Chapter Text
By September, business was booming, but Hunter’s heart was taking a serious beating.
“I’m serious, Hunt. This situation sounds so sketchy.”
“It’s not. You’re being dramatic.” Hunter was driving home from Duvall Farms. His truck was full of plywood, empty buckets, and cash in a strongbox he’d have to take to the bank tomorrow. Usually they’d go straight into the safe, but his dad needed to get a second one installed. (“Go ahead and gloat, son,” Eli Duvall had crowed. “You’re doing a helluva job.”)
Hunter had called Ryder to help him stay awake, because he knew from experience that ‘wired’ could turn into ‘swerving off the road’ real quick at the end of a fifteen-hour day, and Ryder never went to bed before 2am. He hadn’t been looking for a lecture, but he also hadn’t been able to keep his big mouth shut about Cole Hill, so…that was his own fault, really.
“Is it fine? Because you keep turning down invitations, and nobody’s seen you since July.”
“I’m working. The haunt’s a full-time gig, and I need to be hands on. I told you this.”
“And it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re pining after this Hill guy.”
“I’m not pining. I don’t pine.”
“You never used to, but…” Ryder made a disapproving noise on the other end, and Hunter could picture all-too clearly the expression that was definitely on their face. “Be real: how far have you even gotten with him?”
Not far at all. So “not far” it was practically backwards, because they barely saw each other and almost never hung out. Hunter didn’t make it into town much, and Cole (made no effort to see him) had his own life to run. But they texted, and not just DMs anymore. They’d traded numbers.
So sure, they weren’t sexy texts. They weren’t even particularly flirtatious. But they meant that Cole was thinking about him. They meant that when he was bored, it was Hunter he wanted to talk to, which mattered. It was a foothold Hunter could use.
He tried to relate this to Ryder in a way that didn’t make him sound entirely pathetic. Judging by the heavy sigh he got in response, he hadn’t succeeded.
“Listen,” Ryder said. “Why don’t Jules and I come down after the weekend? You guys aren’t open Monday-Tuesday, right? Take a couple of days off. We’ll hang out, blow off some steam, get your head right. Sounds like you need it.”
That was an extremely tempting offer. Hang out and blow off some steam meant get high and fuck. Hunter had done neither of those things for…shit, for way longer than he cared to admit. Longer than he’d ever been in the habit of going before.
It would be good with Jules and Ryder, too. They’d been friends forever, and they’d ironed out the “with benefits” part years ago. There was deep affection there, but no romance; just a guaranteed good time with people he liked and trusted, who liked and trusted him back. Hunter could get a room at the motel, turn his phone off for a couple of days, try to put some distance between himself and this frustrating thing with Cole.
It was a good idea. A smart idea. It was exactly what Hunter should be doing, but he heard himself say, “not right now. Even when we’re closed to visitors, I’m swamped with maintenance. I promise, as soon as the season’s done, we’ll meet up.”
Because the truth was that it didn’t matter how good or safe or fun or smart hooking up with Ryder and Jules would be. They weren’t Cole.
Hunter listened to Ryder grouse at him as he pulled up into the driveway, waiting for his opening to say, “I’m back safe. Gotta crash for a couple of hours until the bank opens.”
“Get some real sleep, Hunt. Eat something with a vegetable in it.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“And for the love of god, unfollow Cole Hill. We’re all worried about you.”
All? Who else had Ryder been talking to? “I’m fine.”
“Love you, Hunter.”
“Love you too. Later.”
Cradling the lockbox in his arms like a baby, he let himself in and trudged upstairs to bed. He didn’t even check his socials before falling asleep, because he had this thing under control, and Ryder was worrying for nothing.
Hunter had an alarm to wake him up by eight the next morning. That wasn’t enough sleep, but he wasn’t comfortable waiting to get the cash deposited at the bank. He’d dress, run the errand, then come home to pass out for another few hours before he needed to be up for real.
Standing in line at the bank, however, the chainsaw noise revved on his phone, and he told himself to ignore it even as his fingers punched in the code to check. Cole had posted a photo to his stories, syrupy pancakes stacked on a plate so generic it could only belong to the Eatery.
