𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐘 (+𝟏𝟖)

CH. 16: AFTER HOURS

M A L L O R Y

Numb.

That’s the word that keeps drifting to the surface, like debris in a murky ocean—the only word that comes close to describing what I feel sitting in the police station. My head buzzes, not from the alcohol residue in my system, but from the weight of everything.

My senses feel faded, as if I’m observing everything through a fogged-up window. The faint ticking of a wall clock seems to echo louder with each passing second. The sterile scent of the room, the rhythmic tapping of my fingers atop the cold metallic table beneath me, the subtle hums of fluorescent lights overhead— it all grounds me in the limbo between the present and the stygian abyss of anxiety.

“To be continued,” the killer murmurs, his voice dark, low, before pressing one last kiss to my lips.

His voice echoes in my head before a muffled female voice surfaces, pulling me into the mortal plane.

“Miss Carter?”

My eyes snap to Detective Olivia Sanchez, sitting across from me, and I blink, trying to gather myself. Her concerned expression says it all—I'd zoned out and she’d been talking to a body on autopilot while my mind flew off to the middle of buttfuck nowhere.

Shit, how long had she been talking?

“Sorry,” I mutter with a few blinks. “What'd you say?”

“I asked if you're okay,” Detective Sanchez repeats, eyes filled with commiseration. “You need a minute?”

“No, no, I'm fine,” A blatant lie. What the hell am I supposed to say? Of course I'm not fucking fine.

She knows I'm lying but doesn't attempt to press. I'm sure she's used to this—talking to people in shock, trying to gather information from those who blank and could barely string coherent thoughts together.

She leans forward, hands clasped on the table. “I know how overwhelming this is. Let’s take it one step at a time.” Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it.

“Okay...” I exhale, trying to steady myself.

“Tell me more about the party. About Tate.”

Tate.

The universe sure had a fucked up sense of humor because I’ve been here before—sitting in this room, speaking to a detective about the murder of Wes Callahan, a man I drugged for money on a date. Now, I’m back. Only this time, it’s Tate, my best friend’s boyfriend’s frat brother. Two men. Two deaths. Both tied to the same two people— me and him.

My only reprieve was knowing Celina was nowhere near the panic. They’d been holed up in the pool house, drunk and making out, oblivious to the chaos inside. She’d called me a couple of hours ago from Javier's phone, sounding guilty, hysterical, and on the verge of tears, asking if I was okay, if I was hurt—barely giving me a chance to answer her questions.

I glance down at my hands, nervously fidgeting with the skirt of my costume. “Celina went off with her boyfriend, and Tate and I had a few drinks. We were just having fun, and that's when the texts started.” My voice tightens at the memory. “The killer threatened me-said he'd kill Tate if I didn't stay away from him.”

Detective Sanchez’s eyes narrow, and I realize I’ve just admitted to drinking underage like a dumbass. But she doesn't seem to care for that detail. “And did you try to get away from Tate?” she asks instead.

“Yes, but he kept touching me and wouldn't stop. I had to slap him to get him to get my message across but it caused a scene.” I explain, the memory fresh.