.”

“Lots of stuff.”

“Where do you come from?” Gale asked, exasperated.

“Mars.”

Knitting her brow, Gale looked over her shoulder. Her expression did all the talking: ‘Are you nuts!?’

“Mars, Pennsylvania,” Wilson clarified.

Rolling her eyes, Gale refocused on her computer. “All I wanted to know was if I was correct on the dates, and if all the referenced names were accurate.”

“They are.”

“Then why didn’t you write that?”

“Did.” Wilson pointed at the screen. “In there.”

“For someone who speaks so little, you write the longest, most boring…” Gale took in a breath and let it out slowly. No need to say something she might later regret. Sure, Wilson could be maddening, but it would be much worse if he quit and she had to double-check her own research.

“Done, ma’am?” Wilson asked.

“Yes.”

As he left, Eve entered.

“I swear,” Gale said to Eve, watching Wilson go, “If this place ever goes under, he’ll have a great career writing the Terms and Conditions for household appliances.”

“Kinsley won’t be in today,” Eve said, paying little attention to Gale’s comment.

Letting out another sigh, Gale began typing while saying, “I know her friends were killed last night, but we have a magazine to run. Tell her she needs to suck it up and get in her.”

“This is a literary magazine, Gale,” Eve said. Judging by the look on her face, it killed her that Gale had suddenly become the grand pupa, the head of the entire kit and caboodle.

“It’ll be a literary magazine with an edge if I have anything to do with it.” Gale didn’t look at Eve as she spoke.

“She’s not coming in because she’s at the police station,” Eve added, scowling at Gale’s lack of respect.

To this, Gale looked up, took off her glasses, and put one of the ear holders into her mouth. “For questioning?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Eve answered. “I just got her text a few minutes ago.”

Gale reached for her cell phone, intending to call Dewey to check things out, when it rang. The name Kinsley Saunders showed on the screen. “That’s her, now.” She picked up. “Kinsley, hello.”

“Hello, Gale.” It wasn’t Kinsley.

For a split second, Gale’s face showed surprise. Then it relaxed. She was an old pro at this. The dreaded call wasn’t going to throw her off her game, not after she just got her groove back. And even if it did give her a bit of a start, she didn’t want to show weakness in front of Eve. “Why are you calling me?”

Eve’s eyes widened, and they stayed that way. Miming toward the phone, she mouthed, ‘Is that him?’

Gale nodded.

“I have a message for you,” Ghostface said.

Putting the phone on speaker, she asked, “Make it quick. I have work to do.”

“I’ve edited your editor out of her editing job. She won’t be in today or ever again.”

Eve put her hand over her heart in an ‘oh, my!’ gesture.

“Who?” Gale asked. “Sylvia?”

“Uh-huh,” Ghostface confirmed.

Fluttering her eyelashes, annoyed, Gale said, “Great. I needed her to meet my Monday deadline!” Her nose flared, and her eyes were hot enough to burn steel.

Eve crinkled her brow.

“Don’t start with me,” Gale whispered to Eve, noticing her disapproving expression.

“Do we have company?” Ghostface asked.

Quickly, Eve shook her head back and forth: No, no! Please no, don’t tell this lunatic I’m in the room!

“Don’t worry about the company I keep,” Gale spewed. “What do you want from me!?”

“Calm down, Gale. A woman of your advanced age shouldn’t get so upset. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

“California health plates and herbal tea do wonders for the body.”

“And raisin bagels,” Ghostface added.

“So you know what I have for breakfast, congratulations.” Anger, without a hint of fear, gripped Gale’s voice.

Outside, Ellory pulled his Jetta into his space and got out, while talking on his cellphone. Eve snapped her fingers to get Gale’s attention. When Gale looked up, Eve played charades, pointing at Ellory, then putting a hand to her ear with her thumb and pinky sticking out.

Thinking Eve was asking if Ellory was making the call, Gale scrunched her nose and waved her away.

“You don’t seem very upset about your poor Sylvia,” Ghostface said.

“Life moves on. Sylvia was an old woman who accomplished a lot and lived a full life. Can’t be too upset about that.”

“Is that what your press release will say? How eloquent.” He paused to chuckle at his comment, then continued. “You’re only two years younger than she was, Gale… or should I say… old woman.”

“You should only say that if you want to lose your balls.”

“How do you know I have balls? Jill Roberts didn’t have balls. Mrs. Loomis didn’t have balls. Metaphorically speaking, Stu Macher didn’t have balls.”

“Look, you little shit, I don’t need this right now. I have a feature to finish. How about this, asshole, you do your job, and I’ll do mine. Now leave me the hell alone!”

She ended the call.

Eve stood before Gale’s desk, her mouth agape. Gale enjoyed her employee’s expression. She stood up to the killer in front of an underling. That should have some effect on confidence.

A moment later, Ellory walked into the room. Picking up on the unusual silence, he asked, “Wha’d I miss?”

3.

Just before noon, Stu arrived back at his cousin’s house. Since the Woodsboro Police had no evidence tying him to the person found in the dumpster, plus two WCC students were killed while he was locked up, they had to release him.

When Sheriff Riley first cuffed him, he almost flew into a rage. It took all his willpower to keep his cool. Yet, now that it happened, he hadn’t minded sleeping in the holding cell; it had been his best sleep since getting out of the big house. The only pain in the ass about the whole ordeal was fighting through the press waiting for him outside the police station.

He’d only been out of prison a few days, but putting the key in the lock to enter Becky’s house already wore on his nerves like a cat’s claws on the armrests of an expensive couch. He knew she wanted him out. And now that he had been arrested, she’d likely assume the worst despite his innocence.

Frankly, he didn’t want to be there. He didn’t even know her before going to prison. If he was correct, she was barely out of diapers back then. But where was he to go? A part of him wished for his old cell. After the first ten years, incarceration became easier. After twenty, it was life.

Now that he was out, he wondered if regaining his freedom wasn’t part of his punishment; a sick joke designed to screw with his head. He could picture the powers-that-be laughing with one another: ‘Yeah, go ahead and put the poor bastard out. Prison has gotten too easy for him. He’s gotten too comfortable. He knows all the rules. So, go ahead, and kick his ass out into a world that blew past him decades ago. Let’s laugh as he struggles all over again.’

And even if that was the case, didn’t he deserve it? If he were being honest with himself, he wouldn’t have been able to answer that without nuance. Sure, he killed people and, yes, the prison therapist and chaplain reminded him that he was responsible but redeemable. Yet after nearly thirty years in prison, his conscience was so far removed from his teenage actions. Frankly, he felt disconnected from his crimes.

As he entered the house, he slid the keys into his pocket. “Becky, I’m back.” No one answered in response. This didn’t surprise him; his cousin treated him like a splinter she couldn’t get out of her finger.

Dust floated in the sunlight filtering through the blinds; each speck drifting like plankton moving with the tide. The place was the type of quiet Stu remembered from his childhood. When afternoons seemed to last days, and a bike ride with friends was only slightly better than sleeping the afternoon away. He sighed, slowly realizing how much he’d thrown away.

The television was off. Unusual for Becky, she always watched her soaps. Then again, it was Sunday; he had to remind himself of that. In prison, he lost track of the days. Now, on the outside, where knowing the day mattered, he struggled to do so. So much about life frightened him now. For the two-hundredth time since getting out, a vision of Tatum flashed in his head, and he thought… he thought… He knew exactly what he thought, but after so much time, he still couldn’t admit it to himself.

“Fuck,” he whispered, suddenly feeling like complete and utter shit.

“Hello, Stu,” Ghostface said, appearing in the archway leading into the dining room.

Stu glanced up; his mouth fell open, and his eyes went wide.

Ghostface brought up a knife. It caught the sunlight in a sharp glint.

“Oh shit,” Stu said, retreating. The killer came after him, prompting the ex-con to turn and sprint toward the door.

Stu burst out the front door, breaking the hinge on the screen door as he went. He ran the length of the rancher and turned the corner. There, he leaned against the brick wall and waited for Ghostface to run past. When he did, Stu lunged at his pursuer. Wrapping both arms around his midsection, Stu’s momentum lifted Ghostface off his feet. They tumbled to the ground, tussling. Each struggled to get the upper hand. Quickly, Stu grabbed the wrist of his attacker, keeping Ghostface’s knife-holding hand secure.

