Page 51 of Kiss Slay Replay

My heart jumps into my throat as I tiptoe around. Their cabin is laid out differently than the others—with only one bedroom, the bed strewn with rose petals. There’s a closet. A bathroom. Hiding places.

I remember my death. The taste of my own blood dripping into my fear-limp mouth. The sound of the knife cutting into my skull. My killer’s wheezing.

Before I lose my nerve, I rush forward and yank open the closet doors.

I confuse the hanging clothes for bodies, and my legs collapse under me.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I carry on muttering to myself as I push the clothes around, check the back of the closet. I crawl toward the bed and lift the covers to make sure no one’s concealed underneath. I grab onto the nightstand and pull myself up, shuffle over to the bathroom. Flip the switch. Peer into the claw-foot tub, anticipating too many eyes peering back.

But it’s empty.

My bare feet go cold on the tile. I wait for relief that doesn’t come, because I can’t get past it. The sense that something bad is about to happen.

Steph’s laughter carries in from outside.

“Put me down,” she says.

“No, I have to carry you over the threshold,” Jace says. “You’re my bride.”

“I’m too heavy.”

“No, you’re not.”

I hear the door swing open, bang against the wall. Steph bursts into a fit of giggles. “You’re about to drop me.”

“I’m not!”

Somehow this panic feels just as shitty as running-for-your-life panic. What do I do? Hide in the bathroom?

I close the door.

Actually, no. This is a bad idea. They will definitely find me and that’ll be even weirder than if I just come out now. Reveal myself.

They’re stumbling into the bedroom. He’s throwing her on the bed. They’re—

“Um, hi!”

Steph screams.

“It’s Willa. I’m in the bathroom. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Willa?” Jace says. “What are you…”

There’s no time to come up with a lie. I’m not great at thinking on my feet. I use index cards for presentations at work. I keep lists of things I want to talk about with specific people in my Notes app, so I don’t forget, so I can reference them during future conversations. I silently practice my coffee order while waiting in line. If I know I’m going to a particular restaurant, I will study that menu in advance like there’s a fucking test. “I…I swear I’m not being a creep.”

“You’re not here to watch?” Jason asks from the other side of the bathroom door.

“No! Ew. I mean, sorry, no offense.”

He laughs. “Are you decent?”

“Yeah,” I say, opening the door.

“Come here! I haven’t seen you,” he says, pulling me in for a bear hug. He’s freakishly strong—a once prodigious wrestler poised to go to the Olympics until injuries forced him to hang up his singlet. He drank too much in college, but Steph got him on the straight and narrow. Now he works construction. He looks intimidating—muscled and tattooed, but he’s gentlehearted, and one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. He releases me from his vise-grip. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I’m…”

“Are you okay?” Steph asks, popping her head into the bathroom.