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Nick rushes past me to Jen’s body. As he brandishes a pocketknife, my throat tightens and tears well up in my eyes.
“Hold on! I’ll get you down!” He saws at the rope that binds her, cutting her down. “Oh God, Jen … I’m sorry. Please, stay with me!” Over and over, he shakes her like he expects her to open her eyes. But once the harsh truth finally dawns on him, he screams in anguish.
She’s gone.
Cradling her lifeless body in his arms, he gently rocks her back and forth as he sobs. Numbness pins me in place. All I can do is stand here, watching Nick’s pain unfold before me. I’m the reason Jen is dead.
This is all my fault.
There’s nothing to say to make it better. The realization that Jen is gone—and I’m the one to blame—gnaws at my insides until I feel completely hollow. The voices in the shadows grow louder, becoming a cacophony that assaults my ears. I try to block out the noise with my hands, but it’s futile.
Nick’s gaze briefly meets mine, sadness and rage clear in his eyes. I can see what he’s thinking—that the woman he loved is gone because of me. Overwhelmed with guilt and shame, I tremble and collapse, unable to speak or breathe.
Uniformed personnel rush past as a hand grips my shoulder. I look up to see Blake standing beside me, his eyes sad but resolute as he gently helps me to my feet. I let him wrap an arm around my shoulders in a protective embrace as police and paramedics descend upon Jen’s body.
Nick yells, covering her body with his own, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. My heart wrenches as they push him out of the way to attend to her and gain control of what is now the scene of a homicide.
Blake leads me away from the tragedy I created. I steal one last glance at Jen’s body—an image that will forever be seared into my mind—before we make our way out of the corn maze.
As we emerge, I can still hear Nick’s anguished cries. Tears silently fall down my face as I realize I will never be able to forgive myself for what happened.
“It’s going to be okay,” Blake murmurs.
No … No, it won’t be.
We stand near the archway, finding solace in each other’s presence until the sound of sirens kicks up. A large crowd gathers by the maze as the police close off the entrance with yellow tape to discourage any nosy festivalgoers. Reality crashes back in as a cop approaches us, flashing his badge.
“I’m sorry,” he begins, motioning us to follow him, “but I need to ask you guys a few questions about what happened tonight.”
As the cop escorts us away from prying ears to a cruiser, Blake squeezes my hand reassuringly. My stomach drops as the officer—Daniels, according to his tag—takes out his notebook to record our answers. How am I possibly going to explain this? It feels like a scene from a nightmare that will never end.
“Tell me your names,” he orders gruffly.
“I’m Blake Sullivan, a journalist for the Fallbank Chronicle,” he states, his voice unwavering despite the situation. “I came to the festival to write an article with my fellow Chroniclers.”
As Officer Daniels stares me down, waiting for my response, I force down the lump in my throat. “I’m Mia Underwood. I came here with my two friends, Nick Campbell and Jen Breck.” The words die on my tongue as I gesture to the maze.
“And what were you two doing in the maze?” Daniels asks, scribbling down our names.
I take a deep breath and tell him the truth—at least a version of it. “I was trying to find Jen. We got separated during the costume contest. I thought I saw her go into the corn maze, so I went in. I heard music, went toward it, and then I saw her … She was … dead.”
“So, the person you say went into the maze,” Daniels presses, “was that not Jen?”
“It was the fucking murderer!” I blurt out, my fists clenching at my sides.
Blake steps forward and speaks up. “The person who might be responsible for what happened to Jen must have been the one playing music. It was coming from a boombox inside the maze. I heard it and came to investigate. That’s where I found Mia, Nick, and Jen.”
Daniels writes some things down before thrusting the pen and paper into Blake’s hand. “Alright. You’ve told me enough for now, so I’ll spare you the trip down to the station. But we might need more information later on, so give me your contact info.”
We both write down our phone numbers before handing the notepad back to the officer. He flips to another page, jots something down, and tears it out. “Here’s the number and address of the Sturgis Borough Police Department,” he says, giving the paper to Blake. “If you think of anything else—anything that could be a clue—call us there.”
With that, Daniels pats us both on the shoulders and bids us goodbye. I watch him go, still reeling with shock. Blake threads his fingers in mine, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.
“Could you give me a ride home?” I ask, my voice thin and strained.
He nods and guides me away from the cruiser. I feel eyes on me, hear whispers about our involvement as we weave through the crowd. My stomach twists painfully into knots, a feeling that doesn’t subside when exiting the festival grounds. I barely even remember getting into Blake’s car.
The both of us are silent for the entire drive home.
