Chapter Three
1.
Twenty minutes after leaving the police station, Gale strutted through the front door of Quillory Magazine’s modest building. A sense of purpose, refreshing and rejuvenating, snatched control of her demeanor. Her heels clicked-clacked on the tile floor; her shoulders moved with determination. The expression of regret and failure from earlier that morning was no longer on her face.
“Well lookie here,” a raspy-voiced older woman said, stopping Gale in the hallway. “Last week you looked like an extra from Day of the Dead—”
“And you still do,” Gale interrupted.
“What, oh what, could’ve given you such a pep in your step—let me guess…” Sylvia Ackermire, Quillory’s main editor, and fifteen years Gale’s senior, put a finger to her chin, feigning thought. “It couldn’t be that protein diet you’re on. You’re putting on weight; your plastic surgeon must love that. And it couldn’t be—”
“Why am I still standing here?” Gale said, throwing her hands up before walking around the woman.
“Could it be the murder of some poor young shlub?” Sylvia called after her.
This stopped Gale in her tracks. Her head dropped, and she clenched and unclenched her fists over and over. Although Gale was technically her boss, Sylvia, as Quillory’s first employee, had seniority and was thus untouchable. Besides, she didn’t have the authority to fire anyone anyway. With this in mind, she recomposed herself and continued down the hall without another word.
“Have a spectacular day, Gale,” Sylvia said, smirking.
As Gale passed her boss’s office, he called out to her. “Gale!”
She halted, rolled her eyes, and sighed, “Why of all days…” Backtracking, she stopped in his doorway.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“No we don’t. I have work to do.” She started away.
“Gale!” he said with force.
Huffing, she pursed her lips. Her legs felt rooted to the floor. The last thing she wanted to do was go into her boss’s office and listen to Mr. Stephen Jackson—a man smug enough to have a vanity license plate on his BMW reading MR COOL—drone on and on about the new story layouts. My God, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn the man was born with a mirror in his hand.
“Gale,” he said. The force was replaced with an almost lyrical tone. “I know where your office is.”
While a million ideas—all revolving around the murder—circled her mind, she forced her legs to lead her into his office.
“Sit down, Gale,” he said.
“No. I’m in a damn hurry.”
“I bet you are. I saw the news this morning. That’s what I want to talk about.”
Quillory’s grand poohbah’s office gave off a sleek SoHo vibe. Much different from the usual rustic, Northern California-modern look of most offices in Woodsboro. He sat behind an industrial slab desk made of thick walnut. In Gale’s opinion, it was too massive for the MacBook, lamp, and decorative bottles sitting on top of it. Columns of distressed brick bordered three arched windows facing the parking lot, while a fleece throw lay crumpled on the leather couch. Knowing that the owner of Quillory magazine came from Manhattan—a place she only dreamed of—his style was one of the few things she appreciated about the man.
“Please… sit.”
Although the word ‘please’ preceded his request, she still felt as if she was a pet listening to her owner as she eased down into a modern chair made of wrought iron and cushioned suede. Crossing her legs, Gale said, “I’m listening.”
“When my father started this magazine in 1983, he wanted to bring literature to the masses in an easily digestible way.”
“I don’t need a history of the magazine, Stephen. I have work to do.”
“His antiquated way of thinking has passed,” Stephen went on, paying Gale’s objections no mind. “My vision is much different. I want to take this magazine into the next decade on a wave of success. You see, Gale…”
As he continued giving a rundown of his father’s legacy and how he wanted to change things, Gale’s mind wandered. Seeing her boss sitting in front of a gray wall with ‘Quillory Magazine’ written out in dimensional lettering, framed between two bookshelves with vines of spider plant leaves overflowing down the side of each, she thought he looked pathetic. He wanted to portray that of a king or something. But no. Even with his dark, slicked-back hair and dark blazer over a plain black Balenciaga-branded shirt, he couldn’t pull it off.
“…With that in mind, Gale, I want to pair you up with Kinsley on the murder story.”
This unhinged, irrational, totally silly idea snapped Gale out of her daze. “No way. I don’t need some teeny-bopper’s help.”
