Slasher Summer(8)
The kitchen’s back door was already open, the screen letting in a breeze from the lake. Jen checked the time on the vintage stove’s clock, then went outside. It was early yet. She should enjoy the sunset before all hell broke loose.
Mikey had unlocked the shed and was splitting wood, shirtless, like Patrick and Jason used to. How adorable. He almost looked like a real grown-up. He’d come a long way from the nerd who’d worked at the school library, fiddling with the computers and printers between shelving books. In the years since, he’d ditched the thick glasses for contacts or corrective eye surgery, and his chest had broadened with muscle, although it only emphasized the stubbornness of his jaw. No amount of deadlifting would fix that. But hey, Mikey would be making Silicon Valley money when he graduated MIT and would be able to buy himself a new chin if he wanted.
He grinned at Jen and flexed his pecs. He should’ve known that wouldn’t impress her, for many reasons. She gave him a sardonic thumbs-up. “Good job, Squeaks. Glad to see you finally hit puberty.”
She probably shouldn’t have taunted him while he was holding an axe, but someone needed to take that endearing little geek down a peg. He’d always tried to ingratiate himself with everyone, and he never understood that trying too hard made others respect you less. Like her mother’s attempts to repair her relationship with Jen after she left Jen’s dad for her Pilates instructor. Mom had stopped dragging Jen out for mother-daughter spa days when Jen started dressing like Lydia Deetz.
Jen picked her way down to the lake, glad she’d worn combat boots to navigate the awkward zigzag path through the rocks and trees. The fire pit still sat on the scrubby beach. One of the rocks that made up the ring had rolled aside. Jen pushed it back, huffing from the effort. They were in business.
Cedar Lake was a gouge in the forest, filled with liquid fire as the sun lowered over the water. The dock looked freshly stained, but she didn’t see the canoe. Maybe it was being repaired before Slasher Summer started. The rental company wouldn’t have removed it permanently. The scene in which the Slasher dragged nerdy Ralph out of the canoe was iconic. All that blood in the water and ropy entrails floating like jellyfish? Chef’s kiss.
Jen walked out onto the dock and gazed across the lake, enjoying the tranquil moment. She was glad she’d come. One last hurrah before she blew this pop stand for greener pastures. Time to go out in a blaze of glory and kill the past. Next week she’d be twenty-one, and she was going to cash in Grandpa’s trust fund and fuck around Europe where no one from this tiny backwater would ever find her. She’d live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse for the poets to write about. Like Lord Byron, Jen aimed to have an ex-lover describe her as mad, bad, and dangerous to know.
That would provide more inspiration for her painting than boring art school. She’d run out of hearts to break in her college town anyway. Chloe, Tanis, Bree, and—what was her name? It had started with an M. Moira? Mara? It didn’t matter. She’d complained Jen had been too honest about avoiding commitment. Jen had thought honesty was a good thing. Whatever. Relationships-with-a-capital-R made shit complicated. Just look at Tiffany and Jason. Just look at her parents.
She was about to turn around and go back to the cabin when she saw the figure.
They stood on the opposite shore, tiny at this distance, but clearly an adult-sized person in dark pants and a pale short-sleeved shirt. Standing with legs planted slightly apart, hands on hips. Like they were watching her. She peered at them curiously. There was a summer camp across the lake, but by this time of day all the counselors would be corralling the brats into their bunks. It was probably the camp director surveying his kingdom. Jen couldn’t remember his name, but knew he was Tiffany’s uncle.
She waved. The watcher didn’t wave back. A frisson of unease glided down her spine. Tiffany’s uncle would’ve acknowledged her. He was essentially Mister Rogers incarnate. There was something truly unsettling about the watchfulness of this person, as if they were waiting for something.
The two of them stood motionless, facing each other as if in a standoff. Jen didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of retreating first. Also, she didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to turn her back on them.
The watcher finally turned, melting into the trees. Jen gave their retreat the finger and made her way back down the dock to the cabin.
The sun had nearly dipped behind the horizon. She slipped her phone out of her shorts, meaning to turn on the flashlight, and noticed the low battery. Crap. She’d have to remember to charge it later. She’d forgotten how dark it got out here, without streetlights and with the sky blotted out by trees. Creepy McCreepster had freaked her out a little, too, and she twitched at every shadow, expecting them to be standing there. Thankfully, the cabin’s lights were on, and she could see Patrick through the kitchen window. Music drifted from the open screen of the back door. Was that—Huey Lewis? And was Patrick dancing? Trust Patrick to slip immediately into the eighties vibe of the place. He’d always been way too intense about the cabin.
Mikey had abandoned his macho grandstanding, the axe stuck in the sheared tree trunk where he’d been splitting wood. She’d grab a flashlight or lantern—Patrick was sure to have packed them—and start bringing firewood down to the beach.
As if her thoughts of light had summoned it, a glow began to illuminate the path to the main road. Jen strode to the front of the house. Headlights. They were growing larger, but slowly, as if the driver hadn’t quite made up their mind where they were going.