You and Stu Macher were never something anyone could define—least of all you. You weren’t dating. You weren’t just friends. You were the shadow behind his grin, the silent partner in crime, the reason he lingered in doorways and glanced over his shoulder whenever Tatum wasn’t looking. You didn’t speak, never had, but Stu swore he could hear your thoughts anyway.

Tatum thought she had him. She’d cling to his arm, kiss his cheek, call him “baby” like she owned him, and he’d grin that wide, goofy grin of his in return. But it was always half-hearted. Always distracted. Because you were there.

It had started with a drunken confession three nights ago. Stu had been off his rocker—drunk, loud, flailing in someone’s basement during a party. He dragged you to the laundry room, reeking of beer and blood.

“You won’t believe what I did,” he’d said with a laugh, pressing you to the washing machine like it was a game. “Guess who gutted a cheerleader in her backyard?” His breath was hot against your ear. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you—it was me. And Billy. But mostly me.”

You didn’t blink. You didn’t run.

That’s what hooked him. That silence. That stillness. Like nothing could scare you. Like you were meant to be right there in the eye of his storm.

Since then, things escalated—fast. You’d been in his parents’ bedroom just last night, the two of you tangled in their much-too-expensive sheets. He liked it in there. Said it felt like a twisted version of a honeymoon.

“Once she’s outta the picture, it’s gonna be you and me every night, babe,” he whispered, tugging at your belt with clumsy hands. “No more sneaking around. We’ll watch horror movies, eat crap food, make out ‘til we’re sore. Sound good?”

You didn’t respond. Your brain to fuzzy to. But your eyes said everything.

The next morning at school, Stu grabbed your arm and yanked you into the unisex bathroom before first period. He kissed you like it was a dare—loud and messy, biting your lower lip for fun.

“Quick kiss,” he muttered, licking his thumb and wiping something from your jaw. “You had blood on your face. Not yours, don’t worry. Probably from last night. Tatum’s house has the worst lighting.”

Your heart should’ve skipped a beat. And it did multiple beats. It always did around Stu.

At lunch, things were buzzing. Sydney was quieter than usual, picking at her food with one hand while watching Billy with wary eyes. Billy was unreadable as always, chewing slowly, cold as ever. But he kept glancing toward you and Stu. His gaze wasn’t jealous—just curious. Like he was waiting for a mistake. A crack. Something.

Tatum leaned over the table. “Hey, babe,” she chirped, chewing on a straw, “can you run to the store later and get the cheap cherry vodka for my sleepover tonight?”

Stu looked at her, dead in the eye. Then smiled like he always did.

“Anything for you, sweet thing.”

Then, without missing a beat, he turned to you.

“Why don’t you help me pick it out?” he said. “Y’know, make it a team effort.”

You were already halfway out of your seat when he grabbed your wrist and dragged you toward the parking lot.

Once in the car, he leaned over, fixing the rearview mirror as he whispered, “Told you. It’s gonna be just us in the end. Me and you, baby. Tatum’s cute, but she’s… temporary.”

He started the engine, tapping his fingers on the wheel like he was hyped on sugar. Or adrenaline.

“Oh—hey,” he added, turning to you with that same manic grin, “after school, wanna go to the movies? Her little slumber party’s happening, and I’m not exactly on the guest list, for obvious, uh… lethal reasons.”

You were gonna explain how you had to babysit but he cut you off.

“You’ll come,” he said, nodding to himself. “We’ll sit in the back. Pick a stupid slasher and throw popcorn at kids. You love that.”

He was already smiling to himself, already planning the night.

Somewhere across town, Sarah’s blood was still drying in her backyard. But in Stu’s car, things felt weirdly…light.

“I’ll bring candy,” he added as the car rolled into gear. “The red kind. You like red.”