“She’s twenty.”
“I don’t give a damn. I refuse to work with an intern.”
“She’s a paid intern, and you are going to work with her. She brings a fresh perspective and hip language to a staff that’s mainly fossils.”
“Hip language?” Gale asked, chuckling. “You sound like one of the fossils.”
“Gale, don’t fight me on this.”
“I write features all the time,” Gale shot back, perplexed. “This is the kind of story this magazine needs.”
“Trust me, I’ve seen the sales. And, yes, I agree, this kind of story would do well for us. But you and Kinsley will work on it together.”
“I’m the expert on this,” Gale said.
“You’re the expert on the faux cultural travesty portrayed in these damn Stab movies—the ones your books are based on.”
“Only the first one.” She thought a moment. “Maybe the first one and a half.” Snapping out of this line of thinking, she shook her head. “That’s beside the point. These were real murders that I helped solve. I almost died, more than once, trying to solve them. Putting up with some twit is unacceptable.”
“For God’s sake, Gale, you’re arguing against yourself. Might I remind you, she was one half of the podcast stream where this happened. We’re gonna have to—”
“I quit,” Gale said, interrupting him.
“You what?” It was his turn to wear a puzzled expression.
“I quit.”
“I don’t accept.”
“Then fire me.”
“No. You’ll have to move past your ego and get a story out that will appeal to new readers as well as old.”
“Just face it, Stephen. You wanna sleep with her. That’s what this is all about.”
“Gale!” Stephen’s tone held a hint of indignation. “I don’t use women.”
“Please, you tried to sleep with me.”
“You’re besmirching my good name.”
“Mr. Jackson,” Irena, Stephen’s Ukrainian secretary, said from the doorway. “Someone named Mindy Sever just called. She left a message.” Reading from a notepad, Irena continued, “You’re a pig, and I hate you. Lose my number.” She then looked up. “Should I send a fruit basket like I did for the last one?”
Keeping her eyes focused on Stephen, Gale crossed her arms while her smirk widened.
Sneering, Stephen said to Irena, “No, dear, that won’t be necessary. Thank you.”
“How did you get Irena to stay after dumping her?” Gale’s tone was full of venom.
“You have a very low opinion of me.”
Gale widened her eyes, disbelieving what he was laying down.
“I’m helping her mother get over here from Ukraine.”
Still, Gale said nothing. Instead, she stared at him and he at her; their icy glares chilled the room. While outside birds chirped and a pleasant late Thursday morning snoozed away, inside, Stephen’s office was on the verge of becoming a warzone.
Without a word to his cantankerous employee, Stephen pushed a button on his desk’s intercom and said, “Irena, come in here for a sex… sec…”
Unable to help herself, Gale laughed. “Freudian slip if I ever heard one.”
Huffing, he said, “You’ve got me flustered.”
“Yes, Mr. Jackson.”
“When Kinsley comes in this afternoon, have her see me.”
“Certainly, sir.”
When Irena left, Stephen said, “And I don’t want to sleep with Kinsley.”
Getting up, Gale said, “If that’s true, that’s only because she turned you down already.”
2.
Sunlight poured in through two tall, arched windows and slanted across a living room decorated in a Scandinavian style—light oak furniture with rounded edges, a gray couch, white lounge chairs, and wool area rugs on a hardwood floor. Sidney lounged on the couch with a light throw over her legs, talking to Dewey on her cell.
“I don’t know, Dewey… when it comes to Allie, sometimes I feel like I’ve been selfish.”
“I know, for a fact, Allie wouldn’t say that.” He allowed a moment of silence so his response could settle easy on her mind. “You did a great job, Sid. I really mean that.”
“But…” Sidney began. She wanted to push back, yet decided against it. She didn’t want to risk sounding like someone in need of a pity party. “During the adoption process, this question—what if someone else started this up again?—persisted. Would I be the one putting another person in danger?” Sidney sighed. “My fear has come true.”
“I know what it looks like, Sid, but we don’t know if this is the same thing. It might’ve just been a one-off. After all, that silly movie is coming out soon.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Dewey’s silence answered her question.
