Drop Dead Gorgeous (Return to Fear Street Book 3)

Time passed in a haze. Zane and I sat at a table in the lunchroom and watched the cops hurry into the kitchen. Then a bunch of medics arrived in their green lab coats, carrying oxygen equipment, I think.

Too late for that. Mom doesn’t need oxygen.

It was all a blur to me. A blur of deep sadness and horror, and I was trapped inside it. I didn’t see when she came in, but I realized Mrs. Hart, Julie’s mom, the principal, had a hand on my shoulder. She was speaking softly, her face close to my ear, so close I could smell her lemony perfume, but I couldn’t make out many of her words.

“Your dad is on his way,” she said. “Of all things, he had a flat tire.”

I nodded. I didn’t know what to say to her. I couldn’t focus my eyes or my brain.

Zane sat across from me, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. He was nodding his head to some kind of rhythm in his brain. A blue-uniformed janitor had been summoned to clean up Zane’s vomit on the floor.

I could hear voices in the kitchen. People all seemed to be talking at once.

“Maybe you want to go to another room to wait for your dad?” Mrs. Hart said softly.

I shook my head. “No. This is okay.”

But it wasn’t okay.

And when the medics came carrying a large dark gray body bag from the kitchen—my mother—a loud sob burst from my throat and shook my whole body.

No tears. No tears yet. Just that racking sob, followed by a chill down my back. And I wished my dad would arrive.

Zane continued bobbing his head and tapping the tabletop, off in his own world. His eyes were shut tight. I don’t know what he was seeing.

I wanted to tell him he could go home. He didn’t have to wait.

I didn’t know what there was to wait for.

And then, some cops appeared from the kitchen with the blond-haired killer between them. He was awake. But not walking well and blinking his eyes as if trying to clear them.

They lowered him to a chair at the table beside mine. Mrs. Hart still had a hand on my shoulder, and I felt it tighten when the cops sat the killer down.

The guy shook his head. He was obviously groggy. And in pain. A large purple bump had swelled on his forehead. And the medics had put some kind of pack under his nose to stop it from bleeding.

I recognized Detective Batiste as he stepped out of the kitchen, shaking his head. He glanced around the room, then stepped up to the killer and peered down at him. “Can you talk?” he asked.

The killer nodded. “I can talk.” He rubbed the bump on his forehead, groaned, and pulled his hand away.

“Can you tell us your name?” Batiste demanded, leaning over him. “What were you doing here?”

“My ID,” the man said in a whisper. “In my back pocket. I’ll show it to you.” He reached a hand back to the pocket and cried out. “The pain. My head. It’s about to explode. Can I have something for the pain?”

Batiste nodded to one of the medics against the wall. “You can have something after you show us your ID and explain why you are here.”

The man fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a black wallet, and it fell from his hand. The wallet bounced in front of Batiste. He bent to pick it up.

Batiste opened the wallet and stared into it. From my seat, I could see something shiny inside the wallet. Some kind of badge?

Batiste stared at it for a long moment, then returned his gaze to the killer. He studied the man for a moment. “You’re a vampire hunter? Is this supposed to be real?”

The man nodded. “Yes. My badge. And my membership card . . . ohhhh . . .”

Batiste squinted at the open wallet again. “International Vampire Hunters? This card looks homemade.”

“No. It’s what I do. I . . .” In obvious pain, he pressed a hand to his forehead.

I jumped to my feet. “He’s crazy. Don’t listen to that. He killed my mother!”

Batiste motioned for me to sit down. Mrs. Hart took my arm and eased me back into the chair.

“My name . . . it’s Cal . . . Calvin Imhoff,” the man said. “I . . . I started the IVH.”

“I—I don’t believe this,” Batiste said, frowning at the wallet.

“I’ve been trying to protect these kids,” Imhoff said. He rubbed his head again. “I’ve been watching them, trying to warn them. Trying . . . trying to keep them safe.”

“Safe?” Batiste said, standing over Imhoff. “Safe from what? From you? From a killer?”

Imhoff shut his eyes. When he opened them, he locked his gaze on Detective Batiste. “Let me tell you the bad news,” he said. “You don’t have a human killer. You have a vampire on your hands.”