Over the years, Stu had been involved in his share of prison fights, but his attacker was no slouch. Stu landed a fist to Ghostface’s cheek. Ghostface landed a body blow to Stu’s side. Since both were off-balance, these strikes were weak and did little damage. When Stu tried to get up, the mask-wearing maniac wrestled his wrist from Stu’s grasp and brought the knife around and into Stu’s side.

Stu grunted in pain. In response, he brought his knee up into Ghostface’s groin. Next, he got to his feet while applying pressure to his side.

Blood spurted from between his fingers. Experience told him the darker the blood, the less survivable. Desperate, his mind raced, searching for a way out of this.

As Ghostface struggled to his knees, Stu kicked him hard in the face, knocking him back down.

He looked down at his injured side. Blood flowed like water. Looking up, he saw the old water tower looming above the tree line. Next, he glanced over at his attacker. With time running short and nowhere else to go, he started through the field, toward the woods. If he was going to die, he wanted to take this fucker with him.

Less than a quarter mile later, Stu broke through the remains of a brittle and forgotten wooden fence that encircled the water tower. The cotton on the left side of his shirt was soaked with blood and stuck to him like glue. He fell to one knee, wincing at the pain. Beside him, lying in the tall grass, he found a piece of wood from the fence he had just kicked to the ground. Two rusty nails stuck out of one end.

Behind him, his attacker came running.

“Come on you bastard,” Stu whispered, picking up the old piece of wood. Next, he dug deep, garnering every ounce of will he had, and climbed the metal ladder running the tower’s side. Each ascending rung sent a shot of shock through his veins. Although he didn’t want to die, he knew this was just an inherent reaction; something that allowed the human species to thrive. Because, in a way, he thought dying might be better than living in a world he was no longer a part of.

Once at the top of the ladder, he crawled through a trapdoor onto a catwalk that surrounded the top of the tower. The metal walkway was no more than four feet in width. Never having been high enough to test his vertigo, he found the narrow walkway, combined with the 120-foot drop, made him queasy. On top of this, blood loss caused a bit of lightheadedness. Weak, he sat on the catwalk, holding the piece of wood like a mallet, waiting for his attacker to poke his head through the trapdoor. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

From his position, he could see for miles and miles. He saw his cousin’s house, now a dot on the road. Further off, he saw another house. On the other side of the tower, he saw the town of Sonoma Bay resting in a wavy haze.

Looking down through the trapdoor, he saw the maniac three-fourths of the way up and coming fast. Seeing the mask again after all these years, and knowing he had once worn the same disguise, made the whole situation surreal. His vertigo wouldn’t allow him to continue keeping tabs on the encroaching killer; he had to return to a seated position.

Then something occurred to him… Had the bastard chasing him killed his cousin?

Then another question. If she had been murdered… did he feel anything about it?

When the mask popped up through the square space, Stu brought the wood down, smashing his attacker in the face, puncturing the mask with the rusty nails. The mask disappeared from view. The whole thing was pretty anticlimactic in his opinion. He had just killed Ghostface… he had just saved Woodsboro from enduring any more murders. And it was so easy.

Still, he wasn’t out of the woods. Suddenly, he wanted to live. He wanted Sheriff Dewey Riley to eat a big bowl of shit, for it was he, Stewart Macher, who took care of the current nightmare plaguing Woodsboro, on the verge of his retirement, no less. The press would shove that right up his ass. Yet, if he didn’t get down from the water tower, his chances of living would go from five percent to zero, quick.

Crawling toward the trapdoor and leaning over to begin his descent, a knife whizzed through the air and caught him in the shoulder. He grumbled in an expletive-filled wail of pain and fell onto his back, dropping the nail-laden piece of wood to clutch at his new wound. Ghostface climbed up through the trap door and, standing before Stu on the catwalk, adjusted the mask he had just put back on. The holes left by the rusty nails were prominent on the disguise’s forehead.

“You crazy son-of-a-bitch,” Stu spewed, realizing the fucker had tricked him by putting only the mask up through the door.

Ghostface approached, slowly, holding the knife skyward. Thinking fast, Stu locked his legs around his pursuer’s, tripping the killer up. His attacker went to his knees, dropping the knife. Like an envelope into a mail slot, the knife slid between the grated steel floor of the catwalk and dropped to the ground below. Stu then kicked Ghostface off the edge of the narrow walkway. The mask-clad maniac grabbed a vertical support to keep from falling to the ground below.

Stu turned, sat up, and drove his boots into the arm holding onto the support. But Ghostface took hold of the old fence board with his free hand, swung it, and jammed the rusty nails into Stu’s left leg. Another wail. Billy Loomis took it easier on him thirty years ago.

With the nails sunk deep into Stu’s leg, Ghostface yanked him toward the edge of the catwalk. Stu had no vertical support to grasp onto. With one final and hard tug, Stu went off the side of the tower.

On his way down, another vision of Tatum flashed in his head.

“Sorry,” he said as he landed in a growth of prickly bushes. His spine turned to gravel while his ribs crushed his lungs. He died about a minute later, choking on his blood.

4.

When they entered the safehouse, Kinsley, Rory, Tyler, and Sidney found themselves in a wide hallway with high ceilings. A dark wooden floor led to an archway and another hallway with two staircases. One staircase led to the east wing of the house, while the other led to the west wing.

“This place is incredible,” Tyler said in awe, looking up at the chandelier and sixteen-foot ceiling above him.

“Two staircases?” Sidney questioned, turning to the officer.

“They both go upstairs, ma’am,” Officer Mickelson said. “Three bedrooms are in the east wing, and four are in the west.”

To their left, an archway led to the living room. Two comfortable-looking couches and a television that must have been 75” resided in this room. Plush carpet covered the floor, and the walls were painted beige. To their right, an archway led to a sitting room. In Rory’s opinion, the only difference between the rooms was that one contained the TV.

“This isn’t a house, it’s a mansion,” Rory said, just as amazed as her boyfriend.

“Your tax dollars at work,” Mickelson said.

“How long do we have to be here?” Kinsley asked.

“You don’t have to be here at all,” Mickelson answered. “But hopefully we’ll catch this bastard… or bastards doing this, and you’ll be out of here by tomorrow.”

Sidney continued down the hall. On her way, the handle of her overnight bag fell out of her hand. Rory sped up her stride and picked it up for her.

“Thanks,” Sidney said.

“You don’t look so good,” Rory said. “Are you feeling alright?”

Instead of answering, Sidney smiled.

At the end of the hall, Sidney, Rory, and Tyler went up one set of steps. Rory expected Kinsley to follow them. However, she didn’t. She selected the opposite set of stairs.

“Kins,” Rory said. “Don’t you want to stay together?”

“We’re in the same house,” Kinsley said, halfway up her set of steps.

To Rory, her friend looked tense. Sure, none of them wanted to be there… although, seeing its size and feeling its ‘fancy-dancy’ vibe, staying the night wasn’t going to be a chore. Yet, it seemed like something more troubling was on Kinsley’s mind.

“You okay?” Rory asked.

Kinsley must’ve noticed the puzzlement on her friend’s face because her expression softened. “Yeah. It’s not you. I just need to finish editing Gale’s article. I have a better chance of doing that alone. I’ll visit ya later. We can watch a movie or something. The first Stab, maybe.” She continued up the steps.

Hurt, Rory crinkled her nose at the film suggestion. Why would she want to watch Stab after what happened to Marta and Mark?

If circumstances had been different, Rory would’ve received the safehouse the same way she would a vacation hotel room or expensive Airbnb. Even though she couldn't get Marta and Mark’s deaths out of her head, Rory couldn’t help but find the place cozy.

“Our tax dollars at work,” Tyler said, tossing his bag onto the bed and repeating Officer Mickelson’s words. “It’s cold in here.” He shivered.

“I wonder if Kinsley’s room is as nice as this one,” Rory said, looking around and kicking off her flip-flops. The textured plush carpet felt wonderful on the soles of her feet.

A California king-sized bed didn’t look very big compared to their massive bedroom. And although they didn't need it at this time of year, a fireplace sat on the wall opposite the bed. Above the fireplace was a flat-screen TV. Two nightstands—one on either side of the bed—held a lamp, a charging station, and a drawer. In one corner was a desk and chair.

“Whoa,” Tyler exclaimed, opening a door he thought went to a closet. “We have our own bathroom!”

Rory picked up the remote, turned on the television, and sat on the bed.

