Final Cut, page 22
I’m close enough to touch the phone when I notice the papers scattered around it on the desk. Photos, news clippings, splayed in such an artful bloom around the phone that it must be intentional. I reach for the first one I see—a news clipping from the year of the murders.
LOCAL FAMILY MOURNS SLAYING OF SON, the title reads in big black letters, so flashy and on the nose it makes my skin crawl. It’s an article about the Warners, the mother and four siblings Reeve left behind. I don’t have the stomach to read it. At the top of the page is a full family photo, Ms. Warner and her children posing in the town square. Reeve’s dad was never around, I’m pretty sure, but clearly, Reeve stepped up to fill the role. In the picture, he’s at least a head taller than his four younger siblings, two sisters and two brothers, his wingspan almost long enough to wrap his whole family up inside it.
I’ve never been able to find much about Reeve’s family—like Mom and me, it seems like they fled town and kept quiet as soon as they could—so it’s a fresh wave of pain to see them all together now with their big smiles, a couple of them young enough to be missing baby teeth.
The photo’s caption lists them all by name and age, starting with his mom—TIFFANY (37)—and it hits me as I do the quick math that she was only nineteen when she had Reeve. Now she looks much older than she should. I read the rest of their names, the part of me that’s always felt guilty—for being Cal’s daughter, for surviving—determined to memorize them.
REEVE (18), JESSE (15), MAY (13), TESS (9), AND CAMERON (4)
I freeze on the last name, all the breath rushing from my body. I jump back up to the photo at the top, locking in on the smallest boy, the one clutching at Reeve’s leg. Now I recognize his bright green eyes, his brown hair mussed even then. Even when I looked at that picture of Reeve at the diner, at the Mystery Museum, the resemblance was clear.
Because Cameron was never a Cormier. This whole time, he’s been Cameron Warner—another living victim of the Pine Springs Slasher.
No, I think with a force that nearly knocks the wind out of me.
Deb on the floor, blood gurgling with her dying words. It was him.
Cameron.
His name slithers through my mind like smoke, like that crooked smile always curling on his lips. This whole time, it was right there: the way Cameron spotted those severed hands in the woods, like he knew they’d be there. His “hunch” about Cal Dupre’s daughter, the excited look on his face when he told me. It wasn’t because he thought he’d figured it out. It’s because he knew, and he was taunting me. Playing with his food before the slaughter. Kissing me.
Pain burns low in my chest, like someone reached inside and grabbed tight. Cameron seemed to understand so clearly when I told him why I’d come to Pine Springs, because we’re both here for the same reason: to come back to where it all began, that first break in our lives that never healed.
But then I remember: Cameron was right there, next to me, when Lucas died. He didn’t kill him.
Which means he isn’t working alone.
A loud ring jolts me back. I hadn’t realized the phone had stopped, and hoping desperately that there might be help on the other end, I answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Hazel.” The voice is warped with some kind of modulator, but the eerie, self-satisfied tone is undeniable: the killer. I close my eyes, straining to hear Cameron’s drawl beneath it, but I can’t. Maybe it’s his coconspirator—Autumn? Wren?
A sudden surge of fury makes me forget my fear, and I grip the phone harder. If this is Cameron, I want him to know I’m onto him. That I’m not playing his frightened scream queen.
“Nice touch,” I say. “But Scream is already a commentary on the slasher genre, so this is kind of putting a hat on a hat, isn’t it?”
The killer gives a garbled laugh. “Excellent point.”
“I know you have Nina, so I want you to tell me where she is.”
He takes a slow, raspy breath, like he’s relishing this—making me wait.
“Meet me at the old Dupre house. We’ll finish this at the place it all started.” After a pause, he adds, “And come alone. If you bring anyone else, Nina is gone. We won’t hesitate.”
With a click, the line goes dead.