The Eatery, which was only…a four minute drive away.
Hunter signed off on the deposit and hustled out to his truck. He could get breakfast before heading home to finish sleeping. He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten dinner last night, and hadn’t Ryder just been lecturing him about vegetables? Omelets had vegetables.
His outfit wasn’t great, but Hunter didn’t have time to go home and change. Fortunately, Hunter knew he didn’t require a lot of polish to look good. He’d showered and brushed his teeth. It would suffice.
Cole was still there when Hunter arrived, at that table in the back where Hunter had met Vance and Quinn Maybrook the first time. No Quinn now; she was in Philadelphia for college. But Vance was there, once again sitting with his back to the wall. Cole sat across from him, slouched onto the table looking barely conscious.
I am NOT a morning person, Cole had told him once. Hunter couldn’t quite remember the context. If you see me out before eleven, shoot me on sight.
It was only quarter-to-nine now, and Cole did, indeed, seem like he’d have welcomed the sweet embrace of death. On the other hand, Vance looked wide awake and morose.
The interesting part about that, however, was how he looked that way before marking Hunter’s entrance.
Vance said something, and Cole roused himself, turning around. His expression brightened when he saw Hunter, and he waved a lazy hand to gesture him over. This earned Cole a side-eye from Vance that he missed entirely.
“Hey,” Cole said. “Join us. Give Rust somebody with a working brain to talk to.”
He kicked out the seat next to him, and Hunter took it, glancing at a nearby mirror to make sure he didn’t look too elated. The arrangement of chairs meant that he got to sit beside Cole, with Vance stranded on the other side of the table.
“I thought you were allergic to being awake before eleven,” he said, and Cole made a pathetic noise into his coffee cup.
“I’m trying to fill the gaping hole in Rust’s life now that Quinn is off at college.”
“I said you could stay home,” Rust muttered, but Cole was clearly on a roll.
“I went for a run, Hunter. I put on trainers and trotted around in the cold like a show pony.”
“That was very selfless of you.”
“It was so selfless of me. I’m a martyr for love.” Cole aimed a soulful look across the table at Vance, an entirely wasted effort because Vance was ignoring him in favor of something foul-looking smothered in gravy.
The unfairness of it hurt more than anything else. Vance didn’t deserve Cole. Hunter wanted to tell him so, but he knew that plan would be doomed to fail. Hunter had to be everything Vance wasn’t, to show Cole what he was missing out on. If Vance wanted to be cold and sullen, Hunter would just be all the friendlier.
“You like running, Rust?”
“Yup.”
“Did you and Quinn ever do any races?”
“Nope.”
Cole shot Hunter an exasperated, apologetic look, and Hunter shrugged, smiling. “You and Quinn were really close, huh?”
“Yup.”
“Whoa guys, slow down. I can barely keep up with this crazy back-and-forth.” Cole went to take another sip of coffee, found the mug empty, and then stared forlornly into it. Vance wordlessly slid his own full one over. After a fortifying slug, Cole said, “how’s business, Hunter?”
“Great. You guys really should come see it sometime.”
“Pass,” Vance said.
At the same time, Cole made a noncommittal noise. But then he said, “the videos are impressive. Hunter designs all the effects himself.”
“Yeah. I thought about going to school for it. Good practical effects are a dying art.” This was one of Hunter’s favorite topics of conversation, and he could feel the undertow of excitement tugging at him, urging him to dive in and let it carry him away.
He tried to keep a lid on it, but that was so much harder to do with Cole here, close enough that their legs were almost touching, with that encouraging look on his face. “Do you do makeup effects too?”
“Sure do. I’ve got a friend back home who does this incredible horror drag, and when I’m there, I run makeup and handle all of the stage work for her shows.”
“That’s awesome.”
“She’s unreal talented. Hang on.” Hunter got out his phone and opened Instagram, pulling up Jules’ profile. “Check it out.”