“Authorities have identified the individual found inside a dumpster behind the Garden Brew Coffee Shop yesterday afternoon,” a newscaster was saying. “Twenty-year-old Taylor Andrews was discovered after the Woodsboro Fire Department put out a dumpster fire.”

It felt like someone had punched Rory in the stomach. “Tyler,” she cried, her voice sounding like breaking glass. Tears filled her eyes. No, she didn’t know Taylor for as long as Mark or Marta; she had met her at Woodsboro Community College. During that short period, however, she knew Taylor was a kind-hearted person whom everyone loved.

“Taylor?” Tyler asked, directing his attention to the television.

“Who is doing this?” Rory asked, putting a hand through her hair.

Judging by the look on his face, he hated that he had no answers.

Unable to take any more, Rory turned off the TV, stood up, walked over to a set of three windows, and sat down on a bench beneath them. They looked out over the home’s front yard. She curled her legs under her and stared outside. It was still early afternoon. The day’s heat, radiating off the glass, felt good against Rory’s face. She wondered if whoever had prepared the house for them was the same Eskimo who ran the thermostat at the police station.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wondered what it must have been like for her friends to die. Did it hurt? Then something so horrific occurred to her that her heart sank to the depths of her misery. Was Taylor dead when that dumpster was set on fire? God, she hoped so.

“To burn to death,” she whispered.

“What?” Tyler asked.

“Nothing.”

At the house across the street, a man stood with a hose, spraying water into his front yard garden. Nearby, a child played fetch with a dog—a little terrier that looked like it had stepped out of the land of Oz. The sight of something so innocent made Rory’s breath hitch in her throat. She compared this scene—Norman Rockwell, live and in color—with all the bad stuff going on in her life and almost broke down in fresh tears. However, it seemed she was all cried out.

Last night’s storm was nowhere in sight. Overhead, a bright blue sky gave Rory hope. That hope faded as soon as she realized Marta and Mark would never finish their Party of Five binge. In their memory, she thought she might give the series a try. After all, she always liked Lacey Chabert in the Hallmark movies, Jennifer Love Hewitt in Ghost Whisperer, and the other one.

“What’cha thinkin’ ‘bout?” Tyler asked.

“Marta and Mark and Taylor,” she answered, keeping her focus out the window.

Tyler walked up to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m not going to let anything like that happen to you.”

“I know.” And Rory did know this. She had no doubt that Tyler would put his life on the line to save hers, and she loved him for it. The problem was that a psychotic killer didn’t always cooperate with the wishes of their victims. As she understood it, Mark died first; he died protecting Marta. With this in mind, she stood and gave Tyler a big hug, squeezing hard.

After a moment’s hesitation, he hugged her back.

“If we survive this, can we binge-watch Party of Five?”

“You bet,” he answered.

During their embrace, they heard a quick, clipped buzz come from the ceiling. They both looked around and saw a camera focusing on them.

“Oh, yeah,” Rory said, plopping back down on the bench. “I forgot we’re on candid camera.”

Tyler’s eyes flashed, noticing something outside. Rory turned and looked out the window. Two cop cars pulled up to the house. One parked in the driveway, and the other parked next to the curb.

“Are we in jail, Ty?” Rory asked, keeping her attention focused on the cop cars.

He only sighed in response.

5.

Three doors down—the last room on the left—Kinsley had little time to settle into her new digs, which, except for the fireplace and attached bathroom, was pretty much the same as Rory and Tyler’s. Instead of taking in her surroundings, she sat at the desk, typing away on her MacBook. With a pair of AirPods in her ears, listening to ‘All Comes Crashing’ by Metric, she set about correcting Gale’s typos and misspellings. She dared not reword a single sentence, figuring the sometimes difficult former journalist would take it as a personal slight.

Now that Sylvia was dead, Kinsley had no safety net—no one who would check up on her; she needed to get the edits right the first time. To increase the pressure, her hero-reporter needed the Woodsboro Murders Article back in an hour so the design department could lay out the spread for Quillory’s latest edition.

“This is big, Kinsley,” Gale had told her earlier. “If you get this done for me, I’ll have to consider making you my apprentice.”

With those words rattling around in her head, she was damn sure going to do the best editing job she ever—

“Oh, damn it!” Kinsey shouted to the empty room when her hotspot disconnected. Right in the middle of checking one of Wilson’s facts, too. Checking the phone, she saw 2% in the battery icon. To save power, it turned off its hotspot feature. The police must have run the phone’s battery down with whatever they did to it. That was no good; she’d have to email Gale soon.

Pushing her chair out from under her, she rushed to the nightstand and pulled out the drawer. Woodsboro P.D. told them that’s where they’d find a brief of FAQ’s. In the drawer, she found paperwork with the Wi-Fi password: ‘SledgeHammer’ written at the top.

On her way back to the desk, the door opened, and Officer Mickelson poked her head in. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Kinsley answered, sitting down. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I thought I heard cursing.”

“No.” Yes, she just lied to the cop, but she needed to finish her work. She didn’t have time to relay the riveting story of how she walked across the room to find the Wi-Fi password.

Mickelson walked in.

“Um…” Kinsley raised a brow. “I have things to do.”

“Sorry, ma’am, but I just got a message from the sheriff, and he wanted me to ask you a question.”

“What question?”

“When digital forensics handled your phone, they accessed your deleted files.” Kinsley’s shoulders fell. She knew what he was going to say. “Is there a reason you deleted Stu Macher’s number from your phone?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to talk to him.” Then, crossing her arms, she continued, “I’m sorry, but can you tell me when I gave anyone permission to go through my phone?”

Mickelson pursed his lips and ran his fingers up the side of his cheek, scratching his stubble. Kinsley wasn’t sure whether this was embarrassment or him being performative. “Is there a reason you didn’t tell us?” he asked.

“Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?”

Mickelson grimaced. “You’re not under arrest. Sheriff Riley merely found it odd.”

“I didn’t tell anyone because we live in Woodsboro while a Ghostface killing spree is happening. If I got a call—out of the blue, I might add—from one of the OG’s, it kinda puts a bad light on me.”

“Not necessarily. What did he want, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I barely let him talk. Something about Gale and an interview. I told him never to call me again and hung up.” Kinsley uncrossed her arms, put the tips of her fingers on her MacBook’s keyboard, and said, “I really have a lot to do.” Mickelson stood there, staring at her. “What?” she asked, flustered.

“This is something that raised some eyebrows, is all,” Mickelson said, not removing his gaze. “As I understand it, you want to be a journalist. I’d think you’d want to talk to one of the… OG’s—as you put it.”

“Not really.” Kinsley offered the cop a pissed-off smile. “He’s old news.”

“Maybe he is, and maybe he—”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Kinsley cut him off. “But if I don’t get this article edited for Gale Weathers, you’ll have another murder on your hands… Mine.”

Nodding, Mickelson said, “Dewey might want to talk to you tomorrow. Have a good night, ma’am.”

“I will,” Kinsley said, twiddling her fingers in the air in a sarcastic ‘goodbye’ gesture.

6.

Sylvia Ackermire was found dead in her bed. As soon as Gale hung up on the killer, she called Dewey and told him what Ghostface had confessed to. The white sheets around the former editor’s head were deep crimson. It looked as if she had been attacked during an afternoon nap, because the sheets weren’t rumpled or crumpled. And since no blood was found anywhere else in the house, they knew the spot where she was found was the spot where she breathed her last.

The woman’s bedroom was decorated in a minimalist style. From everything Dewey understood about Miss Ackermire, she was certainly that. Sleek, white cabinets with only the necessities on top—no trinkets for her—were placed in the center of the wall opposite her white-sheeted bed. White curtains flowed from plain black rods. Never even took a husband because she wanted her life as slimmed down as possible; at least that’s what her sister once told Dewey. Thinking about it, an editor was a perfect job for someone like Sylvia.

“Damn!” Dewey exclaimed, slamming his fist into his hand.

All the white in her room made the dark red blood that much more shocking.

“Sweetie,” Judy said instinctively, putting a hand on his shoulder. Tricky, the medical examiner, side-eyed this affectionate touch. “We’re married,” she told the busybody. He grunted and went back to work.

Dewey shook her hand off and walked out of the dead woman’s bedroom, into the hall. This surprised her. He had never been upset enough to shake her loving touch away.

Judy walked out into the hallway and found Dewey bracing himself on the banister. His jaw was clenching and unclenching over and over again. She approached and stood next to him. “Wanna talk?”