“Why is there so much hatred in this world?” Sidney asked.
“Since finding my way out of the darkness, I’m able to appreciate the light more,” Dewey quoted. “From your book.” Then, changing the subject, he continued, “You’ve done a great job, Sid. I remember when you first got Allie; she was a ten-year-old ball of spit and fire. Now look at her.”
“Dewey, she got pregnant at seventeen, and works as a receptionist for a barely functional trailer park. I doubt I’ll get the mother of the decade award anytime soon.”
“Well, out of all her previous foster parents, she calls you mom.”
“Yeah.” Sidney looked down at her lap, a reflective look on her face. “I picked up my grandkids from school today. When I dropped them off at Allie’s office, she told me it might be best if I didn’t see them for the time being.”
“Oh, Sid. I’m sorry.”
“She saw the news. Dewey, I couldn’t argue with her. As much as it hurt, I understood. She wants to protect her kids. I mean, Dewey, we’ve been through this four times. Why did I ever think it would be over?”
“Well, on my end, I’m working to get this resolved fast.”
“Do you think Stu Macher’s involved? I saw on the news he got an early release.”
“Yeah. He did. The state didn’t want to give the movie extra press by releasing him on the same day the new Stab movie comes out.”
“If you ask me, they should’ve kept him in an extra week,” Sidney broke in.
“Yeah. But, as far as his involvement… Sid right now it’s a lead. Nothing more. Gale thinks he’s a red herring, that the killer is using his release as cover.”
“Do you agree?”
Dewey chuckled. “You know Gale; how persuasive she can be.”
“It makes sense.” Outside, a dog barked. Sidney took the phone from her ear and switched to her home security app. Upon clicking it, she was relieved to see that it was only the Amazon delivery driver getting out of his van to drop off the toothpaste and paper towels she ordered.
“Look, Sid, I gotta go. If you need anything, let me know. We’ll get together soon, okay?”
“I’d like that. See ya soon.”
3.
After her Narrative Writing Class, Kinsley skipped her History of Western Politics class and headed home. She needed a break from school; spending most of the night in the police station didn’t bode well for her exhaustion level. As she walked to her car, Rory joined her.
“Don’t you have class?” Kinsley asked.
“I have a sociology test in the testing center with my name on it,” Rory answered. “But I have until the end of the day tomorrow to finish it.”
They pulled into Kinsley’s parking lot just before one in the afternoon. ‘The Bluffs Apartments’ was located on the outskirts of town. A vast valley flanked the back side of the buildings. Green land rolled on into the horizon. This view in particular was the main selling point when Kinsley asked to be put on a waiting list for an apartment. Unfortunately for her, however, when her turn in the queue came up, the only one-bedroom available faced the parking lot. Not wanting to miss her chance and needing a place at the time, she took it.
“Hey, Rory,” one of Kinsley’s neighbors said as they walked through the parking lot.
“Hey, Mrs. Embry.” Rory waved.
“You know Mrs. Embry?” Kinsley asked.
“Yeah. Her granddaughter, Ashley, was on the swim team with me in high school. Mrs. Embry used to have pizza parties for us girls.”
“I don’t remember Ashley.”
“Sure you do. She was on the cheer team, too, which made her super popular. But she was also in drama club with Tyler, so she ended up being one of the ‘cool populars.’ One of the ones that didn’t mind hanging out with us dorks.”
“Us dorks?” Kinsley asked with a raised brow.
“She danced with us at senior homecoming,” Rory continued, not picking up on her friend’s offense.
“I was running the concessions for SGA during senior homecoming.” Kinsley said this in a tone that wavered on the edge of longing and was tainted with a tinge of jealousy.
Walking up the steps while digging through her backpack for her keys, Kinsley said, “I wanna bite to eat before getting ready for work. How about salad?”
Rory, looking up and blinking her eyes while squeezing drops of Alaway into them, said, “Yeah, sure.”
“What’s that stuff?”
Fluttering her watery eyes, Rory said, “It’s an antihistamine. This pollen’s killing me.”
“Please don’t say killing.”
