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They began to fall.

Why were they falling? She wished that she could see better!

“Dammit! Hunter, Hunter!” John Henry’s shout. “Hunter, you don’t pull this bullshit with us!”

What bullshit? “What’s happening?” Shelby cried. Too dark. Too dark to see. They were on the ground. Hunter…

“Always…love you,” he gasped.

Then he didn’t say anything else. His body crushed hers into the ground.

“Hunter? Hunter!”

Chapter Thirty

“The final girl, Shelby Carter, survived yet again.”

Hunter blinked blearily.

“Rise and shine, PI,” a mocking voice told him. “It’s your dream girl, showing on the TV screen, and we both know she can motivate you to get your ass out of this bed.”

His eyes opened. He was…in bed. In a hospital. Dammit. Like he didn’t know a hospital bed when he woke, partially elevated in one. With aches and pains all over and an IV going into his arm.

“Watch. This is the good part.” Declan stood at the foot of his bed. He pointed to the TV. Not some small, typical hospital room TV. At least a 70-inch monstrosity. “Had it brought in special for you. Figured you needed something nice while you recuperated. Wait, wait for it…” His gaze was on the TV. Not Hunter. “Here we go.”

There she was. Shelby. At the diner. Trying to fight her way into the back of an ambulance, but EMTs and uniformed cops hauled her back.

“You’re in there,” Declan explained. “In the ambulance. Your unconscious self is. For the record, I believe you were shot five times. Maybe grazed by bullets at least twice more. But you just kept going. I think that officially makes you the unkillable force in the horror movie—you’re the match for the final girl, right?”

He swallowed. Swallowing hurt.

“Oh, look. The reporter is back, wait for it…”

The footage kept rolling. Shelby was soaked in blood.

“Okay, just so you don’t freak, Shelby is good,” Declan informed him. “Really good. Most of that blood was yours, and she didn’t even realize it soaked her because she couldn’t see for shit at the time this was filmed. Double doses of mace will do that, but, hey, she still killed Kimber Lang even when she couldn’t see, so…win for Shelby. You also took out Kimber’s accomplice, Shamus. Both brutal takedowns, according to John Henry. Know that I am impressed.”

The reporter—a woman from Channel Five—filled the screen. Ms. Rochelle’s diner waited behind her, with yellow crime scene tape blowing in the breeze. Bright sunlight poured down on her as the reporter dramatically declared, “Even though the tragic events happened three days ago…”

Three days?

“The city’s mourning continues.” The reporter motioned to an assortment of flowers and stuffed animals that had been placed in the parking lot of the diner. “A candlelight vigil is scheduled to occur tonight at the memorial fountain, and I am certainly praying that this violent chapter in our city’s history can finally end. May the victims be at peace.”

“Turn it off,” he rasped. “Turn off the TV.”

Declan kept watching. “There will be more playback. This same segment runs pretty much every twenty minutes, and you probably want to see when Shelby slugs an overeager⁠—”

“Turn. It. Off.” The only thing he wanted to see was Shelby. Where was she?

“Fine. Turning it off.” Declan hit a button on the remote. He tossed it aside and shoved his hands into the pockets of his black pants. “You haven’t said anything about the flowers.”

What?

“The bouquet on the left is from me and Marley. We were the first to send you flowers because, you know, I’m your best friend.”

He lifted the sheet. Tried to take stock of his injuries. Lots of bandages. He could feel the pull of stitches beneath them.

“Then Memphis Camden and the Ice Breakers sent like the other five bouquets. I read the cards because I’m nosey that way. On his card, Memphis said something to the effect of…his bad, guess the case wasn’t quite so cold.”