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January 23 - February 8, 2024
Banner stops a few feet in front of the huddled, stumbling form of Cinnamon Baker. She’s in a blanket, at least, but it’s pretty much exactly the blanket Jennifer would expect to find on a cot in the back room of the sheriff’s office. And Cinnamon’s tall enough that it doesn’t even cover her head to toe. Her blond hair is stiff, frozen in tangles, and the snot on her face is icy, her red-rimmed eyes the kind of blank that means she’s just been putting one foot in front of the other, that she’s already given up on actually getting anywhere. It’s the kind of walk that’s really just a long, slow
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The gaps in action, unclear descriptions, and "insider" dialogue that feels like it's 80% inside jokes makes this a frustrating read.
The high school boy working the front desk brings Jennifer a disposable cup of the most bitter, wonderful coffee. “Thank you,” Jennifer says, then raises a boot, realizes all the snow she’s wearing is melting into a puddle around her. “Um,” she says, by way of apology. “Oh,” the high schooler says, seemingly impressed, and not much of a problem solver. “Maybe a towel?” Jennifer prompts, obviously. “You could stand on the mat back there,” he says. They both inspect this industrial doormat together. The fake plant by it is waving in the wind slipping in around the doors Jennifer just came
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What is this? This better be important later. This author skips over vital details like they're obvious and then dumps a whole page of pointlessness onto the reader.
They’re standing on the opposite side of the hall now, out of the way. Jennifer still has her cup of coffee, somehow. Cinn’s being wheelchaired away again. “I—I thought she was going to see her sister,” the kid says. Jennifer hears this, plays it back again, and then steps away so she can look this kid right in the face, give him every last bit of her attention. “Sister?” she says.
Booooo. Hey. SHOW US THE AFTERMATH OF THESE MURDERS. The writing makes it sound like everyone's just taking these recent killings in stride. Dafuq?
“It’s good you’re locked up,” Jennifer says back to her. “Better get to class,” Ginger says, speaking into her reflection again. “Don’t want to miss first bell.”
Yikes. This scene was terrible top to bottom. Author loves his own voice so much he put it in the mouths of two 20ish female victims of SUPERNATURAL TRAUMA.
that damn phone will not stop. Pissed, she turns, pulls the doorhandle. It comes away in her hand, so she just steps through the remains of the door, trying to avoid the jagged edges. Aren’t all the phones down? How can whoever this is be calling so much?
Right. This survivor of a massacre who is worried about a loose serial killer doesn't see a police phone that won't stop ringing as highly important.
Because she’s protecting Adrienne, Banner tells himself. There’s nothing she won’t do to keep that little girl safe. Just—all those horror movies she watches, right? They’ve taught her to shoot first, ask questions never, because there’s no on-ramp to danger, there’s not any slow and boring escalation. It’s always immediately life and death, with Letha Mondragon-Tompkins.
“Can we lock him up?” Jennifer says to Banner, without breaking eye contact with Rexall. “Seconded,” Letha says flatly. “Thi-thi-thi—” Lonnie says. “It’s unanimous,” Jennifer says, saving Lonnie the trouble. “I’m the victim here?” Rexall says, holding his parka out to show all the little fountains of singed white puff. “For your own safety,” Banner tells him, and knows for sure, now, that his contract won’t be getting renewed. But maybe he can still save Abby Grandlin.
But there’s no Mr. Holmes leaned back against his desk, spinning them what feels like another bullshit story about people in Henderson-Golding looking up from their oil lanterns, up into the tall blackness of what would become Caribou-Targhee, and seeing the distant sparks from mining picks chipping into rock.
“Speaking of sequels,” Letha says. “It could have been Roman in that bathroom, standing on that toilet. Sidney’s brother—half-brother. He wears those kinds of boots in 3, doesn’t he?” “But the sheriff’s wearing them in the first,” Jennifer says right back. “So, who, then, Ms. Stalls-a-Lot? Who is it for you?” “Stu,” Letha pronounces, all holy and reverential. “When he catches up with Sidney and Tatum on the sidewalk, he’s out of breath and sweaty, and just a little too happy.” “He’s Stu.” “Even for him, I mean.” “Quick shoe change?”
Next, Letha’s pushing Jennifer through that doorway, taking her place just as another knife comes in at high speed. It’s thrown hard enough when it hits Letha’s shoulder that it splashes out at her collarbone. “No, no!” Jennifer says, reaching back to hold Letha up. “You’ve—you’ve got a daughter! A husband! A life! It should be me!” She pushes Letha back into the kitchen, steps into the doorway to… she has no fucking idea: to stall Dark Mill South for two seconds? Letha pulls Jennifer back, though.
Per Rex Allen’s orders, Banner hadn’t answered any of the questions Gal—on her delivery run—had more or less been asking with her eyes. Or maybe what she’d really been saying was that Banner was only five years older than Cinn, and that her giving official statements in just her bra and panties and boots wasn’t quite proper, wasn’t helping Cinn any in the reputation department, her already having had some difficulties along those lines at the high school. But Cinnamon Baker would never hook up with a teacher. And a teacher would never hook up with a student. Still, Rex Allen had sent Francie
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All the best slashers are simple. This one, for example: Rob Zombie–ish killer escapes, turns up in town, carves through as many kids as he can until some plucky girl finally puts him down. All in twenty-four, thirty-six hours, under cover of a storm, with the sheriff out of town, cellphones down, power unreliable. Claude couldn’t have designed it any better himself.
No, keeping the final girl in motion won’t work. But if Armitage can get Cinnamon back to the station, and Jade can get Doc Wilson back there to work on Letha, then… maybe they can wait this out. It’s not brave, it’s not cinematic, but the fact of the matter is that, between Banner and Hardy and all those guns on the wall… something good can happen, right? Haven’t they earned that, finally? At what point does something have to go their way?
And now she’s breathing faster, having to blink faster too, because her eyes are being stupid. Her hand stealthily drops to the loop at her right leg, that still doesn’t have that wonderful-perfect long-handled blue hammer. In lieu, she dials back to slow-motion swinging it into the back of Dark Mill South’s head, the hammer’s weight bringing her up onto her toes, even, because she wasn’t just swinging for the fences, she was swinging for Idaho Falls.
“Go, go, run!” Jade stands up to scream to Jace, and any other idiots back there, lined up to sacrifice themselves. Dark Mill South turns back to her. “Everybody’s a hero,” he says, and his voice is so deep, so bass, and the inflection, the accent, whatever, it’s Fargo, pretty much. Which Jade only watched because she’d heard about the woodchipper bit—very Tucker & Dale. Or, the other way around. And: You’re doing it again, she tells herself. Hiding in stupid movie shit. When she should already be running. Dark Mill South shrugs like letting Jade make the first move here, and Jade takes it,
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