They sat on the balcony and ate. The sun warmed their skin while a breeze cooled it. Rory sneezed. “I hate allergies,” Rory said, flipping through the latest edition of Quillory Magazine.
“I don’t have them,” Kinsley said absent-mindedly.
“Aren’t you worried about eating out here?” Rory asked, “I mean, there was a camera on your apartment last night, wasn’t there?”
“No one in the Stab movies was killed during the day.”
“Jamie Kennedy, the Randy character, bit it during the day in the second Stab movie.”
Kinsley thought a moment. Then she looked out over the parking lot, seeing nothing. “Well, I think we’re okay up here on my balcony.” She then shoved the fork into her salad like she was trying to kill it, and when she shoved the bite into her mouth, she chomped it with attitude.
Crinkling her brow, Rory asked, “Are you okay?” She relaxed her face and amended her question. “Forget that question. You just witnessed Brad get murdered. Of course you’re not okay.”
“It’s not that, Rory.” Kinsley relaxed, but didn’t elaborate. A breeze brushed through Kinsley’s hair. She tilted her head upward a bit, enjoying the wind against her skin.
Rory, who had been waiting for her to continue, went back to skimming when it didn’t look like Kinsley was going to say anything more.
A little robin perched itself on the balcony’s railing. It stayed a moment, slanting its little head to the left and the right in an almost robotic way, as if asking: “Why didn’t you invite me for the eats?” Kinsley stared at it, thinking about what had happened the night before.
The bird flew away when a car alarm went off in the parking lot. A moment later, an unseen person cursed, “This damn thing.” Then the alarm ceased.
“What the hell is man-keeping?” Rory asked, referring to an article in the magazine.
“Huh?” Kinsley asked, turning her head to see what Rory was reading.
Raising one eyebrow, Rory read, “Mankeeping, the unreciprocated social labor that women perform to manage the social connections and emotional well-being of their male partners. This emotional elbow grease that women have been struggling with for decades always goes unpaid. Some are now asking why this is, and what can be done about it.” She then looked up at Kinsley and asked, “Why does your magazine—a literary magazine—have articles like this in it? It sounds like some fourth-wave feminism B.S.”
Sighing, Kinsley said, “There’s validity to it.”
In response, Rory scrunched her brow.
“When Tyler wanted to have his eighteenth birthday party at that fancy restaurant,” Kinsley said, “didn’t you plan all of it, including getting all his friends there? He could’ve done that himself.”
“Yeah, and when my mother was in that bad car accident a couple of years ago and I spent a miserable week wondering if she’d even live, Tyler was with me the whole time—through all my freak outs and panic attacks.”
“Well,” Kinsley said, thinking. “The other day, Marta was complaining about having to rewrite Mark’s resume.”
“Yes, and not long ago, Mark stayed up with Marta two nights in a row to help her cram for that big test she had at the exact same time that new DLC came out for Elden Ring. I don’t know, Kins, I think some women just want to turn themselves into victims because they’re not happy with their lives.”
Kinsley pursed her lips and grunted displeasure. “Aren’t you and Tyler just perfect?” After saying this, an expression of regret tumbled down her face. “I’m sorry. I should remember I’m talking to my best friend and not someone like Evan. It’s just… I’m kinda scared right now.”
“It’s alright,” Rory said. “With Woodsboro’s history, I guess all this is a little crazy. I’m trying to talk about anything else,” she held the magazine up, “to keep my mind off of it. I’m sorry, too.”
Reaching across the table, Kinsley closed the magazine. “Let’s just forget about my magazine for right now.”
“Fine.” Rory took a bite of salad. While chewing, she asked, “Hey, what did Evan mean when he said you ratted Brad out?”
“Evan’s a jerk.”
“I know that.” After pausing for a sip of water, she asked, “So he was lying?”
Sighing, putting her fork down, Kinsley closed her eyes and rubbed them. “Brad was up for the internship at Quillory.” She reopened her eyes. “He was their first choice. They liked his portfolio much more than mine. Then, on the last interview…” Kinsley paused. To Rory, it looked like she didn’t want to continue.