For a long moment, it seemed he didn’t want to talk. Then he said, “Do you ever wonder how much one can take? The woman in there, the two kids last night, the young woman burned in the dumpster… everyone…” he sighed. “And now we can’t find Ward or Wyman.”

“Or Brad Anderson,” Judy added.

“Or Brad Anderson, Dewey repeated, forgetting their first victim. It makes me wonder what it was all about. Did I waste thirty years of my life? Billy and Stu started this in my rookie year, and look… On the verge of hanging it up, and nothing’s changed. Here I was,” he took his weight off the banister and shook his head, “almost out.”

“You haven’t wasted anything. You’ve kept Woodsboro safe.”

He shook his head, not wanting to hear it. “Woodsboro has kept itself safe. We’re the police. We show up after the crime takes place. If that mess,” he motioned with his head toward the former Miss Ackermire’s bedroom, “doesn’t prove it, I don’t know what will. I’ve been nothing but a paper pusher after the fact.”

“You know that’s not true.” Judy approached him again, but not to touch him this time; only to look at him closer in the eye.

“I couldn’t keep my sister safe,” he said, looking her dead in the eye.

This statement shocked Judy. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. Sure, he’d mentioned Tatum before, but never so often. “Okay,” Judy conceded, “you couldn’t keep Tatum from…” She paused, not wanting to be so blunt. “You couldn’t prevent what happened to her. But if it wasn’t for you, a lot more people—Sidney and Gale among them—would be dead. You’ve made a huge difference. And I love you for it.”

He put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her into him, and kissed her forehead.

They couldn’t have timed this embrace more perfectly. “Shame, shame,” Tricky said, exiting the woman’s bedroom.

Releasing the hug, Dewey and Judy shook their heads and rolled their eyes in sync.

7.

Standing on tiptoes, Rory looked out the window over the safehouse’s kitchen sink as twilight ushered in the transition from day to night. Even the place's backyard was impressive: two rose gardens, an expensive-looking grill—with counter space on either side, an in-ground swimming pool in the center of a flagstone patio, and a horseshoe pit for good measure. No one would be taking a dip in the pool. The cover lay folded on its far side, and the water was still green.

She watched a cop walk the backyard fence line, shining a flashlight into the overgrowth along the property line.

“Are you scared, Ty?” she asked her boyfriend.

“No,” Tyler answered, his head buried in the open fridge as he pushed aside bottles of water, packages of cheese, cartons of eggs, and containers of Arm and Hammer, looking for something to eat. “We’re surrounded by cops.”

With its hardwood flooring and modern appliances, the kitchen was as impressive as the rest of the house. Rory wanted to like everything. Yet, each time she started to enjoy the space, the thought of Taylor burning to death spread through her mind like poison invading a vein.

Closing the door, Tyler said, “Does Grubhub have a website or is it only a phone app?”

Coming down off her tiptoes, Rory turned and said, “One of the cops is coming back with Chinese.”

“Well, he’s taking his sweet-ass time,” Tyler said. “Plus, I don’t want Chinese.”

“The thing is,” Rory continued, “we can’t order from Grubhub. The sheriff doesn’t want anyone knowing where we are.”

“Not even food delivery? It’s not like they know us.”

Shrugging, Rory said, “That’s what he told us. You mean you can’t find a snack in there?” With a nod, she motioned toward the fridge.

“There’s plenty to eat if you’re a carnivore.”

“I’m a carnivore,” Rory said. “You’re the only herbivore I know.”

“I eat meat. It just needs to be the right kind. Not bacon and hot dogs.”

“Sure, sure,” Rory said, strolling over to him—her flip-flops shuffling against the linoleum floor. She planted her forehead on his chest.

Smirking, Tyler extended his arm, turned it into an ‘L,’ and made a muscle as his blonde girlfriend looked up at him. “Does this say I’m doing anything wrong in the eating department?”

Playing coy, she slowly shook her head back and forth.

They had Rory’s Spotify streaming through the living room television. ‘Take Me Home’ by Kids in America was currently playing. For a safehouse, the place had a decent sound system. Not only that, but the living room put their nice bedroom to shame. More hardwood floors, a larger fireplace, the aforementioned seventy-five-inch flat screen, two comfy couches, and a nice reading nook with a rolltop desk and lamp.

“Go on in the living room,” Rory said, “and I’ll find something to eat for you.”

The back door opened, and a cop walked in with Evan.

“There’re five bedrooms upstairs,” the cop was saying, “pick whichever one is still available.”

“Hey, Rory… Tyler,” Evan said. “This is something, huh? Officer Mickelson was telling me it’s new construction.”

“Why are you here?” Rory asked.

“It’s a pleasure seeing you, as well,” he said through a veil of sarcasm. “And I’m here thanks to Kinsley. Apparently, she said something about me down at the police station.”

Rory’s eyes shifted as she recalled Kinsley doing exactly that.

“Frickin’ Sheriff Riley—himself—came to my house and asked me to come here.” He used air quotes around the word ‘asked.’

“Sir,” Rory asked Mickelson. “Is there another safehouse he can stay in? I don’t think there’s enough room here for his ego.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the cop said, stone-faced—as if he didn’t have time for their ‘young people’ shit. “This is it.”

“When did you stop liking me, Rory?” Evan asked.

“Mmm,” Rory answered, tapping her chin. “I don’t know, Evan. Maybe it started in ninth grade, when you put that sign on my back.”

“Oh, yeah,” Evan laughed. “I forgot about that.” Recalling what he had written on the sign, he said, “Rory stuffs her bra.”

“And since,” Rory said, jaw clenched, “you’ve continued to be a jerk.”

“So you’re saying if I didn’t put that sign on your back, you might’ve ended up with me? The brains? Instead of the brawn?” His eyes met Tyler’s. Then Evan winked.

“Dickhead,” Tyler said so only Rory could hear.

“I ended up with both brains and brawn,” Rory said, wrapping her arms around her beau.

“Any questions?” the cop asked Evan, uninterested in the conversation happening in front of him. His tone suggested there better be no more questions, because he wanted to leave.

“No,” Evan answered. “I’m sure they’ll show me around.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Tyler said.

“Funny,” Evan said, walking past Tyler but not before clapping him on the back. “I have good news, however.” In the dining room, he put his bag on the table, opened it, and pulled out a Blu-ray copy of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. “I brought Brad’s favorite movie.” He then pulled out an unopened bottle of Casamigos Blanco Tequila. “And his liquor of choice. We can have the memorial right here. Where’s Kinsley anyway?”

“Upstairs,” Rory answered. Then she said, “Texas Chainsaw Massacre!? Three of our good friends were just murdered.”

“Rory, you’re a horror movie fiend,” Evan said.

“Yes, moron, but we’re not watching that tonight.”

“And I’m not getting drunk while some psycho is killing our buds,” Tyler said.

“Our buds? Don’t you mean your buds?” Evan corrected, a slight sneer across his face.

“Was this your grand idea of a memorial service?” It was Rory’s turn to use air quotes when she said memorial service. “A horror movie? With alcohol? It almost sounds like a party. Like you’re trying to recreate the end of the first Stab movie or something.”

“Are you accusing me, Rory?”

“Maybe I am.”

“Please. If I were the killer—which I’m not—I’d plan it out much better; not like some hack writer putting their Stab fan-fiction drivel on Wattpad. Unlike you, KoalaPen_05,” Evan said with a smirk. “You and your Wednesday fan fiction.”

“How do you know about that?” Rory asked, mortified.

“Or, if one is in the mood for more kissy-kissy tales, I’ve read some of your Bridgerton stuff.” Shifting his attention to Tyler, Evan continued, “Boy, a girl who writes such flowery romance isn’t a girl who’s getting satisfaction in her love life.” Back to Rory, he said, “Let me give you a piece of advice. Stick to journalism. Your prose is way too flat for fiction.”

“Do you wanna step outside, man?” Tyler asked, his right fist clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, over and over again.

“No,” Evan said. “It’s cool in here and hot outside. Oh, and before you go all UFC on me, I happen to know where all the police are tonight.”

“Damn, that Gale can be a real pain in the ass,” Kinsley said, storming into the kitchen. She stomped over to the fridge, opened it, snatched a bottle of water, and drank. Mid-sip, she paused and turned to Evan. “What are you doing here?” she asked after almost choking on her drink.

