Page 36 of Off the Rails

Scoffing, Blade hopped down from her perch at the counter and blew me a kiss. “Good night, Trinket.”

“Night,” I murmured, nervous to see why Nash wanted me alone.

But if she had ulterior motives, I wasn’t sure that they were nefarious. Rather than taking a break of her own, Nash made herself busy in the kitchen again, asking how my day had been.

Before I knew it, I’d been set up with a blanket and fresh popcorn with the latest B horror movie streaming on the TV. It seemed like they had every streaming service known to humankind on this fancy fucking thing. Gone were the days of bumming a password and watching on my phone.

I still wasn’t sure how to feel about the food they provided me with, though — it would be so easy to slip me something — but I was hungry, and I’d watched her make it.

Plus, the pancakes this morning were completely fine.

The first bite was perfectly salted and buttery — my eyes nearly rolled back, but I just closed them, gripping the bowl tight to my chest.

Does it get any better than a perfect bowl of popcorn?

“M&Ms?” She offered, setting a bowl full down on the coffee table before taking a seat on the far end of the couch.

Eyeing her warily, I took a handful and dropped them into the popcorn, shaking the bowl to mix them in. I held my breath, waiting for her to pose some big ask — but she just smiled, kept her eyes trained on the screen, and gave me some room to breathe.

It wasn’t long before I felt my eyelids growing heavy, my nervous system starting to chill out. But I couldn’t afford to sleep out in the open, vulnerable to whatever Nash wanted from me. As safe as she felt, I knew that it was all a ruse: even outside of Fright Night, I was still their prey.

So I hoisted myself off the couch, taking one last bite of the delicious popcorn before thanking Nash and heading off to my room. As I locked the door behind me, jamming a chair under the handle for extra safety, exhaustion set in.

Not just the physical kind: it was draining having to constantly monitor my surroundings, regulating my every move. If I let go of control, it would be so easy to get comfortable in this life, with these people. It would be so easy to give in and forget that they were deranged killers who very likely wanted me dead.

Crawling under the covers, I made a resolution to myself: until the next Fright Night, I would spend my days walking the park, committing as much of it as I could to memory. I would take the space from my captors where I could get it, wouldn’t let them sink their hooks any deeper into my psyche with promises of comfy blankets and delicious popcorn.

The universe had other plans for me, though. When I woke a few short hours later, I was ready to slip on my sneakers and take a lap of the park. But that was before I heard the steady patter of rain against my bedroom window.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I stumbled out of bed, pressing my hand to the cool window. This wasn’t just the light sunshower sprinkles of summer, the kind that would pass in an hour. This was earth-quenching rain that painted the whole sky in hues of blue and gray — the kind that carried the early chill of fall, the kind meant to soak away the scorching of the summer.

Which meant that unless I wanted to catch an early death, I was stuck inside with the very people who might want me dead. Shrugging on a loose pair of pajamas, I tried to recalibrate. This could be an opportunity too, if I played it right.

Every chance my captors got to poke around my brain was a chance I had to poke around theirs, too. If I could understand their psyches better, I could start to think like them and see which areas might be safe during Fright Night.

I padded down the hallway, bracing myself for chaos in the kitchen. But to my surprise, it was a pretty quiet morning.

At the end of the hall, Cyrus’ door was still shut — she probably loved the excuse to hide away in her cave like the beast she was. I’d guess that Butch was hiding out with her. What that sweet little cat saw in a brute like Cyrus was beyond my comprehension, but every time she was home, he stayed glued to her side.

Blade was nowhere to be seen, which meant she must be out. It was impossible to miss her in the apartment: her energy vibrated right through the walls, and anywhere she went, some sort of clatter always followed.

Of course she’s out there in the flood. That ball of energy could probably run a marathon every day and still feel cooped up.

But I didn’t see Nash anywhere either: no swell of music or scent of pastries coming from the kitchen. Maybe she’d taken the weather as an excuse to sleep in.

My mind instantly kicked into overdrive. I was never left alone in the apartment; it was a rare opportunity to study my surroundings without being observed.

I paced the apartment slowly, ignoring the growing rumble in my stomach. I still couldn’t believe how large and luxe this apartment was — you’d never have guessed it based on the ramshackle vibe of the park below.

There was no way this was an original feature of Feverpoint — what amusement park had residential housing built in? — which either meant that they were highly skilled at building, or they had access to a team that worked discreetly.

Honestly, I could see either possibility being true, especially given how much money they had.

Speaking of money, my eyes lingered on the art that filled the apartment. Big Abstract canvas paintings were hung over the couch, in the kitchen, and even down the hallway. Abstract bronze sculptures of various sizes adorned the spaces between furniture and the gaps on shelves.

I didn’t recognize any of it immediately — I wasn’t an art buff, though. Still, this much art had to be worth something, right?