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"Don't talk to me right now. Just get your shit—we're leaving."

"What if she goes home and calls the police? Did you think about that?"

"She loves us. I'm not sure why anymore, but she does. She's not going to call the police."

"Silas—"

"No. We're leaving, or I'm leaving, Tate. I'm not going to let you go after her again. Maybe she'll get away, maybe your stupid fucking plan will still work, but she's going to get her head start. Youhurtme, and you fuckingowe me that."

"Fine," he says. "There's no public transit here; there are no planes, trains, or bus stops. I don't really like her odds for a head start,andshe might call the police. We can leave after I shower; I don't want to have to smell her on me the whole way there." He nods toward the door. "You coming?"

"You're fucking kidding me, right? No."

"Fine."

Tate closes the door, and I toss the keys onto the table, sit at the edge of the bed, and lie back. After the water turns on, the door opens again.

"How did she take it?" he asks.

"You'll be disappointed. She just kind of sat there, like I'd just told her the fucking grass was green. I don't even think she was surprised."

"Hmm. Okay."

Tate closes the door again, and I turn off the stupid fucking television and just lie here, staring at the ceiling. I take out my phone a couple of times, barely resisting the urge to text her and ask if she made it home okay.

Like it would matter. Like it wouldn't just make it worse.

It's over—again. She's gone.

twenty-one

Final Girl

Tate

Fuck.

I shouldn't have told him. It was a momentary lapse in judgment; I blame the straight whiskey I'd been drinking, but it's been hard to keep it a secret. We don't do that, and I guess that's why he's mad, and it's been hard to do notjustbecause we don't keep secrets from each other but also because I've been pretty damn proud of myself for this one.

I'll just…I'll tell Silas I forgot something, and then run inside and call the police from the motel phone. I'll give them an anonymous tip about "Lilah" and the guy who went missing. Just to make sure she doesn't get away in time. And then, we'll go.

I didn't have a plan when we first saw the video, but we had a long drive ahead, which gave me plenty of time to think of what I wanted to do with Noah. And killing her seemed too easy after allowing her to torture me for another fucking year.

Besides, she told me there were worse things than death. And every killer needs a final girl. Noah is my final girl. I think maybe I didn't understand the importance of that the first time around, but I do now.

That doesn't mean she gets to go live a normal life and fuck other people, though.

I pull the bandage from my stab wound, which has been itching like a mother fucker, step into the shower, and run my hands through my hair under the lukewarm water and shitty fucking water pressure. I don't know why I'd expect any better from a motel that doesn't even have a fucking name.

I laugh a little. God, she hated that so much.

Fuck. I need to wash her off and get out of here. I think too much when I'm in the shower. It's too fucking quiet. And right now I'm thinking about how nice it was to hold Noah against my chest in her bathtub last night.

But what I told Silas is true—I don't miss her, and I don't need her. I just miss the simplicity of that summer and how things used to be. Noah was still a fucking brat, always has been. But sometimes, she'd let her guard down, and I'd catch her looking at me like I hung the fucking moon, and it made me feel like I did.

I miss having a twin. I miss when my family was whole. But they aren't now, and I haven't been in a while—not since I became a killer.

I don't regret it. It's just, like I said, everything sure was a lot fucking easier. Noah embodies that time for me. Besides, I wasn't lying when I said that I couldn't take it back if I wanted to—not that I want to—but it's all done.