“It’s alright,” Rory said. “If you don’t wanna—”
“It was an accident,” she interrupted, looking Rory directly in the eyes. “I was so upset I wasn’t going to be working alongside Gale freaking Weathers that I, maybe, let it slip that Brad used AI to write most of his portfolio—which isn’t a lie; he did. They looked into it and found out I was telling the truth. I don’t know how Professor Himbry found out. I think Mr. Jackson, my boss at Quillory, told him.”
“Your boss knows Himbry?”
“Yeah. Every spring semester, Mr. Himbry chooses the intern candidates”
“And that’s why Brad was suspended?”
“Yep.”
Putting her fork down, Rory took another drink of water, but didn’t say anything.
Agitated, Kinsley watched her drink. “I’m a snitch, huh?”
“You told the truth,” Rory said, shrugging. “Besides, you deserved the internship much more than Brad.”
“Are you going to tell anybody?”
Knitting her brow and lifting the corner of her lip upward, she gave Kinsley a credulous look.
Understanding the expression, Kinsley’s face relaxed. “Thanks.”
A notification popped up on Rory’s phone. When she tilted her head to look, a notification chimed on Kinsley’s phone as well.
“It’s from Tyler,” Rory said as Kinsley was taking her phone out. “A link.” Rory tapped it, and a live look at the front steps of the Woodsboro Police Station popped up on her screen.
“We have breaking news,” the newscaster said. “Early this morning, we reported on the presumed livestream murder of a Sonoma Bay resident. We can now confirm his identity as 19-year-old Brad Anderson. We’re outside the Woodsboro Police Station, where a press conference is scheduled to start any moment now.”
4.
Down at the police station, a gaggle of about twenty reporters stood a few feet from the building’s entrance doors, waiting for Dewey and his team to come out and address them. A lectern with Woodsboro’s circular seal adorning its front stood in the center of the concrete walkway. Dewey didn’t want the lectern set up. He thought it gave authority to the rumor that this was the beginning of another multi-murder slash-fest. Given his history, he suspected this, too. Yet, a lawman’s job was much easier when the flock was calm, and the lectern served as a symbol for the lambs. In turn, it shattered his hopes of keeping anyone calm.
Pierce Ward asked for the lectern, telling Dewey that it added credibility to the badge.
“I’ll tell ya what, Dudester,” Ward said, clapping Dewey on the shoulders, and using Judy’s pet name—he hoped it got under his skin—“why don’t you let me head up this presser?”
“I don’t think so,” Dewey answered, his tone a mix of uncertainty and hesitance. “I think the town would feel better seeing a familiar face.”
The two lawmen, along with Deputy Judy Riley, Deputy Higgins, and Deputy Wyman, stood in the lobby of the station, watching the crowd of reporters grow from the building’s large windows. The din of their conversations sounded muted from the safety of their positions. That’s how Dewey saw the lobby, anyway—safety.
A woman, dressed in a form-fitting suit jacket and pencil skirt, approached Ward and Dewey. “Men,” she said.
“Claire,” Dewey said in a tone indicating he knew her well. And he did. She was the mayor’s assistant. “What are you doing here?”
“The mayor wants to say a few words before you start. That shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
Dewey’s face crinkled. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Claire. It makes this whole thing look…” he was about to say: ‘it makes it look worse than it might be,’ but stopped, reminding himself that a young man had died.
“I think it’s a fine idea,” Ward said.
“Wonderful.” Claire brightened. “He’ll be ready for the cameras in about 5 minutes.”
Ward turned to Dewey, “Face it, Dudester, legacy characters are out. Let the new blood take the reins. In a week, this’ll be my investigation anyway.”
“New blood? You’re only ten years younger than I am.” The man’s voice had a relaxed quality usually reserved for late-night jazz DJs or audiobook narrators. It’s what got him elected as the next sheriff. At least that was Dewey’s opinion. So, Dewey wondered, how could a guy with such a pleasant voice twist words into something insufferable?
“What do you think, Judy?” Dewey asked.
“That’s right,” Ward said, grinning. “Ask the wife. Tell me, Dudester, do you ask her when you can crank your chain?” He then laughed and clapped Higgins and Wyman on their backs.
