Page 5 of We’re All Going to Die Tonight!

“Bad news,” Mr. McCullough says. “Our tire’s definitely toast, and the spare’s not an option.”

He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, streaking it with grease.

“We can walk,” Emerson says, puffing out his chest. “I’ve checked. It’s less than a mile if we go through the woods.”

Our three chaperones exchange a glance. I can tell they’re trying to think of any way to avoid walking through this storm, but aside from spending the night in this metal nightmare, there aren’t any good options.

“Show me the map,” Mr. McCullough says, holding his hand out to Emerson. Emerson hands his phone over, and Mr. McCullough examines it before passing it to Ms. Dorman.

“I suppose it’s actually not that far,” she says with a sigh. “Everyone, get your bags. I’ll get the emergency kit. I think there are some flashlights in there.”

She looks over at me and then Avery. “You two, make sure nothing gets left behind and see that everyone stays together. Then follow me.”

Avery nods as if she’s been given a war assignment, finally looking my way to meet my eyes. Outside, there’s a flash of lightning, illuminating her in the darkness and making her green eyes spark.

Even after everything, there’s an intensity to her gaze that hasn’t changed. The difference? Before, she used to look at me with trust, with secrets in her eyes that only the two of us knew. Now that’s gone. Now she looks at me like she wants to pull me apart, dissect me, and tear open my scars for the rest of the van to see. A reminder that she’s never going to forgive me, and I know exactly why.

“Of course,” she says, gaze boring into mine. “I’ll take the lead. If Caulder doesn’t mind, of course.”

It’d be funny, maybe, if I didn’t know Avery’s hatred for me ran as deep as it does. If I knew how to fix this gnarled, messy thing between us.

But I don’t, and something tells me I never will.

So, instead, I nod, letting her head to the front of the group while I focus on making sure everyone grabs their stuff and gets off the van to follow her.

Avery Winslow.

Emerson Butler.

Lucas Rollins.

Kaitlyn Bendix.

Javi Machado.

Marlene Carlos.

I tick them off mentally one by one as they dig their bags out of the pile, thunder rolling through the distance. It feels like a warning, a reason to panic, but I push it aside and step out into the dark with the others, letting the rain and the night swallow me whole.

Chapter 3

Marlene

October 16

11:35 p.m.

“You guys are going to fucking die when you see this place,” Emerson shouts from the front of the group, his pale, skinny arms flung wide. “It’s fucking incredible.”

“Language,” Ms. Dorman mumbles, but there’s no conviction in it. She’s shivering next to me, probably doubting every decision that led her to this moment—especially the one where she trusted Emerson Butler’s claim that the Airbnb wasn’t “that far away.”

Her mistake, honestly. Everyone knows that Emerson Butler isn’t the kind of guy you trust. He is the kind of guy to act scandalized and fall apart when the hotel stocks the fridge with Dasani instead of Voss—a real complaint I witnessed him filing with the front desk of our hotel.

“Really?” he told the poor girl behind the counter. “You couldn’t even find some Fiji?”

That kind of sheltered isn’t what you need when you’re tramping through a literal storm, and judging by the grumbles around me, I know I’m not the only one thinking it. Emerson must realize it, too, which is probably why he’s jabbering on about how great this Airbnb is. He monologues about how it was built in the 1930s, how it was remodeled in the ’60s and then never touched, how some famous interior designer worked on it. To hear Emerson tell it, it’s basically a living work of art. We’re so lucky to be staying there.

We’re always so lucky to do things because Emerson has access to them, because Emerson can afford them, because Emerson knows some guy who knows another guy who worked with Steven Spielberg or Larry Ellison or whoever else Emerson can name-drop. He’s a specific type of entitled asshole, not that I’d say that to anyone. I’m not drawing attention to myself again.