“I don’t understand,” Plum said.
The corner was almost beside her, the open space at the front of the villa stretching away in her peripheral vison.
“Well, your sister would,” Dude said, his tone suddenly as sharp as the blade in his hand.
“What?” Plum stumbled on a rock, caught herself with her hand on the wall. “What did Peach ever do to you?”
She turned the corner, leading Dude under the windows as she retreated.
“What did all of them do?” His eyes flashed with anger. “They kept it ALIVE. They kept USING IT, PROFITING OFF ANOTHER’S MISFORTUNE, after it would have died a natural death. But no, first the podcaster . . .”
Jalen.
“He skewered it on his damn show, then it took off again, then the ENDLESS repetitions.” Dude waved his hands in a swooping circle, swinging the knife with complete disregard for its sharp edge.
He was furious.
Plum felt a shiver march over her skin. “You still shouldn’t kill people!” she shouted, hoping the noise would draw the other survivors to their windows.
“They all MOCKED ME and built whatever PATHETIC PLATFORMS THEY HAVE on the BACK of MY PAIN!” He was bellowing like an enraged bull now, taut tendons standing out on his neck.
There was a crash and a scattering of glass as something large and white plummeted to the ground in front of them. Plum ducked and darted to one side. Dude followed.
Jude came out on the Juliet balcony of his room, directly above them.
The white porcelain lid to a toilet’s water tank lay in two pieces on the ground where it had landed.
“You’re alive!” Jude called, pointing at Dude and for an instant seeming transcendently happy. Then a clouded expression passed over his face.
“Wait—you’re the killer, Dude.” Jude shook his head.
Dude glared up at the teen. “You’re a hypocrite. You tell all your followers about being positive, being kind, but when those straw-headed idiots had you on their livestream and started mocking me, what did you do? How kind were you?”
Jude looked abashed.
“Okay, so he’ll say he’s sorry. You don’t KILL PEOPLE over that!” Plum yelled.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, Dude.” On the balcony, Jude ruffled his hair. It was, unfortunately, a practiced move. As if Jude had rehearsed a sidelong puppy dog look in the mirror many times before.
“It’s too late!” Dude yelled. Spittle flecked his upper lip. “I’ve already become the bully, the villain of the piece. I’m what you wannabe LOSERS made me!”
There was no talking to him, no reasoning.
Plum shook her head. “No . . . this is all you.”
“No one even knows my real name,” Dude said. “No one cares about Sammy Ponder. Once you’re all dead, no one will ever know who did it. I’ll escape into my nonentity, and all this”—he waved his knife around in a circle—“will be a huge mystery. I’m untraceable. Invisible.”
He smiled wickedly.
“And then I’ll do it again. Maybe I’ll throw an awards show, see which influencers I can lure. Wire the room to blow. I’ll just keep going.”
“You can’t get them all,” Plum said. “Everyone who ever saw the video. Everyone who mocked it or laughed at it or shared it.”
He gave that excited smile again. “Maybe not. But then again, look at how well Pyre Festival turned out! Everyone on this island maligned me personally—and now they’re dead . . . or about to be.”
Plum raised her voice, shouting back. “People make mistakes! You have to move on!”
“Easy to say when your whole life hasn’t been defined by a personal embarrassment and endless mockery!”
“You’re choosing to define your whole life by that moment! You!” Plum yelled. “No one else!”
“No.” Dude’s eyes tightened, the terrifying smile returned. “I’m choosing to define myself by something else now.”
He lunged, moving forward with such abruptness that Plum was almost taken by surprise.
“Run, Plum!” Jude yelled encouragement.
Plum spun and sprinted away, across the path.
The killer chased her.