Final Cut, page 9
Wait, malfunction? I showed Autumn the knife. She knows someone swapped it. I watch for a sign that I heard wrong, but she keeps talking, cool and collected.
“That said, Swamp Creatures is a story that deserves to be told, and with that in mind…” Autumn takes a small breath. “We will be forging ahead.”
For a second, we’re all silent. And then all hell breaks loose.
“I’m sorry,” Tammy says first. “But someone almost died last night.”
“That lamp almost crushed me to death,” Nina adds.
Mike laughs darkly. “The friggin’ cops were here. Pretty sure it’ll be tough to ‘forge ahead’ when someone gets slammed with criminal-negligence charges—”
Voices overlap, more questions and anxious murmurs, and Wren holds up her hands to quiet us.
“Please, let’s try to be calm here,” she says. “Everyone will have the chance to ask questions if we just—”
“What about the knife?” I ask, loud enough that all the attention whips to me. “That wasn’t a malfunction.”
Silence cuts through the group.
“What?” Nina asks me, like everyone else has disappeared, nothing left but this revelation.
“Didn’t you tell the cops?” I press Autumn. “I showed you the knife. It—”
“I know,” Autumn says, so calmly I stop cold. “I gave it to the cops and explained what you told me, but when we followed up this morning, they said the knife was retracting. It was just stuck—a terrible freak accident.”
My head spins. The knife was real. I have the shallow cuts on my fingers to prove it. Unless …
I think back to last night, the adrenaline shuddering through my body. The prop knife was dulled, but it was still made of metal. I could have gripped it hard enough to hurt myself. Maybe I was so panicked, so haunted by the swamp and all the ghosts it holds, that I convinced myself something was there when it wasn’t.
In the worried hush, Tammy raises a hand.
“So, I’ve got a question,” she says, irritated. “How are we gonna deal with the fact that one of our actors is in the hospital?”
“Technically, last night was a wrap on Brooke’s character,” Autumn says. “We have all the footage we need.”
Lucas looks aghast. “So we’re going to use the take of an actual stabbing?”
“No, not necessarily,” Autumn says quickly. “We’ll assess what we have, and anything else we need, we can get in reshoots, once Brooke is feeling better.”
Nina scoffs quietly. “This is actually unbelievable.”
Autumn’s gaze lasers in on Nina. “Did you have a question?”
Nina’s mouth opens in stunned surprise and then closes again. She smooths out her skirt, straightening her spine. “I’m sorry, but respectfully, I don’t think it’s very professional to continue a shoot when it’s under an active investigation.”
A few crew members murmur in support, but Autumn’s voice slices through them all, cool and clean.
“The investigation is done. The only people legally at fault are the prop knife’s manufacturers.” She pauses, searching the group for objections like a shark out for blood. The back of my neck prickles when her eyes land on mine, but I’m too intimidated to speak. Like she can tell, Autumn softens her expression slightly. “Listen, y’all, I know we’ve been off to a rocky start. But I spoke to Jason last night, and he and the rest of the producers are committed to continuing this film. The fact is, there’s funding on the line. You all signed contracts committing to the full duration of this shoot. This film will continue safely and professionally, but it will continue. Any questions?”
“Actually, yeah,” Mike says, frowning. “Where’s Harry?”
He’s right, I realize. Harry is the only person not here.
Autumn lets out a frustrated huff through her nose, like this is a sore spot.
“Harry has left Pine Springs,” she says. “He sent an email this morning asking to be released from his contract. We’re in talks to get him to return, but for now, we’ll continue without him. Today’s schedule doesn’t have any Mr. Torrance scenes, so until Harry returns, Evan has agreed to step in as our masked killer.”
She gestures to our cinematographer, who gives a sheepish wave.
“I’m not much of an actor,” he says, “but I’ll do my best.”
I’m a little worried, given how much Evan seems like he’d rather stay behind the camera, but he’s the right size and build, at least.
