Page 59 of We’re All Going to Die Tonight!

“This place has some weird history, though,” he says. “I’m gonna put some links down below so you can check it out for yourselves, but I’ll give you the CliffsNotes. This house is an almost exact replica of the house from North by Northwest, complete with its own creepy-ass cliffs.”

He points the camera to the window with a view to the cliffs, the ocean stretching out beyond.

“But that’s not all,” Lucas says, leaving the room and entering a new one. “Mr. Jay—a fellow film buff and brand-new teacher at Coastal Canyon—discovered a truly epic collection of Hitchcock memorabilia. Right, Mr. Jay?”

My stomach lurches as the camera pans to a still-alive Mr. Jay, beaming at the camera as he points to a display case full of props. None of them mean anything to me: a stuffed black bird, a gold necklace, a hotel key. But when Lucas turns the camera back to selfie mode, he looks like a kid let loose in his favorite toy store.

“This is the real shit, folks,” he says. “And it’s not just props. These people have old cameras, rolls of film, flare guns. Mr. Jay, what do you think?”

The camera flips back to Mr. Jay, who runs a hand through his messy, curly hair. I want to look away, knowing that, in a matter of hours, he’ll be gone. All I can see is the blood congealed there.

“Don’t approve of the word choice,” Mr. Jay says with a wink. “But it is all very cool.”

“I’ll say,” Lucas agrees. “Take this necklace here—”

“What’s that?” Avery asks, leaning in and tapping the phone screen. The video stops, and she enlarges the image, zooming in on Mr. Jay’s hand—he’s holding his phone and a handwritten note. His thumb’s covering part of it, but the rest is visible.

Need to see you. Meet me outside at

“Shit,” I say, leaning closer as she holds the picture wide. “Who’s that from?”

“The killer, obviously,” she says, and I’m almost relieved that she sounds annoyed at me, if only because it sounds like normal Avery. Not terrified-of-a-killer Avery but Caulder’s-up-to-his-usual-bullshit Avery.

“So, whoever wrote that note,” I say, “they lured him outside. They meant to kill him. It wasn’t an accident.”

“Who writes like this?” Avery says, trying to zoom in closer. “I think— Shit!” Her finger slips, and the screen suddenly changes. Video after video pops up, and she’s frantically swiping to get back to the original when she pauses.

“Shit!” she says. “Shit, what is this?”

I see flashes of the Hilton we stayed at for the competition. Slivers of debates themselves. And then…

She’s hit the party that the debate competition threw the night before the meet was over.

“Here, give me the phone,” I say. “I’ll look. That’s just the party.”

But she’s paused her swiping and is gripping the phone. She lets it play, holding up a hand at me.

“Wait,” she says. The video pans over it all: the tables decorated with bouquets of flowers, a balloon arch over the DJ, a 360 photobooth in the corner. Lucas going out on the dance floor, filming through the shimmering lights as different bodies rush in front of his lens.

A pretty girl with bright red lipstick takes his hand and spins in front of him, her silver dress sparkling as she twirls. Her smile is wide and catching, but I wonder if she’s smiling for Lucas or for the camera. Other people do this, too, as Lucas progresses through the crowd. They see the light of his phone, the telltale sign of filming, and shimmy in front of him, beaming or posing or shouting their school’s name. A sea of faces joyfully caught in his footage, though I notice he speeds through these interactions. Of course he does. Lucas never wanted canned poses. He wanted real.

He finds it, too, in the corners of the ballroom. A girl hiding tears behind manicured hands captures his attention for several moments; then she rises and disappears into a bathroom. A pair on the dance floor, bodies inching closer and closer, until a chaperone parts them. A boy sipping from a golden flask that he slips into his pants pocket. Lucas walks away from the party, down a set of carpeted stairs, and—

Oh no. Oh god no. She’s got to stop.

“We don’t need this,” I say. “Here, let me—”

But Avery must have realized what’s on this video. She pulls the phone closer to her as understanding dawns.

Because this isn’t enough for Lucas. These are small moments, not the big, dramatic ones I know he’s always chasing. The DJ’s roaring playlist is diluted to a dull thumping sound in the background as Lucas continues through a dark hallway, until there, at the end, are two figures. Their hands roaming over each other.

Lucas edges closer. He’s turned off his flash, but I can still see the figures clearly. A tall, broad-shouldered boy wearing a black sweater that clings to his arms. His hands are tangled in a girl’s brown hair. He has her face tilted up to his, and he’s kissing her hungrily, devouring her, and she’s kissing him back. She arches up to him, her red skirt riding higher on her leg. She gasps, and the sound fills me with horror, and…Yeah, okay. It’s really fucking hot.

“I guess that’s one way to answer,” the boy says, sounding like a complete asshole.

“Shut up,” the girl says, and he listens. He kisses her back, hungry again.

“Oh my god,” Avery says, staring at the video of me and her kissing.