Beth didn't cry when her father put a cigarette out on her arm at ten years old.
She didn't cry when her mom called her a mistake, or when the school counselor suggested she "maybe stop dressing like a serial killer."
She didn't even cry when she slit her first throat—some prick in her Lit class who thought "no" was an invitation.
But she cried when they wheeled Jamal out in a body bag.
Not in public, of course. That'd be out of character. Beth Sinclair didn't cry. She glared, she mocked, she stabbed people behind a dumpster in a Scream mask. Crying was for people who didn't know how the world worked.
Still, behind her thick eyeliner and pitch-black shades, tears burned.
She could hear the sirens even after they were gone, could see the blood even though they'd bleached the alley twice over. All that remained now were yellow "DO NOT CROSS" tapes sagging in the heat, and the distinct scent of copper and regret.
"Jesus Christ," Kym muttered beside her. "That was Jamal Elliot?"
Beth didn't answer. She just lit a cigarette, even though she didn't smoke much anymore. Old habits. Old wounds.
Manny paced like a glitching NPC behind them. "This is bad. This is really bad. He was dressed as Ghostface. Like—our Ghostface."
Deion—Marcus, really—was the only one keeping it together. Kind of. His jaw was locked tight, arms folded across his varsity jacket like he was trying to physically contain the panic crawling up his spine.
Liv, ever the drama queen in a cheer skirt and way-too-cheerful ponytail, just whispered, "Is this starting again?"
Beth flicked ash into the breeze and turned away from the scene. She couldn't look at it anymore. Couldn't handle the idea of him—her Jamal—sprawled out in that alley, soaked in red, mask cracked in half like a broken promise.
They didn't know what he'd meant to her.
They couldn't.
To them, Jamal was just some dropout, some local burnout with a short fuse and a record.
To Beth? He was the only person who saw her, really saw her. Past the sarcasm, the makeup, the curated chaos. He'd loved the darkness in her, not despite it—but because of it.
Together, they'd made horror into art.
Together, they'd been perfect.
The Deadfast Club sat in a circle of shitty plastic chairs in detention like it was any other Tuesday.
Beth hated how normal it looked. Like the world hadn't just ended for her.
Mr. Killoran, the school's definition of checked-out authority, barely looked up from his Sudoku. "Phones away. No talking. Do your homework. Or don't. I get paid either way."
He went back to ignoring them, and Beth went back to stewing.
"You okay?" Amir's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. He looked at her like she might shatter. She hated it.
"I'm great," she snapped, deadpan. "Thriving. Gonna start a lifestyle blog about grief and eyeliner."
Kym shot her a look, but said nothing. Deion just kept tapping his fingers against the desk—rhythmic, nervous, like a countdown to something terrible.
They'd all seen the footage. Some moron had filmed the aftermath before the cops showed up. The mask. The knife. The way Jamal's body had been mangled, not just killed.
Someone had butchered him. Gone out of their way to make it theatrical.
Like they were making a point.
Beth had known killers. Was one. This wasn't just a murder. It was a goddamn statement.
She clutched her phone under the desk, scrolling through their old texts.
"miss u already, freak," his last message read.
Sent just before the time of death.
She hadn't replied. She'd been pissed at him for messing up their timeline on the last kill.
Wanted to make him sweat.
Now she'd never get the chance to say she was sorry.
A sudden thought struck her cold.
Whoever had done it… knew.
Knew about the mask.
Knew about them.
Because Jamal wasn't just wearing Ghostface for fun.
He was on a job.
Beth's breath hitched.
That wasn't a coincidence. That was a hit.
And that meant someone else had picked up the knife.
Someone who knew what it meant.
Someone who wanted her to see.
Suddenly, the walls of the classroom felt too close. The air too still.
Someone was watching.
Someone was playing her game.
Beth looked up, gaze sweeping the room.
Manny, jittery and paranoid.
Kym, calculating.
Liv, distracted.
Amir, too soft.
Deion, hiding something—always.
Brandon, the new guy, sketching absently in his notebook with red ink.
Beth watched him longer than the others.
He looked up. Met her gaze. Smiled.
It wasn't a wide smile. Not a creepy one.
Just… knowing.