Page 121 of Kiss Slay Replay

“I’m just happy,” Steph says.

“It’s a great day,” Wyatt says. “We’re lucky to be here with you.”

The mass embrace finally disperses, and I slip my phone out of my back pocket to check the time. Evan taps at my hand. “Relax, Cinderella. I promise you, you have enough time.”

If only he knew.

2

It takes me another twenty minutes to make my exit. I escort Steph back to her cabin, exchange more hugs and I love yous.

“You’re perfect,” I tell her. “Tonight will be perfect.”

Now I hurry down the path trying to make good on my word. I approach the floral arches, attempting to gauge the distance to help me figure out where exactly I entered the woods that first day. But all the trees look the same, so I have no real way of knowing.

It comes back to me—the image of Ravi standing there under the center arch, Tanya’s fingers in his hair. The hurt I felt. The panic.

A vision of the Eyeball Man in the distance, partially concealed by foliage. He waved.

I see you.

I need to hustle. I need to go. The longer I stand here and do nothing, the closer I get to—

Tick tock.

A bird caws in the distance, and it startles me, steals the breath from my throat, drinks the warmth from me like the soul-thirsty phantom.

Rustling in the trees turns my attention. I search for that deer, its side ripped and rotting, hear the screeching noise it made as it barreled toward us, a vessel of absolute hunger. Empty and selfish.

I want to look away, but where? Up? To the sky? What will look back down at me?

Are the arches moving? Are they getting closer? Are there tiny beings inside the flowers, chittering away? I listen to the breeze, anticipating little whispers.

The sun beats down on the back of my neck, fire breath.

I know what I need to do. I know I need to look for the way out, but everything that’s happened makes it so hard. I’m terrified. Every move I make is haunted.

I want to walk back to the cabin, curl my hair, put on lipstick, drink canned margaritas with Cassie, pretend none of this is real.

What story worth telling starts with a retreat? What good story ends with one?

Imminent death should be enough to motivate me, but after you’ve died a few times, the novelty starts to wear off.

I turn around, contemplating going back to the cabin and trying again later after I’ve had some liquid courage, but…

Death.

Literally.

Standing near the reception hall.

Black hooded robe, an hourglass hanging from a frayed rope tied around the waist, skeletal hand clutching a towering scythe with a gnarled wooden shaft, the blade long and slim, shining, sharp.

The grim-fucking-reaper.

It points a bony finger as it slowly glides toward me, as it comes for me.

It could be bravery, or defiance, or instinct that compels me to run. All those things, none of those things. Or it could be that I’ve learned I’d rather run for my life than let it pass me by.