Page 92 of The Dead Don’t Scream

I look at the ribbon in my hand. Dante’s voice enters my earpiece.

“Did she scream?”

“Yes.”

“Asshole.”

“Your turn.”

His laughter echoes through the corn.

“I know.”

DANTE

Sloane enters the carnival clearing with one ribbon missing and murder in her smile. She knows I’m waiting. She knows exactly where. Still, she walks toward the Peep Show booth. The red light above its doorway flickers.

“Predictable,” she calls.

I step out behind her.

“Effective.”

She spins. I catch her around the waist and throw her over my shoulder. Sloane shrieks.

“Dante!”

I slap her bare ass.

“Color?”

“Green, you dramatic fuck.”

“Excellent.”

I carry her into the booth and kick the door shut. The mirror waits. Just like last year. I place Sloane on her feet and turn her toward the glass. Her reflection nearly brings me to my knees. The white corset. The stockings. Her flushed cheeks and wild hair. Rhys’s fingers left her wet enough to glisten between her thighs. My red ribbon remains beside Callum’s gold.

“You planned this,” she says.

“You knew that.”

“The corset?”

“My idea.”

“The missing underwear?”

“My favorite idea.”

“The skirt that doesn’t cover my ass?”

“Callum picked that.”

Sloane’s eyebrows rise.

“Really?”

“He’s a deeply disturbed man.”