Page 46 of Run for Her Life
“You are making money off of her death.”
“You perceive it as me making money. I view it as all my hard work and this family’s legacy being saved. My daughter’s death isn’t about increasing my yearly bonus, Agent Storm. I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of that.” She was furious now. “I have more than enough money to walk away from all of this and live out the rest of my years in luxury while making sure that David can afford to buy another property in Aspen. Her death is saving our family, our purpose. That’s way more important than us sitting around moping about how she was killed. This way she gets to do something for us from beyond the grave.”
The words felt flimsy to Zoe. “How do you relive that violence?”
A bitter laugh. “When I discovered what had happened that night, I spent months thinking and researching what she must have gone through. I learned how the biochemical mechanisms of the body respond to fire, the injuries from falling, the effect on the heart from the stress. I had gone positively mad.” She poured herself a stiff drink, blinking rapidly. “But the more I read about it, the better I felt. I don’t know why. It was almost therapeutic. And when I tried the prototype, when I played the game, I finally came close to being with my daughter in her last moments. I felt I was there. With her.” She took a huge gulp without hesitation. “And now once again some asshole is ruining my daughter’s legacy.”
Everyone in Pineview Falls was invested in the massacre. But how many of them knew of Zoe to send herMichael’shair? She needed Aiden—to her surprise—but he was at Jackie’s with Lisa, following up on a hunch. “Why would Annabelle steal this prototype? Was she being poached by your competitors?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she stole it for ethical reasons.” She rolled her eyes.
“She wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Other parents lost their kids in that accident too. How do you think they would feel about you making a video game out of it?”
She smiled sadly. “Absolutely gutted. But those who spend their lives worrying about not offending others never make it big. And morality is not the warmest blanket on cold, winter nights.”
She opened her mouth to say something but noticed Dawn’s trembling hand around the sculpted glass and her teary eyes still locked on her daughter’s picture. She could see Dawn was torn, but she couldn’t comprehend the path Dawn had taken. Perhaps, she operated in a different world. Maybe after losing the mostimportant thing, nothing else mattered. An idea came to her. “I’m not into video games but I believe there are levels?”
“Yes.” She frowned at the line of questioning. “Based on difficulty.”
“And these levels take place in different locations in the game?”
“Yes. The game is based on the massacre but we had to make the game more interesting and dynamic. Keeping one location throughout would not be enjoyable; it traps the player and diminishes their reward for reaching the next level.”
Zoe already knew the answer to her next question. “Where is the final level in the game set?”
“Fun House. The grand finale.”
She shot up from her seat and dialed Lisa’s number. When she saw Dawn watching her, she moved away, out of earshot. Lisa answered the phone in two rings.
“Lisa? I think I know where Jackie is.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Thirty years later, the tragedy still clung to the walls of Fun House. It swelled with the events. If Zoe turned over a fallen prop, a trapped scream would escape. If she pushed into the walls, blood would spill from the cracks. If she sucked in a deep breath, she would smell something charred. Which is why when she entered the house, she held her breath.
Her flashlight beam cut through the darkness, sweeping over the hollow-eyed mannequins left behind from the carnival days. Their plastic faces stared blankly, cracked with age, their faded costumes stiff with dust. The boards beneath each step groaned, the sound swallowed by the emptiness.
“Everything is so old,” Zoe commented.
“They never switched out the props,” Lisa said. “They upgraded the safety protocols.”
Zoe shifted uneasily. “Have you been here? For the haunted house?”
“Just once,” she confessed, sweeping her flashlight in arcs, searching for a clue. “I was eighteen and even then I felt horrible.”
“Why?”
“I think it’s despicable making a franchise out of this.”
Zoe headed to the stairs when it hit her. A smell. It was strong, sickly sweet, and metallic. She glanced around and the light passed over a shadow slumped against the far wall. At first she thought it was just another forgotten prop—until the light shone on pale skin, not plastic.
A woman.
Zoe’s skin prickled. Goosebumps dotted her arms. Slowly, she approached her, irrationally afraid that she would come back to life.
Jackie sat against the rotting wallpaper, her head tilted at an unnatural angle, her body stiff with the first stages of rigor. Her clothes were damp with sweat and something darker—a patchy spread of blood seeping into the warped wooden floor.
Her arms were lined with the purple bruises, just like Annabelle’s. Thermal injuries on her neck. Wounds on her face and feet. No scratches, no defensive wounds.