Cole scrolled through, making appropriately impressed noises. Hunter stopped him at a couple of videos to point out things he was particularly proud of—Jules did a xenomorph number with a mechanical ovipositor prop that Hunter had spent two months building and testing—and basked in Cole’s praise.
“These really don’t do her justice,” Hunter finally said, when Cole returned his phone. “You’ll have to come to Branson and see her in person. I’ll hook you up with tickets.”
“Oh, for sure,” Cole said. “That’s—shit.”
Cole’s expression had collapsed in dismay. Hunter followed his gaze to the front and saw a pair of ferrety-looking twenty-somethings standing in the doorway, whispering to each other as they looked around. Behind them stood another, this one less of a ferret than a bulldog, with a #baypenhoax ball cap on.
“You know those guys?” Hunter asked.
“True crime streamers,” Cole said. He was obviously trying to sound nonchalant, but his body language was all wrong. On the other side of the table, Vance was getting up.
“I told those assholes last time—“
“Let me handle it,” Cole said. He shook some of the stiffness out of his posture and reached back across the table, catching Vance’s hand. “You don’t need to have another sit-down with the Sheriff.”
“That guy pulled out a weapon first.”
“A hand trowel is not a weapon.”
Vance rolled his eyes, and he didn’t sit back down, but he stayed put when the folks at the door spotted them and headed over. Next to Hunter, Cole was leaning back in his seat, a look settling over his face that Hunter couldn’t quite place at first. Then it hit him, all at once, and he nearly laughed aloud. Cole was projecting pure “popular asshole” energy, like he was holding court at a lunch table and repelling anybody uncool enough to attempt an approach.
It was a remarkably effective strategy. These amateur detectives had shown up expecting to be threatened or intimidated—hence the meathead they had trailing along as backup. But Cole’s approach evaded these defenses entirely, striking instead at insecurities these twenty-somethings probably hadn’t thought about in years. Hunter could mark the moment those buried teenage anxieties activated and the interlopers hesitated, trading glances.
The bravest of them pushed forward, a woman with thick-rimmed glasses and curtain bangs that were a decade out of date. Hunter started to revise his estimation of their ages. “We need five minutes. It’s important.”
“If it’s on the record, you can put in a request through my publicist,” Cole said. “We talked about this.”
“Do you make fans jump through legal hoops to talk to you?”
“No, because fans don’t grill me for exclusives.” He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “You want a selfie, I’m happy to oblige. You want an interview, you know the drill.”
“We want you to look at this.” The other one—bald, a little sweaty—had found his voice. He thrust a photograph into Cole’s face. “Someone claims they saw Arthur Hill at Lambert.”
The photo was terrible quality, triple-zoomed and badly cropped. The man in the photo, if it was a man, looked like a generic dark-haired white dude as far as Hunter could tell. But something about it threw Cole off. He blinked a couple of times and didn’t have a response ready.
That was bad. It got worse when the woman said, “were you also aware that your sister had a second Instagram account that didn’t come up in the police investigation?”
“Get lost,” Vance growled. He was moving now, coming around the side of the table.
His voice seemed to shake Cole loose from whatever had gripped him, because Cole stood up as well. “It’s okay Rust.”
“No it’s not. We’ve already told these people to leave us alone.”
The other patrons were looking on in undisguised interest, but nobody intervened. Hunter wondered how often something like this happened, and how the management felt about it. The meathead in the hoax hat took a step forward, ready to meet Vance head-on, but the woman he was with put out her hand. The other man had started filming.
“Ruston Vance,” she said. “A counselor told us that family services conducted several home visits over the years in response to concerned reports. And you received a five day suspension for a violent outburst less than a year before the massacre.”
“No comment,” Cole said. He pushed past Hunter to get to Vance, and Hunter barely had time to side-step out of his way. “Let’s just go.”
“There’s video of you attacking a classmate,” she went on. “And that classmate was one of the first casualties of the massacre. Do you have an explanation for that?”