29
I set the phone back on the table, surprised to find that my hands aren’t shaking. Instead, something almost like peace washes over me for the first time since I set foot in this town. Finally, this is going to end. I’m going to save Nina—and I’m going to get my answers. Maybe it’s a cliché, luring me back to the place where it started, but it feels like the only logical conclusion. Tropes are tropes for a reason.
And if I’m the final girl, then I’m going to do this right.
I walk up to Officer Carpenter’s body, forcing myself not to gag as I feel around his pockets for a weapon. My fingers brush the gun in his duty belt, and I pull it out, careful not to get his blood on my hands.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I take it. About the gun, and the fact that he’s too long gone to hear me. But I swear to myself that this is the end. No more deaths on my account.
This time, I make sure the gun is actually loaded, which takes me a few seconds to figure out. I can’t believe I ever thought I could handle Skeet’s rifle when I’d never touched anything more lethal than a laser-tag shooter in my life. Now, though, it’s different. Now I’m prepared—or I sure as hell hope so.
I also take Carpenter’s cell phone. When I tap the screen, I’m prompted for a passcode or fingerprint. Shit.
I look down at Carpenter’s body.
“Sorry,” I whisper again as I lift his limp hand and bring his thumb to the reader, blood sticking on the screen as I press it down.
The phone unlocks. Breath whooshing out of me, I open Maps and start directions for 113 Pine Creek Drive. I remember where it is, I think, but I’m not taking any chances getting lost in the darkness.
As I slip my keys from my pocket, I think that maybe I should spare one last look at the officers behind me out of respect, but I can’t bring myself to turn around. Instead, I focus on Nina—tied up, afraid, alone—and rush out of the station, practically sprinting to the car once I’m outside.
It feels patently ridiculous to listen to the little robot voice on the GPS guiding me toward my final showdown with at least two mass murderers, but it’s also so mundane that it calms me down a little. I grip the wheel, breathing carefully in and out as I follow the GPS’s guidance. A breeze has picked up outside, rustling through the tall pine leaves above. In the cup holder, my old soda cup rattles, reminding me how embarrassed I was for Cameron to see my messy car. I laugh out loud at that, only to realize when it fades that my teeth are chattering. I turn off the AC, and the air goes warm and silent.
Then, finally, I turn onto Pine Creek Drive.
I don’t remember this place.
The thought is so sharp and sudden that I actually stop driving. I don’t know what I expected—little flashes of memory like at the Mystery Museum or the town square, snippets of proof that this was once my home. Maybe I even expected to feel haunted, this place so full of ghosts that they’re practically tapping on my windows.
But I don’t. Pine Creek Drive looks like any other street I’ve seen in this town: small houses, big yards, some more dilapidated than others. Normal, unpretentious. Signs for the high school and local politicians planted firmly in the grass, American flags waving gently in the breeze. Outside of the first house on the block, a tire swing hangs from a frayed rope around a tree branch, proof that some other kid lives here, growing up totally normal on this street that I’ve been running from all my life.
Sucking in a breath, I press the gas and move forward. Some part of me still expects the recognition to find me when I get there, but until the GPS announces that my destination is on my left, I don’t feel a thing.
The home of the Pine Springs Slasher barely stands out from the others on this street. It’s simple and white with a little porch, but the red front door grabs at my memory. The porch swing rocking slowly in the breeze. Two details I never forgot.
Logically, I know Mom had to sell the house when we moved, but maybe the new owners kept it this way on purpose—frozen in time like a ghost trapped in the moment it died, catnip for tourists who want to be haunted.
I grab the gun from the passenger seat and make sure the safety’s on before slipping it into my waistband, shivering at the cool of the metal against my skin. Then I climb out of the car and shut the door behind me, the sound feeling loud and final in a way that sends a shiver out from my core.
When I walk into this house, I might never come out. I run my fingers over the phone in my pocket, wondering if I should call Mom and tell her … something. The truth. That I love her, and I’m sorry.
But I don’t have the time. Nina’s life is at stake, and anyway, getting sentimental feels like accepting death, which I refuse to do. I’ll call Mom when we’re out. When we’re safe.
