Page 87 of We’re All Going to Die Tonight!

Marlene shakes her head, tears rolling down her face in big, heavy drops.

“It was,” she says, tapping the slats in the closet door. “I saw you through here. I saw you give the knife to Emerson. I heard you both.”

“Mari—”

“Don’t,” she says. “Lucas, please. I can’t handle it. You were supposed to be the one I could trust. But I can’t cover for you on this one. I just can’t.”

Lucas’s mouth falls open, like he’s searching for words and coming up short. Which doesn’t make sense because Lucas always has the right words. He always knows what to say.

“But you were knocked out,” I say, my own gaze shifting from Lucas to Caulder. That’s the detail he has been trying to process, right? The one sticking point in all of this. “Emerson said you were attacked,” I say. “That he fought off your attacker. You were out cold when Mr. Jay died. I watched you myself.”

For a moment, Lucas just looks at me. That usual softness is there, that sweet, understanding nature that’s all Lucas. Not the eyes of a killer. They can’t be.

But there’s one problem with that: He doesn’t look surprised about anything I just said. And Emerson looks pleased.

Lucas avoids looking at Caulder as he speaks.

“It’s a long story,” he says. “And I’m happy to tell you guys. Or, uh, not happy to tell you. I’ll lay it all out, I swear, but you’ve gotta believe me. I didn’t do this.”

“We don’t have to believe anything you say,” Kaitlyn says, tears streaking her cheeks. “It’s been you all along.”

“Yes and no,” Lucas says. “I just mean there’s more to it. Please. Give me five minutes.”

Caulder and I exchange a look, and his eyes anchor me in this moment. Reminding me that I’m not alone, no matter what comes next. No matter what Lucas says. I’ll get through it with him. We all will.

Right?

“Fine,” Caulder says. “But start from the top. And don’t leave anything out.”

Chapter 50

Lucas

October 17

3:50 a.m.

I start my story four weeks ago, when I got a text from Emerson Butler asking me to meet him “for a coffee.”

I didn’t know anyone who talked like that. Who were we, Fortune 500 businessmen discussing our next investment? But it’s not like I didn’t know Emerson. He was in the Debate Club and was kind of…He seemed to know everyone, and he acted like everyone was his friend, but he didn’t have any real ones. Not the way someone like Caulder did. Or, I guess, like I did. Even though lately, it had felt like I didn’t really have friends. Not in that way I used to, where I could scroll at random on my phone and text someone “wanna hang?” and get a response right away.

I was too focused on my channel to focus on friendships. After all, I needed it to take off—desperately. Mom’s medical bills were piling up, and even though she was in remission, I knew whatever college fund we’d had was effectively down to $0. Brand deals were possibly an option, but I had to be careful about it; an audience can smell a sellout from a mile away.

But here was Emerson, asking to meet up for coffee. He picked Café Culture, a coffee shop that seemed to have more white walls, glass displays, and blue branded cups than it had seats. When I took a sip of the latte Emerson had ordered for me, I almost spit it out. It tasted like ass.

“The flavor profiles here are super unique,” he told me. Yeah. If “unique” is synonymous with “sucks.” But I didn’t say that.

“I have a proposition for you,” he told me. “An opportunity that I believe you’ll find mutually beneficial.”

And he explained. He was pissed because the valedictorian and salutatorian spots had been “stolen” from him at his previous prep school. Those two had apparently “gamed the system” by taking local college classes. So he’d switched to Coastal Canyon, believing that, it being a public school, he’d easily outrank whoever our valedictorian and salutatorian were.

He hadn’t anticipated Avery Winslow and Caulder Grant or their GPAs, which—even if he pulled straight A’s during senior year—would easily outpace his.

Now, he said, he found himself “at a crossroads.” He couldn’t go back to his private school. He’d burned bridges. He needed to figure out a way to stand out in the pool beyond just GPA.

“Everyone wants DEI applicants,” he said, then held up his hand. “No offense.”

A lot of offense, actually. But I let him keep spinning. I’d figured that out a long time ago, when I started doing interviews on my channel: Give people time to dig their own graves, and eventually, they will.