The two deputies, both of whom had worked with Dewey for years, joined in on the jovial release. That was until Higgins’ eyes shifted to the Dudester, who was knitting his eyes at him. Higgins ceased laughing immediately. Giving a short cough, he said, “Sorry, sir.”
“I think it’s alright, Sheriff,” Judy said. “If he wants the reins, give him the reins.” As she said this latter part, a grin appeared on her face. With her eyes and a slight nod of the head, she directed Dewey to look out the window.
He did and saw that Gale had joined the group of reporters.
“Sure, Officer Ward. I’ll allow it.”
“Thad’a boy, Dudester.”
“And stop calling me that.”
“Alright, guys,” Ward said. “Are we ready to rumble?”
“And don’t say that either,” Dewey demanded.
“What’s the matter, Dudester… bad memories?”
“To the good folks of this wonderful little town, I’ll tell you this… I will not sleep until this horribly awful crime is solved,” Mayor Fillmore said. “Day and night, I’ll personally supervise the investigation. We have some of the finest men and women on our force. But even the finest need direction. And before I turn this over to the Sheriff, I want to let the good folks of Woodsboro know that I just signed a temporary resolution that bans the new Stab movie from being shown in the three theaters within the town’s borders. Hollywood will not exploit our troubled history. Nor will it taint… our bright future. Thank you.”
As he walked past the lawmen, back into the station, Dewey overheard him tell Claire, “I need a nap.”
A moment later, Ward stood at the lectern. There was a bit of confusion when he began his remarks; the mayor said they’d be hearing from Sheriff Riley. Yet, the soon-to-be sheriff’s smooth voice straightened out the situation rather quickly.
“As you all are aware, a horrendous video has been circulating online since last evening. The video in question depicts the murder of a young man identified as Brad Anderson. Kinsley Saunders, the other party and witness to this ghastly event, has been questioned. It is my promise to you, the good voters of Woodsboro, that we will resolve this investigation quickly and efficiently.”
“Judy leaned over and whispered into Dewey’s ear, “You know a public official is lying when they use adverbs back-to-back.”
Dewey chuckled.
“We are following some leads,” Ward continued, “and my department—”
Dewey cleared his throat. Hearing this, Ward turned to him. “Our department,” the retiring sheriff whispered.
Refocusing on his audience, Ward corrected himself, “Our department is working with the Sonoma Bay PD to bring this to a swift and just end.”
“Do you have any reason to believe there’s more than one killer, like the previous times?”
“Yes,” Ward said after an initial hesitation. He wondered how much info he should give the public. Yet, since the two-killer theory was already floating around, he figured he wasn’t releasing anything that would be harmful to the investigation. “Since there was what appeared to be a camera monitoring the exterior of Miss Saunders’s apartment building, we think the perpetrator may have a partner.”
“Excuse me, Officer Ward,” Gale interrupted, “Of course you would know the video link sent over livestream to Kinsley Saunders could’ve been recorded the previous night, and the word: ‘live’ superimposed over it. Has this video been sent to digital forensics to see if that’s the case?”
“Ah,” Ward said, thrown off. “I’ll take a few questions once I’m through, Miss—”
“If that is the case, do you think that indicates this killer is tech-savvy?”
Ward turned to look at Dewey. This was no help. Dewey only offered a smirk and a shrug, a gesture that said: You wanted this job… You got it.
“We’re looking into a number of—"
“Is Kingsley Saunders considered a person of interest?”
“No,” Ward began, slowly, “we don’t see any indication that she—”
“How do you know there’s even been a murder?” Gale asked.
“Pardon?”
“There was no body found at the scene. Correct?”
“How do you know that?” Again, Ward turned and glanced at Dewey. And, again, Dewey shrugged.
“My ex-husband is not my source,” Gale said to Ward.
“Then, Miss Weathers, might I ask who your source is?”
“No you may not. We all have our jobs to do. Let me do mine.”
“And what job might that be?”
“To make sure you do yours.”
“Miss Weathers,” Ward said. But he said nothing after this. He only stared at her as a big shit-eating grin spread across her face.
5.
“So what do you think about that?” Stephen asked.