The thought pumps my adrenaline, driving me toward the house. I take a look around, but there’s no sign of anyone. The lights in the windows are all off. But that doesn’t surprise me—they told me to meet them in the place where it all started, which can only mean one thing.
The shed.
I step around the side of the house, treading over yellowing grass. As I move through the shadows and toward the backyard, I catch a flash of something above me. My pulse beats in my neck as I look up just in time to see movement in the upstairs window.
I freeze, brushing the gun in my waistband. The lights are off up there, too, so I can’t be sure it wasn’t just the shadows of tree branches moving on the glass. I grit my teeth and keep moving. I’m not saving anyone’s life if I let fear cloud my senses.
The wooden gate to the backyard is cracked open, weeds growing up over the planks like some kind of fairy-tale garden. The old hinges creak as I push it wider, and I flinch. If they didn’t know I was here already, the noise probably just gave me away. But I guess it doesn’t matter. They already know I’m coming.
Emboldened by a new rush of anger, I kick the door all the way open and march into the backyard.
“Hello?” I call.
No one answers but a warm breeze blowing through the grass, setting off a jingle of wind chimes from somewhere I can’t see, the creak of an old, rusted swing set.
The shed stands at the back of the yard, bigger than it looked in the pictures I’ve seen. I can see why Cal turned it into his mini movie theater. Slowly, I move toward it, taking the gun out of my waistband and clicking off the safety. I take one step, then another, my heart beating wildly as I lift my arm, trying to keep my aim steady. The shed is only a few yards away, and I pause to listen for voices inside. Nothing. I take another step.
A hand shoots out from the darkness, snatching the gun from my grasp. They pull me close enough to feel their breathing, the thick burlap of their mask against my hair.
“Hello, Hazel.”
The voice. It’s unmodulated, a man’s voice—but not Cameron’s. It’s familiar, but I’m too panicked to land on the person it belongs to. I fight to turn around and tear off his mask, but his grip is too strong, pinning me in place.
“Who are you?” I demand.
“Shh.” A gloved finger presses to my mouth, leathery and dirt-caked. “We’ll get there.”
“Where is she?” I struggle harder in his grasp. “Where’s—”
The cool metal of the gun against my neck silences me altogether.
He urges me forward with a carnival-barker croon. “Step right up.”
I move toward the shed, and his arm tightens around my chest, making me go slower even as the gun juts sharply into my skin. Sickness churns in my stomach. He doesn’t want this to be over too quickly.
When we reach the door, I feel his hot breath on my ear again. “Care to do the honors, Hazel?”
It’s an order, not an offer—and so, I do what every final girl before me has done: I reach out for a door I know I shouldn’t open and push it wide.
For a second, it’s too dark to see anything. I only smell the stale, musty scent of a room left too long unoccupied. Then, in one wild flurry of movement, he shoves me inside and shuts the door behind us with a bang. I catch myself, almost tumbling to the ground. This man is strong. A crew member? Someone like—
A projector hums to life, washing the room in harsh blue that illuminates the two people sitting in the center of the shed.
Nina and Cameron, gagged and bound.
Cameron. If he’s tied up here …
Before I have time to process, Nina starts to say something, her eyes filled with tears, but it’s muffled by the gag. Cameron tries to move, but something pulls him back with a metallic scrape. Ankle cuffs, locking them both to the chairs in the small row of theater-style seats Cal installed. Still, Cameron struggles, pulling hard at the cuff until suddenly, they both stop moving, eyes fixed on something over my shoulder.
The killer towers above me, his eyes like empty sockets through the dark holes of the burlap mask as he aims the gun directly at their heads.
“I have to say, Hazel, I’m impressed by your conviction,” he says. “But unfortunately, your little theory was wrong.”
“Where are Autumn and Wren?” I grind out.