“Marlena will step in as our cinematographer whenever we need Evan in a scene,” Autumn adds, giving Evan’s assistant a grateful smile. “Wren?”
She steps forward, jumping into first-AD mode. “Given the situation, our schedule is a bit tight as we try to fit in the scenes we couldn’t get to last night. As you’ll see on the call sheet…”
I try to listen as Wren talks through the schedule, but I’m too distracted by the unsettled feeling in my gut. I should be relieved. This is what I wanted—for the film to continue, the chance to dig deeper into what’s really going on here—but it doesn’t feel right. I was so sure that the knife was real, that there was something just under the surface of this shoot, this town, for me to dredge up, but now …
You can go down that path all you want, Haze, Mom said. But believe me, it’s not worth it.
I thought she was turning away, shutting her eyes to possibilities she didn’t want to accept. Now I wonder if she was trying to protect me from getting my hopes up.
“Okay,” Wren says. “I think that’s everything.”
She turns to Autumn, who gives us a sharp nod.
“Meeting adjourned. Actors, get to learning those lines.”
I’m turning back toward the motel in a daze when I feel a tug on my arm. I’m not surprised that it’s Cameron, but I wasn’t expecting the grim look on his face.
“What?” I ask, heart thrumming.
Cameron glances around, like he’s trying to make sure no one’s listening, and then pulls me in closer. He’s looking at me like he did last night, only more intently, stirring the air between us into a buzz I can feel behind my ribs.
“You said somebody switched that knife,” he says. “You’re sure?”
“I don’t know.” I step back, defenses up against the force of his stare. “Autumn said—”
“I know what she said. But you saw it, right? You’re sure the knife was real?”
I hesitate, the words locked in my throat. His expression is open and waiting, like he needs my answer. Like whatever happens next is up to me.
My first impulse is to lie. Push it down and keep it to myself. But Cameron’s my friend—at least I think so—and maybe right now, that’s enough.
“Yes,” I say.
The word settles over Cameron’s face, hardening it into determination, but with something else, too. A glimmer of excitement.
“I believe you,” he says. “And we’re going to find out who did it.”
11
My heart pounds, caught somewhere between relief and terror. Cameron believes me.
Cameron wants to know the truth.
“What’s going on?”
We both turn to Lucas, who’s standing right next to us like we’re planning a game night he wants in on.
I glance at Cameron. Lucas’s true-crime obsession still unsettles me a bit, but he’s been kind to me, and so far, the on-set “accidents” have all targeted actors. Lucas is one of us. Cameron nods like he’s thinking the same thing: we can trust Lucas as much as we can trust anyone else on this set.
“I don’t know how, but the cops were wrong,” I say. “That was a real knife.”
“Malfunction or not, no prop knife can stab somebody that hard,” Cameron adds.
“Okay, someone needs to explain what’s happening here.” Nina steps up to our huddle now, her eyes burning with determination as they land on mine. “What did you see?”
I want to tell her, too—especially since Nina could have landed in the hospital just like Brooke if she’d been one second slower jumping away from that lamp—but there are too many people here, and I don’t know who we can trust.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” I say. “I don’t think we should talk about it here.”
I turn to look at Cameron, but he’s already walking toward the parking lot.
“Come on,” he says. “Haze can drive.”
“Where?” I ask, a little incredulous at how quickly he’s taken over.
“The diner.” Cameron’s crooked smile beams at us on full display. “I don’t know about y’all, but I’m starving. And if we’re talking theories, I’d like to do it over pancakes.”
* * *
I don’t realize how hungry I am until I step into Miss Bea’s Diner and a wave of smells hits me like a delicious brick wall: pancakes frying, butter melting, bacon sizzling. The grease in the air is so thick I’m pretty sure it could clog my pores just from standing here, and I don’t care one bit. A passing waft draws my nose to a plate of beignets, three squares of fluffy fried dough piled high with powdered sugar. I practically have to wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth as the person carrying them—an older white woman with her blue-gray hair in an actual beehive, tied back with a flowery scarf—looks at us and says, “Hi, dolls. Sit wherever ya want.”
