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“I’m still here, am I not?”

“Why didn’t he kill you?” I push further. “Got cold feet?”

“Before he could slit my throat, the cops busted down the door and shot him,” he replies, putting the half-empty beer bottle on the patio table, breaking eye contact for the first time. “Apparently neighbors heard commotion and called the police.”

“Where’s he now?”

“Dead,” and something in the way he says that makes my skin prickle.

“How?” I ask, leaving both courtesy and sympathy at the door. It’s clear that he lacks both just as much as I do.

“Suicide,” Adrian answers. How interesting. Dad of the year slaughters his family and then takes his own life, and the mere mention of it provokes absolutely no emotion out of him.

I take another sip of my beer before discarding it, letting the cold settle in my mouth before swallowing. “How tragic,” I reply, reaching my arms over my head, stretching my sides. “Hope you at least got a payout.”

“From my mother, yes. From my father? No.”

“Hm. Fuck him then,” I reply, hoping Adrian got all the answers he needed observing me whilst telling his catastrophic childhood. My words evoke a smile, and he seems fucking satisfied with my reactions.

I move closer, cupping his neck, brushing over the scar with my thumb one last time. He is reveling in my touch, and I can feel the goosebumps on my fingertips. He doesn’t pull away, but I should. I should stop this now while I still can.

It’s truly a shame I must kill him.

There’s no room left for hypotheticals, and Adrian is a variable I’ve already solved for.

And still—watching him stand there, relaxed in a way he hasn’t been anywhere else—I register the loss before it happens. Not emotionally, but practically. A recognition of value that won’t be extracted in time.

Chapter 14

Adrian

The parking lot is already a graveyard.

Cars stand like tombstones as fog machines bleed artificial mist across the asphalt, curling around ankles and car tires like serpents. Orange floodlights cut through it in theatrical beams, illuminating banners that scream NIGHTFALL in dripping serif letters.

Lucas whistles low. “This is insane.”

Amani grins, practically vibrating beside him. “Look at all the lights! Oh my God, they went all out.”

They flash their access passes at the gate attendant like children holding golden tickets. I do the same, but with much less enthusiasm, as I scan the perimeter with an unnatural ease.

There is security posted at intervals, and two clear exits appear on the left side. One emergency route peeks from behind the prop hearse.

The smell of gasoline and fake smoke mixes with caramelized sugar from a nearby food stall as we enter, and I’m hit instantly with the view of saturated colors of the macabre, plastic props adorning every edge of the event grounds.

“Beautiful,” Amani chimes.

I hate everything.

This whole month is just a nauseating freak fest, and I’d rather be spending my time meaningfully elsewhere.

I’d rather spend it at Dante’s place like the night he pulled me from the bar.

But that was over a week ago, and I haven’t heard from him since. Dante has gone irritatingly quiet. He texted me almost daily, up until recently, that is. The fucker ghosted me.

Maybe that’s why I am particularly irritated tonight… among other reasons.

Alas, I’m imprisoned by Phantom Production’s first annual event, and to properly break into spooky season, they have this elaborate setup on the edge of the forest, just off the main road. Nightfall—according to Lucas—happens every year on the first of October. The icebreaker, so to speak. There are hundreds upon thousands of events happening during the month of Halloween by different event organizers and even shops. Phantom Productions stands as their Matriarch.