Page 33 of Stream & Scream
Collapsing just inside the entrance, I press my back against cool stone, my legs finally giving out after miles of running on adrenaline and terror. The wrist camera continues its steady blinking, that red light a constant reminder that my breakdown is being broadcast to millions of strangers.
I need to process what I saw and understand what I'm dealing with, what kind of predator is hunting us through these woods.
"Okay," I whisper to myself, my voice echoing strangely in the stone chamber. "Okay, you saw what you saw. Now you need to figure out what it means."
Max's camera is clutched in my hands, its screen dark but responsive when I tap it back to life. The footage is still there, still waiting.
I should delete the footage. Destroy the evidence of what was done to her, preserve some dignity for the dead, protect myself from having to watch her final moments again and again.
But I can't. Because buried in those horrible minutes might be information that could keep me alive, clues about the killer's methods or motivations or vulnerabilities that could mean the difference between living and becoming the next body.
I tap play and immediately hate myself for it.
The footage starts the same way—Max stumbling through the darkness, muttering to herself, the camera bouncing with her panicked movements. I fast-forward through some of it.
I slow it down when the killer appears.
He moves easily, emerging from the darkness out of seemingly nowhere. Even through the grainy night vision of the camera, I can see how competent each of his movements are.
His gear is professional-grade—tactical clothing that doesn't rustle or catch on branches, boots that make no sound on the forest floor, equipment that looks endlessly expensive.
This isn't someone playing dress-up for a reality show. This is someone who kills for a living.
But it's what happens next that makes my breath catch in my throat.
When he grabs Max, when he forces her down, there's something in his body language that goes beyond that of a manhired to kill. There's possession there,ownership. Control that comes from the absolute certainty that his prey belongs to him completely.
He doesn't just kill her. Heclaimsher first.
I watch—god help me, I watch—as he forces her to her knees, as he uses her mouth for his own gratification while she chokes and struggles and silently pleads for mercy that will never come.
I’m nauseous again, but I can't look away.
When he finishes, when he snaps her neck with that small, efficient sound, he closes her eyes and positions her camera intentionally.
What did he want me to see?
I lean forward, squinting my eyes to the trees around him.
My heart drops into my stomach during the final seconds of the clip.
Dread takes over.
He was walking back to me. Those trees lead the way back to where I was sleeping.
I rewind the footage and watch it again. I have to be sure.
And again.
My hands shake as I set the camera aside, but my mind keeps replaying what I've seen.
He killed her. He fucking killed her.
But he didn’t kill me.
Why?
I think about waking up with that crawling sense of violation, the way my blanket felt like it had been adjusted. He had been there and had stood over my sleeping body.