“Having a sleepover with the bestest friends anyone could ever ask for,” he responded, laying the bullshit on extra thick.

“That’s just great.”

“It’s your fault I’m here. You said something to the cops. Now I think they suspect me. Sheriff Riley told me I should come here for my own protection.” He looked around the place. “Although it’s nice, I don’t think they care about my protection.”

“What happened with you and Gale?” Rory asked Kinsley.

“First, I edited her article, then, when I went to email it, I couldn’t find a cop to read through it first; they want to make sure I didn’t tell her where we were. Then, when it got cleared, she said my edits weren’t good enough for her. She yelled at me. She said she had to edit my edits. I don’t know what she wants; I turned her chicken-scratch into something that could be published in the New Yorker.”

“I doubt that,” Evan said. “If she needed an editor, she should’ve called me.”

Sidney walked into the kitchen. “I thought I heard an argument,” she said.

“No,” Kinsley said. “Just Evan, here, having his typical effect on people.”

“Wow,” Evan said, crossing his arms. “Woodsboro royalty. I can’t believe it. Today, I’ve met the great Dewey Riley and now Sidney Prescott. All we need now is for Gale Weathers to walk through the door, and I can die knowing I’ve lived a complete life.”

“Don’t jinx yourself,” Rory said.

“No, babe,” Tyler said. “Let him jinx himself.”

“But if he jinxes himself,” Rory said, “then we’ll all be in trouble.”

“I told ya, Rory,” Evan said, “between your boyfriend and me, I got the brains.”

“Please, a George Romero zombie would starve to death if he attacked you.”

Scratching his cheek in a hoity-toity way, Evan said, “Will somebody just show me to my room?”

8.

The chill in Sidney’s bedroom felt oppressive. On top of that, she didn’t feel good. Her doctor assured her she still had time before the weakness and shortness of breath started to interfere with her everyday activities. Yet, the climb up the steps really did a number on her. She hoped the diagnosis wasn’t further along than her medical tests suggested.

She opened the dormer window in her room, wanting to get some of the stale air out. She could’ve turned on the heat. Along with a private bathroom, her bedroom also had its own climate control, after all. But she wanted to hear the birds sing and feel the breeze touch her cheeks.

After sitting on her bed, Sidney reached for her overnight bag and retrieved a photo. She studied the photo of a much younger Allie standing on the beach in Malibu, the Pacific Ocean behind her, and smiled. It had been taken a few days after she adopted her. She remembered it being a good day. Two tears rolled down her cheeks as she closed her eyes. After wiping the wetness from her cheeks, she called her daughter.

“Hello,” Allie answered.

“Hey,” Sidney said. “I wanted to let you know I’m—”

“Should you be calling me?” Allie interrupted.

Crinkling her brow, Sidney asked, “Why wouldn’t it be okay to call you?”

“I don’t know who could be listening in. Your phone could be tapped, or… I don’t know, whatever psycho killers do nowadays.”

Understanding her daughter’s fear, Sidney didn’t get upset. “That’s not happening on this phone. I’m in a safehouse and—”

“Mom, I don’t care. Can we make this quick?”

Sidney paused. Yes, she understood her daughter’s fear, but that didn’t make her snappy words any less hurtful. Here she was, in Woodsboro—the belly of the beast—possibly in danger, and her daughter wanted to get off the phone with her as quickly as possible.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t mean to be like this. It’s just that I have Emily and Dylan to think about.”

“I know. How are they doing?”

“They’re doing fine. They’re sitting here playing their games.”

“Everything will be fine soon,” Sidney said.

“How do you know that?”

“It’s the experience talking. Allie, I called to tell you…” She wasn’t sure whether to tell her about the sickness. Initially, that’s why she called. Yet, now that she had Allie on the line, it didn’t seem right to deliver such horrible news over the phone.

“To tell me what?”

So far, the call had not gone the way Sidney wanted. If she were writing the script, the conversation would’ve had more warmth and compassion. However, life wasn’t a movie. Then an idea came to her—an off-ramp; a detour that would veer her away from their tense line of discu—

“Mom? Are you there?”

“Yeah. I’m here. Sorry. I called to tell you that before I adopted you, my life was becoming something I didn’t want it to be. I wrote a book, I…” Sidney closed her eyes again, trying to organize the trillion things racing through her head. So much wanted to come out that it was causing a jam.

“Are you saying goodbye?” Allie’s voice cracked a bit. “I thought you said everything is going to be alright?”

“I’m not saying goodbye,” Sidney said with a sad smile. “Yet…” Closing her eyes, she just let it come out. “When you came into my life, I felt motivated to change what I had been. I was a lost soul searching for purpose in a world where I had lost so many friends and family in horrible ways. You… you gave my life the meaning that I wanted. I can never thank you enough for that. But I also want to apologize to you for—”

“Don’t apologize for being selfish, Mom.”

“How do you know—”

“You’ve said similar things before.” Allie sighed. “Mom, I never regretted the fact that you, Sidney Prescott, adopted me. So just stop that. I love you. But I hate how this sounds like a goodbye.”

Allie’s ‘I love you’ made it easier for Sidney not to tell her secret. Instead of telling her now, she’d tell her as soon as she got back home. It would give her a little extra motivation to live through the night.

“This isn’t goodbye,” Sidney said. “As much as I’d like to come home, I have a responsibility to Dewey, and Gale, and some others. They didn’t ask for this either. But I will be home. I promise.”

A gentle tapping sounded at her door.

“Um, hold on a sec, sweetie.” Sidney held the phone to her chest and called out, “Who is it?”

“It’s Kinsley,” a dampened voice came from the other side of the door.

“Just a second.” Back on the phone, Sidney said, “Hey, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know when I’ll be home.”

“I hope so. I don’t wanna have to tell the kids their grandmother has—”

“You won’t have to,” Sidney interrupted. “I love you. Give my grandbabies a kiss from Grandma.”

“I will. Bye, Mom.”

“Bye.” Sidney hung up the phone and told Kinsley to come in.

The young journalism student opened the door and walked in.

“What’s up?” Sidney asked.

“Nothing,” Kinsley answered. “I just wanted to say hi. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

Thinking of how abruptly she had gotten off the phone with her daughter, Sidney lied, “No.”

Kinsley hopped up on the dresser, sat down, and tapped a couple of rhythmic rhythms on its wooden top. This action confused Sidney; it seemed disrespectful and completely at odds with how the young journalism student had presented herself up to that point. “This house is really nice. I’ve heard of safehouses before, but this is like a vacation house.”

Sidney responded without words. Instead, she took an aspirin from her purse and swallowed it dry.

“Are you alright?” Kinsley asked.

“Fine,” Sidney answered, already growing tired of her young visitor. “Are you still editing that story for Gale?” Sidney laughed, then continued, “I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.” This was the nicest way she could think of to tell Kinsley: ‘Get the hell out, I wanna rest.’

“I’m finished,” Kinsley said. “I just wanted to drop by and be in the presence of greatness for a few moments.”

Sidney cleared her throat, feeling uncomfortable with such a label. It brought back memories of her book tours, where some die-hard fans of the movies projected an identity onto her and were disappointed when she didn’t live up to their fantasy. She couldn’t believe she had gotten off the phone with her daughter for this. Still, she managed a faux smile.

“You don’t like that I said that, do you?”

Instead of answering, Sidney offered Kinsley another smile. A smile that shouted: Bingo!

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I mean, Gale, she loves attention. I guess I…” Kinsley pursed her lips. “I guess I assumed you were the same.”

Sidney slowly shook her head back and forth.

Frowning, Kinsley’s shoulders dropped. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“We’re in a safehouse. You more than anyone should know something’s wrong.”

“I don’t mean that,” Kinsley said. “I mean… something else is wrong.”

“No. Nothing else is wrong.” Was her sickness that transparent? The last thing she needed was for Kinsley to suspect something. That meant Gale would surely find out.

“I’m sorry. You probably want to be left alone.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sidney responded. “I’m just tired. It’s been a demanding few days for all of us.”

“It has.” Kinsley paused. She opened her mouth to say something else, then closed it. After tapping her fingers against the dresser again, she said, “It’s just that… when I met you, it was a big deal to me. I thought…” Shaking her head, Kinsley hopped off the dresser. “Never mind.”

“I’m sorry I don’t remember you. You have to understand, I’ve met a lot of people over the years.”