Shocked, Kinsley sat across from Stephen, on his office couch, with her mouth agape. When she got to work, she planned on asking him if she could use Quillory’s resources and credentials to write a story about Brad’s death. Yet, Irena told her Mr. Jackson wanted to see her immediately. This caused her heart to gallop into her throat. Why would the boss want to see her? Was he going to fire her? And, if so, for what?
His news sent her over the moon.
“Kinsley… Are you good?” he asked after telling her.
“Fine,” Kinsley said, trying to comprehend what he had just said. “I’m just… happy. And you said this was Gale’s idea?” This fact surprised Kinsley even more than the opportunity.
“Yes,” Stephen said, doing his best to hide the smirk wanting so badly to come out.
They sat in the lounge area of Stephen’s office, he in his comfortable leather chair and she, as already established, on his office couch. Between them stood an oak coffee table. Finding her mouth suddenly dry, Kinsley picked up her honey-almond iced latte and took a long sip. While she did this, Stephen got up, walked around the table, and sat beside Kinsley.
“And you’re sure this is okay?” Stephen asked. “After all, you were there when this happened to your friend.”
“Sir, a journalist is one of the most important jobs in the world. It’s not an occupation where personal tragedies should get in the way of getting the job done.”
“This is a big deal for you,” he said, putting his arm around her.
“To work with Gale Weathers? Yeah.”
“I meant the opportunity to co-write a feature, but whatever.”
“That too.” Kinsley’s eyes danced with glee.
“A lot of people don’t have a high opinion of me,” Stephen said. “I know… strange, right? But I want to let you know, I’m allowing you this chance and expect nothing in return.”
Crinkling her brow, she said, “Um… okay.”
“And you tell that son-of-a-bitch I don’t have time for his shit…” Gale was saying into her cell phone as she opened the office door without knocking.
Quickly, Stephen removed his arm from around Kinsley’s shoulders. He wasn’t quick enough, though.
“I’ll call you back,” Gale said before hanging up. “Did I interrupt anything?”
“Miss Weathers,” Kinsley said, “Mr. Jackson just gave me the good news. And to think it was your idea. Thank you so much. I won’t let you down.”
Gale ran her tongue across the front of her teeth, shifting her gaze from Stephen to Kinsley, then back to Stephen. Pursing her lips, accepting defeat, she flashed her boss an expression that stated: ‘Well played.’ Refocusing on Kinsley, she said, “Actually, this wasn’t my idea. In fact, I’m not thrilled about it, but I’ll play along. However, you will understand that I’m the boss. You will do what I say when I say it.”
Confused, Kinsley stuttered, “I, um… ah… certainly, but…”
“Oh, and sweetie, be careful around this one,” she flung a hand in Stephen’s direction, “he has a habit of making things sound better than they are.”
It was Stephen’s turn to stutter, “You… you…” He turned to Kinsley. “It’s not true.” Then back to Gale, he said, “And I didn’t appreciate your little stunt at the press conference. You represent this magazine, and when—”
“If you’re helping me,” Gale said to Kinsley, ignoring Stephen, “come on.”
The two women left Stephen sitting on his couch, shaking his head in frustration.
6.
Professor Himbry sat at his desk in his empty classroom. Before him, his Microsoft Surface. On the screen was a term paper written by one of his students, named Ernie Torben. He highlighted the whole text, copied it, switched to another window labeled AI Detection Doctor, and pasted it inside that page’s text box. Next, he clicked ‘Analyze’ at the bottom of the text box. A second later, a pie graph popped up on screen. It read: 28% Human-Written, 72% AI-Written.
Disappointed, he shook his head. He went back to the term paper and, in a marked sidebar, typed “28% credit” in a small box. When he clicked ENTER, the word “FAIL” appeared next to the number in an all-caps, red font.
Then he called up the next term paper. Kinsley Saunders. Going through the same song and dance, he copied her paper into the AI Detector Doctor. After moving the mouse pointer to the ‘Analyze’ button, he paused as the monitor’s arrow hovered over the ENTER button. He liked Kinsley—saw a lot of potential in her. He hoped he never discovered she was a hypocrite.
