Page 91 of Primal

“You’ve got one hour. Clock starts now.”

If I stay, we’ll be stuck here with this psycho. If I go—and get Kade moving—we might still have a shot.

“I’ll be back.” I squeeze Kristy’s hand. “I promise.”

She seems ready to throw herself between me and the door. Instead, she nods.

Derek reaches for the keyboard again, whistling like this is all routine. “Better hurry. Your boy’s not looking too lively.”

Chapter Nineteen

Dirt in my teeth. Blood on fire.

The mask’s fused to my face—sweat-crusted, reeking of iron, the cheap plastic grafting itself into bone. Don’t remember strapping it back on. Don’t remember much except—

The gothic script on the trailer now reads—HTLIF RUOY ESNAELC.

Fucking performance piece. Whoever’s behind this wants screams. Blood. Wants Payton on her knees—raw, trembling.

That thing in the mirror. If it was real … means he’s got backup.

I lurch onto my hands and knees.

Trees twist. Leaves aren’t leaves anymore. Snouts.

‘Hey, kiddo.’

Dad’s voice. Clear as day. I whirl around—

Nothing but a rotting log.

My skull splits open like a can opener’s gone to work from the inside out.

Dad’s hands over mine around the rod. ‘Steady, son. Bass don’t bite on panic.’ He’d hum Born in the USA. Off-key.

The sun was always too bright on the pier. Hot dogs. Laughing kids. Gulls.

Then came the tug on my line.

Dad always knew how to hook a bass, reel it in. Let its momentum carry it to us—because it never struggled once it got close.

‘Aim for the back of the throat,’ he’d murmur.

His thumb pressed over mine on the handle. Steady pressure. No mercy.

Max at seven, shoving his ice cream cone into my palm because I always gave him the cherry. ‘You can have mine. It’s got sprinkles.’

Mom before the crash, swaying by the kitchen sink, vodka bottle glinting. ‘You look just like him.’ The way she said ‘him’—like Dad’s name was a roach she found in her drink.

Robert’s belt buckle clinking as he loomed over Max. Me in the garage later, sharpening Dad’s hunting knife. Robert’s voice through the wall: ‘You tell anyone, I’ll—’

He never struggled. Not once I got close. And I knew exactly where to aim.

Payton’s teeth at my earlobe. ‘Fuck me like you mean it, Ghostface.’

Her nails in my shoulders. Trying to anchor herself. Or me.

What if it was her?