“Yeah,” Kinsley said. “I understand. I’ll, ah… I’ll talk to ya later.”

“Yeah,” Sidney said, having no intention of honoring this.

“Well,” Kinsley said, slipping out the door, “bye.” She closed the door softly.

When she was gone, Sidney rolled her eyes and sighed.

9.

Rory sat up in bed, reading ‘Alamo House’ by Sarah Bird on her Kindle. The lamp on the nightstand was on, casting a low glow. She didn’t need the light to read, but having it on in the room comforted her. When she was a little girl, she refused to go to bed without a nightlight. The ritual lost importance as she grew up, and the dark lost its veneer of frightfulness. After the events of the past few days, however, it had regained its frightening mystery.

Through the window, she could see nothing but a black sky. Now and then, as the clouds drifted, a bit of moonlight peeked through. Beside her on the bed lay Tyler’s sketchpad. Earlier, he had sketched Freddy Krueger trying to save Jason Voorhees from falling off a cliff. In it, Jason was falling to his death with one hand missing, while Freddy stood at the top of the cliff holding the severed appendage in his knife-gloved hand. A caption underneath read: ‘When you try to hand it to someone, it doesn’t always work out.’

Although she found his silly joke funny, she couldn’t muster a chuckle. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was four minutes past eleven. A shiver ran up her spine. Almost midnight, she thought.

In their room’s connected bathroom, Tyler stood at the sink brushing his teeth.

“I think our room is the only one with its own bathroom,” she said to him.

“I ink ur ight,” he mumbled as he continued to brush. After spitting into the sink and wiping his mouth with a towel, he amended his statement. “Sidney’s room might have its own bathroom, too. Doesn’t the star usually get her own bathroom?”

“Does that mean we’re stars, too?”

“You’re my star,” he said, standing in the doorway.

He walked into the room dressed in a black tank top and sweatpants. Shadows made his lean physique look even more mouthwatering. Just because she was scared and in mourning didn’t mean she couldn’t notice how sexy her ride-or-die was. If she wasn’t careful, she’d break the lovemaking rule established in the first Stab movie. With that in mind, she averted her gaze and refocused on Sarah Bird’s slice of ‘80s-life novel.

“I hate that Kinsley is all the way down at the other end of the hall.”

“Why?” Tyler asked, sliding into bed and under the covers.

Shrugging, Rory said, “I don’t know. I guess I just hate that they put us in such a big house.”

“Ha,” Tyler joked. “You said big house.”

Rory offered a confused expression.

“Big house,” he repeated as if this explained it. “As in jailhouse.”

“Oh.” She returned to her Kindle. Frankly, she’d never heard jailhouse referred to as ‘a big house,’ but didn’t feel the need to tell her boyfriend this. “Anything could happen in a house this big,” she amended.

“Not with the police everywhere.”

“For all we know, the police are getting killed as we speak.”

“Look,” Tyler said, smirking and rubbing her arm, “Kinsley’s fine. We’re fine. Let’s just watch some television, fall asleep, and tomorrow we’ll be outta here.”

“Hopefully.”

“Even if they don’t catch the guy, we’ll be outta here.” He gave Rory a kiss. Then he turned on the television, opened the Hulu app, and signed in. Rory went back to her reading.

“Who do you think it is?” Rory asked, keeping her eyes on her Kindle’s screen.

“The killer? I don’t know.”

“They have to know us.”

“Probably,” Tyler said. “But, hey, don’t worry. We’re under the constant eye of that thing.” He pointed at the camera.

Here she was, thinking about having sex with her boyfriend while totally forgetting about the cameras. “I hate being surveilled,” Rory pouted. “It feels weird.”

Something on the television screen caught his attention. “Damn, man. I hate when Hulu does this.”

Knowing her boyfriend, Rory didn’t have to look up to know what he meant. Hulu was asking which commercial he wanted to watch.

Tyler pushed the enter button on the remote, selecting whichever commercial was highlighted. “Why do they ask what commercial I want to watch? Sometimes I don’t even have the remote next to me. I have to get up, walk across the damn room, and get it.” Then, directing his words at the television, he said, “Hey, Hulu, how about neither?”

“Baby,” Rory said, touching his cheek. “I love you so much, and you make me so happy, but if you never complain about this particular inconvenience again, I’d be that much happier.”

Under her gentle touch, Tyler’s frustrated expression relaxed. “Sorry, babe.”

Once the commercial—a Flo ad for Progressive (what else)—ended, Jennifer Jolie appeared on screen. She stands beside a window, watching as a rainy day drenches her spirits. She’s sad, and the big ol’ frown on her face tells the whole story. Turning, she looks over her shoulder at the mirror on the back of her bedroom door. In it, she sees a tired woman past her prime. Her hair isn’t combed. She doesn’t wear any makeup. Her clothes are drab. And, after lifting one arm and sniffing, she scrunches her nose and sighs.

“When you’re bloated, you don’t feel like yourself,” a voice-over says. “You feel like… a blob.”

Next, Jennifer sits at a cubicle in an office, typing her life away for ‘the man.’ Speaking of ‘the man,’ her boss comes along and plops a stack of paper, five inches high, onto her desk. He leaves without a word. Seeing this, Jennifer closes her eyes and tilts her head back. She sighs again.

“You don’t want to sit…” the voice-over goes on.

Now, Jennifer is at a restaurant with friends. While they’re eating and having a grand time, she frowns, sitting in the corner of an L-shaped booth, pushing her food around with a fork.

“You don’t want to eat…” the voice-over continues.

Then we see Jennifer moping through a grocery store. At one point, she picks up an orange from a triangular stack, frowns at it, and puts it back. When she does, the oranges fall. At least a hundred tumble to the floor. For a third time, she sighs. She leans against her cart and puts her head in her hands.

“You don’t even want to stand,” the voice-over says.

Out of nowhere, the grocery store’s pharmacist walks up to Jennifer and presents a bottle labeled Flushacycline. “When you can’t go, it can really bring you down,” she says in the same voice as the voice-over.

“It sure can,” Jennifer says, blending enthusiasm and wretchedness as only a seasoned actress can.

“But Flushacycline,” the pharmacist continues, “can make sure you get all the stuff that’s bringing you down… out. It’s a laxative in pill form. Take one in the morning, and flush all your cares away for the rest of the day.”

“Gee, that sounds fantastic,” Jennifer responds.

“Doctor-prescribed Flushacycline is an easy and effective way of keeping your bowel movements regular.”

“Wow,” Jennifer says, taking the bottle from the pharmacist. “Is it fast-acting?”

“I’ll say,” the pharmacist answers, smiling. “Flushacycline works in as little as five minutes. So, if you take one now, you’d better hope there’s a lock on the grocery store’s bathroom door.”

Jennifer and the pharmacist laugh heartily.

In the next shot, Jennifer rides a bike on a sunny day. Her hair is done up with a ribbon; she’s wearing makeup, and a handsome gentleman is riding beside her.

The voice-over comes back as Jennifer and her male suitor order a sweet treat from an ice-cream man on the side of the bike trail: “Flushacycline should not be taken if you’ve had a live vaccine or are prone to hiccups. If you scare easily, speak in tongues, practice voodoo, or are hydrocephalic, don’t take this laxative. Side effects include: itchy skin, dry skin, moist skin, depression, runny nose, vision loss, loss of taste, loss of smell, loss of friends, loss of limbs, loss of your dog’s respect, suicidal thoughts, happy thoughts, nostalgic thoughts, thoughts of your failed life, strange dreams, pleasant dreams, dreams that scare you, acne, uncontrollable muscle spasms, uncontrollable drooling, possible heart stoppage, and, in rare cases… constipation. If you are pregnant or soon plan to be, do not take Flushacycline—it may turn your baby into an alien.”

Finally, we watch Jennifer stroll through a daisy-covered field under a bright blue sky. She turns to the camera and says, “Ask your doctor if Flushacycline is right for you. It sure was for me.”

Her male suitor comes into frame. Giggling, the two lovebirds playfully bump heads and give an Eskimo kiss. Suddenly, Jennifer’s smile turns to panic.

“I’ve ah… I’ve gotta go,” she says to her date before clutching her stomach and sprinting off through the field.

As the picture fades to black, the voice-over says, “Flushacycline… Flush your cares down the toilet.”

“What is this?” Rory asked.

“Three Seasons,” Tyler answered. “This new sketch comedy show. Jennifer Jolie is their special guest on this episode.”