Her Louisiana accent scrapes with the gravel of a lifelong smoker, and I can’t help but be a little tickled at this new addition to the Pine Springs cast of small-town characters.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Cameron croons as he leads us to one of the many open tables. Besides a few elderly patrons, the place is pretty dead.
“Don’t you dare with the ‘ma’am’!” The woman points a bright red acrylic fingernail at Cameron as she breezes back toward the kitchen. “Call me Miss Bea. ‘Ma’am’ makes me sound old.”
“You are old,” a customer chimes in.
“Choke on your bacon and die, you old fart!” Miss Bea scolds him before turning to us and adding sweetly, “I’ll be back to take your order in a jiff.”
As she disappears through the swinging kitchen doors, we sit down at a Formica table with a bright red top and seats to match. Nina looks around in awe.
“Where are we?” she asks, her gaze catching on one of the framed art prints on the wall, a 1950s-style ad of a woman eating a giant sandwich with the slogan MM! TASTES LIKE I DON’T GIVE A DAMN!
“I take back what I said about the Mystery Museum,” I say, opening a plastic-covered menu filled with pictures and word art. “This is my favorite place.”
Miss Bea comes back to take our orders, and I’m so distracted by the visions of beignets dancing overhead that I completely forget why we’re even here until she disappears again.
“So.” Cameron leans forward with his elbows on the table, eyes finding mine as his pitch dips conspiratorially. “What about this dang knife?”
The phantom beignets disappear in a cloud of smoke, and my mouth goes dry.
I reach for the napkin in front of me, tearing off a little piece. Everyone is staring at me intently, like I have all the answers, and suddenly, it feels like I’m back in high school, walking into class for the first time: every head in the room turned to appraise the new girl, intrigued. Not knowing they’re about to be disappointed.
But this isn’t school, I remind myself. I’m not about to flub an equation or prove too weird and aloof to befriend. These are actors—friends—and they need my help.
I set down the napkin. “When I picked up the knife after Harry dropped it, I could have sworn it was real. No matter how hard I pulled, it wouldn’t retract. And it was sharp. It—”
My voice goes tight, sudden panic squeezing as the memory hits me anew. Cameron catches my wrist in his hand, and I freeze at the purposeful warmth of his touch. My pulse beats in my throat as he turns my palm and bandaged fingers face up.
“It cut you,” he says gently.
Just then, Miss Bea returns with our drinks. I pull my hand back, examining the Band-Aid to keep my eyes anywhere but on Cameron’s.
“But how could it have been a real knife?” Nina asks in a hushed voice as soon as Miss Bea is gone. “I mean, it was definitely a prop one when they were rehearsing.”
“Harry put it down on the prop table when he got water between takes,” I say. “So…”
“That was when someone switched it,” Cameron finishes.
Lucas’s eyes bug behind his glasses. Now all his eagerness is gone, leaving only silent fear.
“Shit,” Nina breathes.
“Did y’all see anything?” I ask them.
Nina and Lucas shake their heads.
“I was too busy worrying whether this entire film might be doomed.” Nina takes a sip from her gigantic fountain Diet Coke, wincing like it’s something stronger. “And maybe it still is.”
Lucas’s brow furrows. “Okay, wait. The cops told Autumn the knife was retractable. Do you think it got switched back somehow before she gave it to them?”
It’s a good point. I search my memory for anything suspicious after I handed Autumn the knife, but nothing comes up. “I guess they could’ve.”
“Or,” Cameron says, sitting back with his steaming cup of coffee, “Autumn lied.”
My stomach knots itself tight. It’s the only other explanation that makes sense, but still, I don’t want to believe it. “Why would she lie?”
“It’s her film,” Cameron muses. “She doesn’t want it shut down.”