Clicking the Enter key, the pie graph appeared once again. This time it read: 98% Human-Written, 2% AI-Written. Anything under 5% he considered nothing—little AI-isms working their way into everyone’s normal way of writing. Relieved, he smiled, went back to the window showing her term paper, and began reading.
Outside, the first signs of twilight filtered in through the classroom’s windows. With all the hubbub surrounding the presumed murder of Brad, Professor Himbry was surprised at the number of people who didn’t seem very concerned by it. After all, the next Stab movie would be out in less than a week; he would’ve expected the residents of Woodsboro to be more on edge. If nothing else, he would’ve expected the campus to close for a few days; one of the student body had become… well… a student body, after all.
He cleared his throat, trying not to chuckle at his morbid thought.
When his uncle was killed, back in ’96, he was two. And when Jill and Charlie committed their murders, he was seventeen… and their classmate. He didn’t belong to their friend group, although he did have a crush on Jill’s friend, Kirby. But despite not knowing them, the murders still affected him. He recalled it as a frightening period in his life, especially because of his last name.
Earlier, in the professor’s lounge, some of the other instructors were discussing how apathetic society has become. Sure, there was evidence of this all over the world. On the other hand, he figured the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and that most people still had empathy for their fellow man.
Something clinked outside in the hall. Himbry looked up at his closed door. Frosted glass made up the top of the door, and he couldn’t see a thing through it.
Glancing over his shoulder at the clock, he saw it was 6:45. Most people in his part of the building had left an hour ago. The sound didn’t concern him, though. If he was still there, others probably were, too.
He enjoyed Kinsley’s paper; she spoke about the dangers of AI. Her premise: The more we read and interact with artificial intelligence, the more power the human beings running AI will have over how life is perceived. They’ll be able to change history. More importantly, they will have complete control over the word: truth. In conclusion, she called it a sped-up roll toward mind control.
Professor Himbry didn’t know if she was right about—
There was a tapping sound on his door. Looking up, he saw nothing. Not even a distorted shadow in front of the frosted glass. Crinkling his brow, the instructor got up, walked across the room to the door, and opened it.
No one was there. Not even a janitor mopping the floor. Raising his brow, figuring he was hearing things, he closed the door. When he spun around and started back to his desk, another tapping noise—a pitter-patter—like a conductor’s wand tapping his music stand or a… or the edge of a knife against wood.
“Stop being ridiculous,” he told himself, turning and opening the door as quickly as he could.
Again. Nothing.
Taking in his bottom lip while lowering his brow, he looked both ways, staying quiet, listening for any noise. Down the hall, the refrigeration unit that kept the water fountain’s water cold carried a low vibrating hum along the empty corridor, but nothing else.
Turning around, he took another gander at the clock and decided he’d gather his things and get home. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the edge of a figure step in front of him. Although the figure moved swiftly, he couldn’t help but recognize the famed Ghostface mask. It took him a moment to react; this was something he had only seen in movies. If he had comprehended it sooner, he might’ve stood a chance.
A gleaming knife emerged and was thrust into Professor Himbry’s chest. If he hadn’t felt all the air leave his lungs, he would’ve screamed. Ghostface twisted the knife, adding to the immense pain already wreaking havoc on his body. This pain didn’t go away when his attacker yanked the steel out.
Himbry’s hands grasped the wound. Dark red blood gushed from between his fingers with each breath. Searing pain scorched his body; he felt like he was on fire.
Instinctively, he turned to get away from the danger. Within his dying mind, he was running. In reality, he was barely walking away.
Behind him, Ghostface followed him, almost mocking him in the way he refused to put the professor out of his misery.
Himbry stumbled toward the windows. He didn’t realize this; his eyes were closed. In fact, he didn’t realize anything anymore. His time for realizing things was over and done with.
Within feet of the windows, Ghostface set the bloody knife on Himbry’s desk, grabbed him with one hand by the scruff of the neck, and used the other to grasp his waistband. He then threw Himbry into the glass. It shattered as the professor flew out the window. A second later, his body hit the ground: KR-UMPF.