He doesn’t answer. Nina starts to shiver violently, tears streaming down her cheeks and into the gag in her mouth as her eyes bore into mine, desperate. A black hole yawns open inside of me. The killer is doing it again—making me watch as two more lives teeter on the edge. Making sure I know it’s my fault.
“Who are you?” I demand for the second time.
He lowers the gun. Even though I can’t see his mouth, I swear I can feel the smile stretching across it.
“You’re a natural, aren’t you? The picture of a scream queen.” He laughs. “It’s like I said, Hazel.” He takes a step closer, his voice shaping into something like awe. “You can’t fake the eyes.”
The words grab on and shake the sense back into me. The eyes. I didn’t recognize his voice at first because I’ve barely heard it. Because he’s kept to himself, to the sidelines. His name rushes to my lips, but before I can speak, he moves toward Nina and Cameron, and a scream rises in my throat, bracing for the bang of the gun—but then he dips back behind the theater seats and pulls out something small and gray. A knife.
No, I realize as it comes into the light. Not a knife—a camcorder, just like the one I found in the cop car. He gets out a tripod and sets it up, humming to himself in enjoyment.
“What do you want?” I beg, my jaw tensed to fight the full-body shaking.
He steps back from the camera, admiring his handiwork.
“What do I want?” he repeats with an amused twinkle. “What I want, Hazel, is what any good filmmaker wants.”
Evan takes off his mask, that teddy-bear face with a grin as ghastly as the gashes he’s cut across so many throats.
“I want my grand finale.”
30
Evan. The man who’s always been there, watching—who stepped into the killer’s costume like a second skin.
But even as he stands in front of me, unmasked, it doesn’t make sense. Evan doesn’t have a motive like Cameron. Evan was there, on camera with Autumn and Lucas, when Tammy was murdered. Unless … I spin my mind back, trying to catch an image of Evan without his mask, but it was on when he came back from the bathroom break. He didn’t take it off again.
Like he can read my mind, Evan smiles.
“I was worried, at first, that it wouldn’t work,” he says. “My little one-two switcheroo. But it went perfectly. Kyle was in such a state after our big scary director yelled at him that he was more than eager to put on the suit when I told him to. Of course, his conscience crept back in later—he tried to tell our friend Officer West what happened—but I handled that.”
Kyle. His bloodied body flashes in my memory, dead because he tried to come forward, and my chest aches.
Evan sinks happily into the nearest seat, kicking his legs out in front of him and breathing a sigh of relief as he tosses the burlap mask aside.
“It gets so stuffy in there,” he says. “I can see why your old man didn’t bother.”
Your old man. It’s a taunt, but also tinged with something familiar.
“Did you know him?”
Evan grins.
“Did I know him?” He inspects the gun, buffing it on his sleeve. “Yes, Hazel, Cal and I were very well acquainted. In fact, I was his favorite student.” His eyes snap up to mine, brewing with sudden violence. “I’m assuming he never mentioned that on your little calls.”
Our calls. How the hell does Evan know about them? The question dies in my throat when I catch something else in that expression: hurt, buried under the hardening of his spine, his tightened grip on the gun.
I’ve found a weakness.
“No,” I say coldly. “He didn’t.”
Evan scoffs.
“That doesn’t surprise me. Cal could never even admit it to himself.”
I hesitate, hackles rising. “What do you mean?”
Evan narrows his eyes at me, like he’s deciding how much I deserve to know. Then he shoots out of his seat, making me flinch, but he just wanders back toward the projector.
“I was a sophomore the year it happened,” Evan says, reaching for a small remote. “A real slasher buff—not like the others, who’d seen a couple Scream movies and thought they knew it all.”
He clicks, and an image comes to life on the screen: a yearbook photo of a young Evan, smiling awkwardly without teeth.
“I joined the club because I wanted to talk about movies. Not just hang out with my English teacher because I thought he was sooo cute,” Evan says, putting on a high-pitched voice. “Or because I wanted to sleep with the girls who did, like Beau and Reeve.”
Cameron flinches at his brother’s name, his bound hands balling to fists.
