“You passed out, Blake,” he reminded me.

I stared at him. “And? I don’t need to go home.”

“Good thing you’re not the one making that call.”

Beverly held out her hand for me.

I stared at it like it was an active grenade.

She wiggled her fingers. “Come on, Loverboy.”

I grabbed her wrist instead of her hand, using it to pull myself up just enough to glare at her.

“If you ever call me that again⁠—”

“Blake McHayes,” she whispered, amusement gleaming in her eyes. “Did I really make you faint?”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give her that satisfaction.

I stood, brushed myself off, and looked down at her with all the frustration and exhaustion of a man at his breaking point.

“I hate you.”

She patted my chest, smiling way too brightly.

“You love me.”

24

BEVERLY, 1998

16 years old

The drive-in was packed. A sea of headlights flickered against the night air, casting long shadows over the gravel lot as cars lined up in front of the giant screen. The crisp autumn breeze carried the scent of popcorn, nachos, and the faint burn of firewood from the concession stands near the entrance.

Tiffany tapped her fingers against the steering wheel of her dad’s old Honda, grinning as she twisted the radio dial, searching for the station that played the movie. Scream hadn’t started yet, but previews were rolling, illuminating the night in bursts of color.

“I love this place,” she sighed from the driver’s seat, flipping open her compact mirror to reapply lip gloss. “They should have drive-ins forever.”

“Forever,” I echoed, only half-listening as I scanned the rows of parked cars. The night had the kind of chill that seeped through fabric, but the inside of Tiffany’s car was warm, smelling faintly of vanilla body spray and the lingering scent of French fries.

“I love this movie.”

“I know.” I curled my fingers around my cup of soda, swirling the straw. “You’ve said it three times already.”

She ignored me, smacking her lips together. “I don’t know, Bev. There’s just something about men with masks,” she mused, snapping her mirror shut and tossing it into the black cup holder. “Why are they so…hot?”

I didn’t answer, just shifted in my seat, adjusting the blanket over my lap as the opening scene started—the phone call, Drew Barrymore’s perfect blonde hair, the knife glinting under the kitchen light.

I wanted to be excited. I should’ve been excited.