“Or she doesn’t want to get charged with negligence,” Nina adds, a bitter edge to her voice.
The falling lamp crashes in my memory again, and I grit my teeth to keep from betraying the fear.
“Right,” Cameron says. “But irregardless—”
“Regardless,” I correct him on autopilot.
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Regardless, it doesn’t change the fact that if somebody switched that knife, they had a reason.”
Lucas pales. “Like they wanted Brooke dead?”
“It’s a possibility,” Cameron says, holding up his palms. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“Okay, but why?” Nina doesn’t look convinced. “Why would anyone want Brooke … dead?” She lowers her voice on the word, glancing around the diner like someone might overhear. “Obviously, this is a poorly run set, but I don’t know if it’s a breeding ground for murder.”
“Four words,” Cameron says, holding up the same number of fingers. “The Pine Springs Slasher.”
I tighten my grip on my coffee mug, not caring that it’s still hot to the touch. The invitation flashes through my mind, those words in bright red.
See you there, Hazel.
Nina frowns. “I thought he was arrested forever ago.”
“Fifteen years,” Lucas says. “And he was, but for the sake of argument…” He leans in. “There are people out there who think they have the wrong guy.”
My hands go cold and clammy, even around the warm mug. I know this. I’ve seen the forum posts and the speculation.
It just wasn’t until recently that I’d ever wondered if they might be right.
“Who do they think did it, then?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level.
Lucas adjusts his glasses, and it’s like something has been activated behind his eyes, his inner true-crime conspiracy theorist lighting up.
“There’s plenty of theories, some less substantiated than others. A passing psychopath from out of town, the creepy Pine Springs High janitor … even La Bête Verte.” Lucas wiggles his fingers, mock-spooky. “The murder weapon and the confession were more than enough for a conviction, obviously, but people were suspicious of the timing—a whole two weeks in custody before he confessed, especially when Cal had been insisting on his innocence for so long. At the very least, some people think the confession could have been coerced with the promise of a lighter sentence.”
“Do you believe that?”
In the moment after asking Lucas the question, I realize I don’t know what answer I’m hoping for.
He swipes a stray curl out of his eyes, shrugging a little.
“Not necessarily,” he says. “Sometimes, I think the Cal truthers have a point. But it’s also hard to argue with the bloody chain saw in Cal’s movie shed—exactly where he’d been with the last three victims on the night they died.”
I let out a small breath. Disappointed.
“If I had to pick, though,” Lucas adds, “the only other suspect that makes any sense is the janitor. He knew those students, too, and a few girls at Pine Springs High brought him up in the initial investigation, when it was just Bella and Beau who’d died.”
Something prickles at the back of my neck. The janitor. I think I’ve read something about him, maybe, but clearly nothing memorable.
“The girls thought he could have killed them?” I ask. “Why?”
Lucas reaches for his phone, tapping away as he talks.
“Apparently, he looked at them funny. Gave ’em a bad vibe when he’d clean the women’s locker room.” Finding what he’s looking for, he turns the screen for us to see. “Scott Bergeron. But everyone called him Skeet.”
It’s a picture of a middle-aged white guy with thinning hair and a craggy face pulled into a scowl, one lazy eye drifting slightly to the side. I think I recognize the picture. I spot the Reddit thread at the top, r/PineSpringsSlasher.
I look closer. I don’t know where this picture is from, but they couldn’t have found one that makes Skeet Bergeron look more like a killer—or at least like the type of guy who shows up at the beginning of the movie to warn everybody to get the hell out.
“Did the police ever clear him?” I ask. “Or did they just shift to Cal once the others died?”
A quick pulse starts up in my chest. If there’s been another viable suspect this whole time …
But Lucas frowns.
“I’m not really sure,” he says. “I guess the cops never got enough on Skeet for an arrest, and once they found the saw at Cal’s, it was all over. Skeet still lives near Pine Springs, apparently. Out in the swamp, like he wanted to get as far away from humanity as possible.”
