Final Girl Michelle Schusterman (the gingerbread man read aloud TXT) 📖

bit of exposed skin stung from the cold. “Once I get it edited, it’ll be a good episode.”

Oscar shrugged noncommittally, but I could tell he was disappointed. Our attempts to record any sort of paranormal activity in the Montgomery’s elevator had been a total bust—not so much as a flickering light. Even Oscar was off his game, stumbling over the backstory and asking the elevator operator the same question twice in a row. The confrontation with Shelly Mathers must have gotten to him.

It had definitely gotten to me. I barely thought about the Thing the whole time. No chance of any thoughtography, not when I was so busy worrying about talking to my dad.

“Hey, why’d you look all freaked out when Shelly mentioned a guest star?” I asked, and Oscar’s head jerked up.

“What? No I didn’t.”

“You did,” I said, giving him a weird look. “And you do right now, too. What’s going on?”

He pressed his lips together. “I don’t know. Do you think there really is one and we don’t know about it?”

I shrugged, pulling open the door to our hotel. “Maybe. So?”

“Well, some of the fans in the forums think maybe—”

“Kat.”

My dad stood in the center of the lobby, and at the sound of his voice, I jumped.

“Hi!” I said, pulling off my hat and scarf. “Everything okay?”

But clearly it wasn’t. Dad’s arms were crossed, his mouth was set in a thin line, and—I squinted—yeah, his cheek was twitching. His patience timer, Grandma called it.

My heart began thumping painfully against my rib cage. Somehow, Shelly must have already published something in the last two hours. This was exactly why Oscar and I weren’t supposed to give interviews without someone else from the cast present.

“She ambushed us,” I blurted out. “She showed up at Jamie and Hailey’s building—a security guard came and kicked her out! It wasn’t our fault, we—”

Dad’s expression rapidly changed from upset to alarmed. “Wait, hold up. What are you talking about?”

“Shelly Mathers,” I said. “From Rumorz.”

“She didn’t even ask if she could interview us,” Oscar added. “She just started recording and asking questions. Just for a minute or two, then the security guard made her leave.”

Dad’s jaw tightened, and for a moment he didn’t say anything. “Oscar, Lidia’s up in your room,” he said at last. “Will you go tell her about this, please?”

Oscar nodded and headed for the elevators. Dad turned to me.

“I’m sorry, Kat.” His voice was softer now, and my shoulders relaxed. “Fright TV assured us the media knew its boundaries when it came to you and Oscar, but apparently not. We’ll take care of this so it won’t happen again.”

“Thanks.” I swallowed hard. “There’s something I need to tell you, though. She said . . . she said she heard a rumor you weren’t coming back next season, so I—I know I shouldn’t have said anything, but she even mentioned the host curse and . . . and well, that’s all garbage, right? So I told her you were definitely coming back.”

Dad didn’t say anything, just watched me. And now I was really nervous, because the patience timer had stopped, and I couldn’t read this expression. Not angry. Not alarmed. Not confused. But something close to all three.

“I mean, you are, right?” My voice rose a little. “The contract was gone this morning, so you turned it in. Right?”

Dad’s forehead wrinkled, and he pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I got back to our room after the meeting and found this under my pillow.”

I peered in the bag. It was filled with shredded paper, all ripped up like homemade confetti. And there were words printed on each strip in small black font. Words like network and warranties and agreement.

“Is that . . . your contract?” I stared up at him. “You tore it up? Why did you do that?”

Dad squeezed his eyes shut briefly, like he had a headache. “Come on, Kat. You’re too old for games like this.”

“What?” My head buzzed with confusion, and I had a flash of déjà vu. My dream. I’d dreamed about this last night, about Dad being angry with me for doing something.

For destroying something.

“You think I did that?” I whispered.

“Well, I didn’t,” he replied. “Housekeeping didn’t visit our room today. And no one else has a key. Who did it, if it wasn’t you?”

I gazed at the shredded contract, my eyes and throat burning. It hadn’t been on the desk when I’d woken up. Whoever shredded it had done it after Dad left, while I slept just a few feet away. And I knew who it was. What it was.

The Thing wasn’t just lurking in mirrors anymore. It was up to something.

Dad was still watching me. I felt trapped. There was no lie I could tell that he’d believe—but would he believe the truth?

“It was . . .” I paused, swallowing. “I think it was a . . . ghost. No, listen,” I went on hurriedly when his brows arched in disbelief. “I’ve been noticing that my stuff keeps getting moved around, like my camera, my notes for history lessons. And I’ve . . . I’ve seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“Um . . .” I couldn’t do this. Dad was already looking at me like he feared for my sanity, and I hadn’t even gotten to the crazy stuff yet. “Like a . . . figure. A ghost. I don’t know!” I yelled, suddenly frustrated. “Just something, okay? It’s following me and messing with me and it tore up your contract, not me!”

All traces of anger and frustration were gone from Dad’s face. “Kat, honey,” he said, his expression so filled with concern it made my throat tighten. “I didn’t realize . . .” He leaned down so he was at eye level with me. “We’ve experienced some scary stuff since we joined this show, haven’t we? And I know you love being scared, but . . . maybe it’s been a little too much.”

“What?” I gaped at him. “No, it’s not that, I’m not scared.” But the wobble in my voice betrayed me, and tears started to spill over. “I’m not scared,” I repeated