Hunter had no love in his heart for Ruston Vance. If quicksand had opened up under their feet and swallowed Vance whole, disappearing him forever, Hunter would have been first in line to celebrate. But even so, he didn’t like this. All that Baypen Hoax bullshit was hot garbage to begin with. Imagine trying to claim that Quinn Maybrook was the villain? Such derivative, Scream 4 nonsense. And then this desperate ambush interview…
Vance looked bad, jaw set and eyes darting. Cole had moved into his space, one hand on his arm, the other on the back of his neck, trying to defuse the situation and de-escalate Vance at the same time. But he’d never quite recovered from the early mention of his dad and his sister. The situation was rapidly getting away from both of them.
Then the meathead in the hat moved forward. He was staying clear of the camera. Hunter wasn’t sure how he knew that; something about the way he skirted the edge of the action. But he closed in on Vance, voice pitched low and taunting. Hunter caught a barbed line, and then a stronger bid—a word Hunter hadn’t heard in years that had Vance lunging forward, too pissed off to resist the bait.
Cole tried to stop him, arm swinging around his middle to hold him in place, saying “Rust, babe, it’s okay,” but it barely slowed Vance’s momentum.
Hunter moved before he could second guess himself. He stepped right into the camera’s sights and said, “well hey now, we’ve got ourselves a bit of a problem.”
“And you are?” the woman asked.
“I’m Hunter Duvall, of Duvall Farms Haunted Hayride and Scream Park.” He tapped deep into Eli Duvall’s just us folks twang and let it reverberate almost absurdly through his voice. “And you have not signed any waivers for capturing my likeness on your video.”
The woman blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s an understandable mistake. Cole here is very generous with the public. He takes all sorts of photos and hardly ever gives anybody a hard time about the fine print. Unfortunately, every Duvall name and likeness is licensed, so I can’t be quite so easygoing.”
“This is a public place.”
“Ooh, ma’am. It is not. This is a private establishment. By law, you’d need a permit to film here even if I wasn’t present. As it is, we might all need to take a little trip together down to the Sheriff’s office. Make sure these files get handled properly. Unless…”
“Unless?”
“Unless y’all want to fix this right here. We can delete that footage, I can whip us up a boilerplate, and we can take a trip together over to my property for a tour.” He leaned forward a little, tipping the woman a between you and me look. “And we can forget that your buddy here called my good friend Rust the f-slur.”
The woman flushed, as did her bald co-host. Good. Their conspiracy-toting accomplice didn’t look as guilty as he should have, but Hunter had a feeling that Vance would tear his head off if he so much as flinched.
“Cole, you want to delete the files?”
“Sure.” Cole took the camera, staying close to Vance. He pressed a couple of buttons, then a couple more. “That oughta do it.”
“I’m not gonna see this on your channel, right?” Hunter asked, and the woman shook her head. “Great news. Appreciate ya.”
“Duvall Farms is located on the sight of the massacre, isn’t it?”
“It sure is. And we can head over there tout de suite to take a look once you sign the waivers. Just meet me outside.”
The couple in charge exchanged looks again, then muttered words against each other’s ears that Hunter didn’t even try to decipher. He glanced over at Cole, who mouthed thank you, and that was enough to firm Hunter’s resolve.
“All right,” he said. “Come on, before I give the manager of this place my lawyer’s number.”
He hustled the three of them away from the table. Behind them, Cole was wrapping his arms around Vance, shepherding him back to the table and their forgotten breakfast. Hunter didn’t want to see that; it made it easy to follow the true crime assholes out onto the street. Easier still to pull up the standard Duvall publicity waiver and forward it to their inboxes.
A couple of hours later, Cole texted.
Thanks man. Seriously. I’m sorry about that.
All good, Hunter texted back. Glad I could help. Hope Rust is okay.
He’s fine. We both are. And then, almost a minute later, I’m glad you were there.
Me too.
Three dots pulsed on Cole’s end. He was typing something else. Taking his time with it.
I’m worried about him
He misses Quinn a lot
I think he’s having a hard time without her
Then, a moment later, the messages disappeared. Cole had unsent them. Hunter sat there staring at his phone for a long time afterwards, thrumming, wondering what it meant that Cole had said it in the first place, and what it meant that he’d taken it back.