Rory turned off her Kindle and set it on the nightstand, then scooted deeper under the covers. “Can you turn it down a little? I’m going to try to get some sleep. I don’t wanna be awake at midnight. That’s like the extra scary hour.”

“I thought that was three?”

“For me, it’s midnight.”

“Sure thing, beautiful,” Tyler said, turning the volume down. He then leaned over and kissed Rory on the cheek. “We’re safe. You know that, right?”

“I feel safe beside you. That’s all that matters.”

10.

Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock. The wall clock read 11:48. Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock…

Dewey and Deputy Higgins sat in the Woodsboro P.D.’s conference room staring at four color monitors. Windows surrounding the conference room overlooked an empty office lit only by the low emergency fluorescents. Other than the clock and the low hum of two computer fans, the place was quiet. No one spoke. Each of the men was tired. Higgins had reported for duty around five o’clock in the afternoon—supposedly his day off—while Dewey had been up since seven that morning. They yawned at the same time.

Higgins took out his phone and started playing Block Blast.

“You know you could be paying attention,” Dewey said.

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

“This is important.”

“Important,” Higgins repeated, his tone indicating he disagreed with Dewey’s assessment. “Come on, no one’s gonna get killed with cameras all over that house. This is the dumbest idea you’ve ever had.” After replaying what he said in his head, he looked up from his game and finished with a sheepish, “Sir.”

“It wasn’t my idea. It was Officer Ward’s.”

“Ward’s?” Higgins questioned.

Dewey didn’t respond.

Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock.

Each monitor was divided into four segments. Each segment showed a different video feed from cameras throughout the safehouse. Other than the bathrooms, they had eyes on the entire place—inside and out.

“What are we doing here, anyway?” Higgins asked. “Why aren’t we there?”

Over the radio, Judy came through before Dewey could answer. “This is car 2409, Deputy Riley reporting in.”

Picking up the mic and pressing the call button, Dewey answered, “Yeah. Anything, Judy?”

“A possible 845, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“What’s an 845?” Dewey asked Higgins.

“Ah…” Higgins thought, “I think it’s, um, indoor furniture on a front porch.”

Confused, Dewey shook his head and said into the mic, “Okay, don’t worry about that. Why don’t you head on back here?”

“10-4, Sheriff.”

“I don’t like that she’s out there by herself,” Dewey said to Higgins, re-holstering the mic onto its clip.

Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock…

11:52.

“Can we take the battery out of that thing?” Dewey said, speaking of the clock. “Why do we have a wall clock, anyway? Every phone has a clock on it.”

“I’ve never seen you so perturbed,” Higgins said, keeping his eyes on his game.

Dewey sighed in response.

“We wouldn’t have to hear the clock if we were out there,” Higgins continued. “We’re not doing a damn thing here.”

“If one of these kids isn’t the killer and something happens in town, we need to be here—not twenty miles down the road.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Higgins stopped him, taking his eyes off his game and focusing on Dewey. “If one of these kids isn’t the killer? Are you telling me this is a trap?”

A crease formed between Dewey’s brows and his cheeks hardened. “Look, last night, Ward came to me with this plan—to set up a safehouse with suspects and victims alike. Keep them under supervision for safety while keeping the operation under wraps. There’s been at least one murder per day since this started. So if the killings stop, we’ll have a better idea of whether it’s one of them.”

“And if things pop off while they’re there, one of them could get killed.”

“That won’t happen.”

“How do you know, Sheriff?”

Rather than answer the question, Dewey refocused on the monitors.

The deputy paused the game and gave Dewey a raised-brow expression, his incredulity obvious. “I’m not a lawyer, but I’m not sure how legal all this is.”

“I don’t like it, either,” Dewey huffed, “but what else can we do?”

“Well, Ward’s not here. And, let me go on the record right now: I think this is stupid and dangerous.”

Dewey opened his mouth to argue against his deputy’s claim. After all, the house had cameras all over it, and cops inside and out. Yet he decided against it after noticing the anger on his subordinate’s face. Plus, deep down, he knew Higgins was right.

After an extended, performative sigh, Higgins continued, “And the safehouse is twenty-two miles away. Not twenty. If something happens there, we’re screwed.”

“Thank you, Deputy Higgins,” Dewey said, his jaw clenched.

Dewey’s cell rang. He looked at the caller’s name, and his brows furrowed. “It’s Becky Macher.” He answered it. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Becky whispered, “Sheriff Riley?”

“Yes? Mrs. Macher, what’s wrong? Why are you whispering?”

“Stu is in his room. I don’t want him to hear. I found the badges for the missing officers in his dresser drawer when I was putting his laundry away. I think you should get out to my place, quick.”

Looking over his shoulder at the clock, Dewey read 11:57.

“Becky, I need you to—”

“Please, I gotta go. He’s coming. Get here, fast.”

Becky hung up as Dewey yelled into his phone, “No, wait!” When he realized the call had ended, he slammed his fist on the desk. “Damn!”

“What’s up?” Higgins asked.

Grabbing his hat and already heading for the door, Dewey said, “We gotta get to Becky Macher’s house. I’ll explain on the way.”

Higgins got to his feet and grabbed his hat. “Becky Macher!? She’s in Sonoma Bay; twenty miles in the opposite direction.”

“Radio Judy,” Dewey said, paying his deputy little mind, “and tell her to be on standby. If what Becky told me checks out, we might need her. Let’s go.”

The two men went out the door, Dewey nearly sprinting.

“What about our men at the safehouse?” Higgins asked. “Shouldn’t we call them?”

“Let them stay at their posts for now. I don’t want a bunch of police cars rolling up on the Macher residence yet. If we’re quiet, we have the advantage of surprise.”

11.

Upstairs in a lonely bedroom, Evan slowly accepted that his best friend was never coming back. It was almost midnight. He sat in a chair by the window, staring out at the dark silhouette of treetops against the night sky. Staring past them, his mind was blank. Except that wasn’t exactly true. Fragments of alcohol-drenched thoughts moved through his head like blurry memories that he couldn’t quite remember. These thoughts meant something—enough to affect his mood—but his clouded mind couldn’t figure out what.

Behind him, the television played—Army of Darkness. Except for a bit of moonlight filtering through the large window, the only light came from the illuminated television screen. Beside him, lying askew on his lap, was the bottle of vodka—a quarter full. Before this night, he’d never drunk very much.

But why not drink? Brad wasn’t just his best friend; he was his only friend. Although a clear mind might never admit this, his alcohol-drenched mind knew Rory was right. His attitude didn’t help him make friends.

Out in the hall, he heard someone’s door open. Looking over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Kinsley walking to the bathroom.

“Kis-ly,” he slurred. “Kis-ly, come in ‘ere.”

He heard her sigh. A second later, she stood in his doorway. “What?”

“Why do we fight? Is me, huh? Is me?”

“Yes,” Kinsley agreed. “It’s you.”

“I don’t wanna be all…” He searched for the right word, but while under the influence, his mind didn’t cooperate.

“Asshole-ish,” Kinsley said.

Clapping his hands together, he said, “That’s it. I don’t wanna be that’a way. Let’s us bury the hatchet, huh?”

“I’ll tell ya what, you buy the hatchet and I’ll bury it.” She went to leave, but Evan called her back. “What?” she asked, checking her watch.

“You gotta be someplace?” Evan asked, falling back on his asshole-ish ways.

“Just tell me what you want.”

“I wanna ask you a question,” he slurred.

“Well, hurry up and ask.”

“Did you turn Brad in for using A.I.? Is that why you got the job at the magazine?”

“I’m not having this conversation while you’re drunk.”

“Did you?”

“What’s it matter if I did?”

“I knew you did,” Evan said, dropping his head, looking pitiful, as if someone had just stolen his smug attitude. “He was a good guy.”

“Not really. He was only slightly more tolerable than you. Just because we clicked on horror movies and ran a podcast together doesn’t mean we were best buddies.”

“He took me in after my parents were killed. He was like my brother.”

Kinsley didn’t know what to say to this. It was information she’d never heard before. “Look, Evan, go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“You’re a bitch for turning him in.”

“Goodnight, Evan.” She left.

“Goodnight, bitch,” he said as she slammed the bathroom door.

12.

Rory had tossed and turned since lying down at eleven o’clock. At first, she had the covers on. Then she kicked them off. Then she pulled them back up. Then she pushed them away. May had always been a difficult month for her to fall asleep. Because the outside temperature battled between hot and cold, she could rarely get comfortable. Now, on top of her normal issues with the very merry month of May, she wasn’t in her own bed, and she couldn’t stop thinking about Taylor, Marta, and Mark.

For as long as she could remember, her mind worked this way. It would fixate on tragedy to the point that the rest of her mind struggled to function. Once, on a childhood trip to Portland with her mom and dad, their family car got stuck in a traffic jam that lasted hours. Later, Rory learned the jam was caused by an accident in which three people died. Despite her young age, learning about the deaths all but put a damper on her week-long trip. How could she enjoy herself after three people died in the middle of their lives?

Watching the little boy playing fetch with his dog helped her mood a little. Reading Alamo House, one of her mother’s favorite books, helped a little. Falling asleep while hearing Tyler chuckle at the sketch comedy show helped a little, too.

Turning onto her back, she opened her sleepy eyes to a room lit only by the television—an episode of Just Shoot Me. Beside her, Tyler lay asleep, softly snoring. She reached for her phone on the nightstand and checked the time. 12:24.

She took in a breath and let it out in a sigh.

Thirsty, she slipped out of bed, intending to go down to the kitchen for a bottle of water. Before doing that, however, she walked over to the big window and looked out. Parked on the curb, she saw the two police cars that had pulled up to the house earlier. The asphalt was wet. Looking at the light post at the end of the home’s walkway, she saw misty rain.

Knowing a few cops were in the house soothed Rory’s sense of security. Still, part of her found it strange. Were they expecting something to happen? Were they just being cautious? If the killer… or killers didn’t know where they were, why was there so much security? Shaking these thoughts away, she walked out of her room and down the steps.

In the living room, she heard The Texas Chainsaw Massacre playing on the television—the part where the gang picked up the hitchhiker, and the weirdo tried to get Franklin to pay for the subpar picture he took of him. She figured this was Evan having his little memorial for Brad. It was quite loud. Didn’t he know people were trying to sleep?

Glancing in, she saw two silhouettes basking in the TV’s glow. Neither shadow had the body shape of Evan or Kinsley; she guessed it was the two cops. Why were they watching Texas Chainsaw, though?

She almost said something, if only to alert them to her presence. The last thing she needed was to have a gun pulled on her while getting water out of the fridge. But she refrained from doing so. Sure, they were acting as her protectors, but she didn’t feel like talking to anyone, especially strangers. Besides, they seemed too into the movie to notice her.

Opening the fridge door, a triangle of light illuminated the space. She reached for her water just as Franklin and his friends kicked the hitchhiker out of their van on television. Rory always hated this part of the movie. Of all the horrible things that happened in Texas Chainsaw, the gunpowder exploding inside the van got her the most. It was so loud and annoying. She wondered why they had the volume up so high. On her way back, she would ask them to turn it down.

Outside, in the distance, the sky grumbled. Great, she thought, another storm.

After drinking about half the bottle of water, she poured the rest into two plants hanging near the back door. This was before she realized the pots were fake and contained no soil. The water streamed out of the wicker baskets as quickly as she poured it in and puddled on the floor. Rolling her eyes, frustrated, she tossed the bottle into the receptacle, wiped up the mess, and headed for the living room, now fully awake.

“Hey, guys,” she said to the cops. “Strange choice for such a late hour, huh?” She nodded toward the television.

Neither man responded. Raising her eyebrows, feeling awkward, she said, “I just wanted to ask if you could turn it down a little.”

They didn’t respond. They didn’t even move. In fact, the room felt odd to Rory. When she was twelve, her great-grandmother died. Although Rory never met the lady, she was dragged to the funeral. After the service, Rory’s mother and grandmother hung back to settle up with the funeral director. While they did this, Rory sat nearby, playing on her brand-new Nintendo Switch. At one point, they left the room. So into her game—The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild—she hadn’t noticed their absence. As she played, a strange feeling fell over her. When she looked up, she discovered she was alone with the body. Her seat could’ve had a spring in it. She sprinted out in record time.

Now, standing in the safehouse’s living room, she felt something similar. “Guys?”

Nothing.

“Guys?” Her voice cracked, a little more panicked. “I just want to tell you I’m going back up to bed.”

“And you’ll never wake up again!” Ghostface said, popping up from behind the couch and turning the lamp on.

Both cops sat, their throats slit, a bib of crimson soaking their shirts.

Rory screamed and bolted out of the living room toward the front door. She had to get to the cops parked out front!

What if they were dead!?

No! She couldn’t think of that now.

The front door’s knob was locked, and a bolt lock was engaged as well. Quickly, she undid the bolt. Then, as she went to turn the knob’s lock, she turned and found Ghostface within a few feet, coming fast—knife overhead.

Without time to turn the lock, she ducked out of the way of his knife. Its blade barely missed her and plunged into the wooden door instead.

While Ghostface struggled to pull the knife free, Rory fled the foyer and made her way to the back door.

In the hall, she took a detour and raced up the steps to get Tyler. She couldn’t leave him in the house with the killer. Nor could she leave Kinsley and Sidney without telling them.

Halfway up the stairs, she met Tyler.

“I heard you scream,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

By this point, Sidney had come out of her room. “What’s going on? I heard screaming.”

“There!” Rory yelled, pointing down the stairs. Both Tyler and Sidney saw Ghostface standing at the foot of the steps.

Grabbing Rory by the wrist, Tyler dragged her up the rest of the steps. While Sidney backed into her room and told the young couple to follow her, Ghostface stomped up the steps after them. The threesome got into Sidney’s room just in time to close the door on the killer’s face.

“Quick, put this in front of the door,” Sidney ordered, sitting down, out of breath.

While Tyler held the door closed, Rory dragged the dresser across the floor and placed it in front of the door. Sidney pulled a phone out of her robe and tapped Dewey’s name.

“Dewey, just listen, the trap worked, but something went wrong! Get here, fast!” She hung up, hoping her lack of explanation would get him moving faster.

“Trap!?” Tyler yelled, helping Rory secure the dresser in front of the door, while Ghostface kept pounding on it.

“We were bait!?” Rory asked, just as angry as her boyfriend.

“Yes,” Sidney said. “But the police were supposed to protect us!”

BOMP! Ghostface forced his body into the door, making it shudder in its frame and rattle a few things on top of the dresser.

“It doesn’t sound like they’re doing a good job,” Tyler said.

“There’re two dead cops in the living room!” Rory shouted.

“That’s just great!” Tyler said. “I can’t believe you people used us like a lure.”

“I’m sorry,” Sidney said. “No one liked the idea. I told them I wouldn’t be a part of it unless I stayed here with you.”

BOMP-BOMP-BOMP!!!

The doorknob turned, and Ghostface began to shove it open. Using his shoulder, Tyler shoved the dresser against the door, forcing it closed again.

“Quick, you two need to get out of here,” Sidney said.

“Great idea,” Tyler said, keeping pressure on the dresser. “Any suggestions on how to do that?”

“We need to get Kinsley first,” Rory said, dragging a rocking chair across the room to reinforce the door. She shoved it against the dresser.

“We can’t get her now,” Sidney said. “You two need to go!”

“Go where!?” Tyler shouted, his anger turning to frustration. “This is the only way out.” He motioned toward the door.

“The window!” Rory said. Unlike their front-facing bedroom, which only looked out at the front yard, a portion of the roof lay outside Sidney’s east-wing bedroom window, enough for them to step out onto.

“We’re on the second floor,” Tyler said.

“A broken ankle is better than getting filleted,” Rory responded.

BOMP!... BOMP!.... BOMP!...

“Go!” Sidney urged. “It’s your only choice.”

“What about you?” Rory asked. “That furniture isn’t going to keep him out.”

The Woodsboro veteran responded with a simple shake of the head. “I can’t.” She winced at the pain coursing through her body. “Whatever happens, this ends for me tonight.” The young couple stared at Sidney as if she were a martyr.

“Come on,” Tyler finally said, taking Rory’s hand.

They rushed across the room. He opened the window and started helping Rory out when Sidney said, “Hey…” They turned to her. “Never let this become your legacy, okay?”

Tyler acknowledged her without a word, instead meeting her gaze with determination and a hint of fury. Rory nodded. “I hope I see ya again soon.”

It was Sidney’s turn not to say anything. A quick, sad smile crossed her lips, then disappeared.