The voicemail ended.

  For a long moment no one spoke.

  The quiet inside the rehearsal room had changed. It was no longer the stunned silence of shock. It was something colder now. Something suspicious.

  Every person in the room seemed suddenly aware of everyone else.

  Melissa Barrera slowly lowered the phone.

  “He knows we’re here.”

  Jenna Ortega hugged her arms around herself.

  “How?”

  No one had an answer.

  Trevor leaned back in his chair and scanned the ceiling.

  “Cameras?” he muttered.

  Mason Gooding followed his gaze.

  “You think someone bugged the room?”

  Trevor shrugged.

  “At this point, mate, I think literally anything is possible.”

  Joel McHale rubbed his temples.

  “This is insane.”

  Across the room, Jasmin Savoy Brown paced slowly near the window.

  “Five people,” she said quietly.

  “Five people dead.”

  The words hung in the air.

  Matthew Lillard.

  Jack Champion.

  Dermot Mulroney.

  Anna Camp.

  Ethan Embry.

  Five.

  Each name felt heavier than the last.

  Oliver stared down at the news article on his phone again.

  Something about it still felt wrong.

  The previous murders had been loud.

  Spectacular.

  The killer had treated them like scenes in a film.

  Matthew Lillard had been chased through his own home.

  Jack Champion had been gutted behind a convention curtain.

  Dermot Mulroney had collapsed in front of a panel audience.

  Anna Camp had fought for her life in a parking garage.

  Each death had been staged like a moment designed to be watched.

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  But Ethan Embry?

  The article barely contained two paragraphs.

  No description.

  No details.

  Just the headline.

  Found dead.

  Trevor noticed Oliver’s expression again.

  “You’re doing the face.”

  Oliver didn’t look up.

  “What face?”

  “The thinking face.”

  Marie leaned closer to him.

  “You think something doesn’t fit.”

  Oliver hesitated.

  “Yeah.”

  Jenna turned toward him.

  “What?”

  Oliver looked up slowly.

  “All the other murders were staged.”

  “So?” Mason said.

  “So Ethan’s wasn’t.”

  Trevor frowned.

  “Maybe the killer got sloppy.”

  Oliver shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Whoever’s doing this likes the show too much.”

  The door opened.

  Two studio security guards stepped inside, followed by a pair of detectives in dark suits.

  The room turned toward them instantly.

  The older detective cleared his throat.

  “Afternoon.”

  No one answered.

  The younger detective stepped forward with a tablet in hand.

  “We just need to ask a few questions.”

  Joel folded his arms.

  “Questions about what exactly?”

  The detective met his gaze calmly.

  “A series of murders connected to this production.”

  No one spoke again.

  The detectives began moving around the room, asking basic questions.

  When had they last spoken to Ethan Embry?

  Did anyone receive threats?

  Had anyone noticed unusual behavior?

  The answers were mostly the same.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  Oliver watched the room carefully while the detectives worked.

  When the younger detective said the word “Ghostface,” something subtle happened across the table.

  Skeet Ulrich shifted in his chair.

  Just slightly.

  But Oliver noticed.

  It wasn’t fear.

  It wasn’t guilt.

  It was something else.

  Fatigue.

  Like someone who had spent most of his life hearing the same name repeated over and over again.

  Billy Loomis.

  Ghostface.

  The killer.

  Oliver filed the reaction away.

  The detectives eventually finished their questions and stepped aside to speak quietly with the producer near the door.

  The room remained tense.

  Marie leaned closer to Oliver again.

  “You’re still thinking about Ethan.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “The pattern doesn’t work.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “The killer’s staging scenes.”

  “Opening kill.”

  “Public kill.”

  “Chase scene.”

  Marie nodded slowly.

  “So?”

  “So Ethan doesn’t have a scene.”

  Trevor overheard them.

  “Mate,” he said, “are you suggesting the killer skipped a chapter?”

  Oliver frowned.

  “I’m saying Ethan doesn’t fit the movie.”

  Before anyone could respond, every phone in the room buzzed again.

  Everyone froze.

  Jenna looked at her screen cautiously.

  “It’s… not him.”

  Melissa leaned over her shoulder.

  “Who is it?”

  Jenna blinked.

  “Emma.”

  Around the room, everyone else was seeing the same message.

  A group text.

  From Emma Roberts.

  Melissa read it aloud.

  This is insane and hiding isn’t helping.

  Come to my place tonight.

  Memorial drinks for the ones we lost.

  And if the killer is one of us… at least we’ll all be in the same room.

  The room reacted immediately.

  “That’s a terrible idea,” Trevor said.

  Joel nodded.

  “Historically speaking, that’s the exact setup for a massacre.”

  Jasmin crossed her arms.

  “Is she serious?”

  Melissa looked uncertain.

  “Maybe she just doesn’t want to be alone.”

  Neve Campbell had been quiet near the window the entire time.

  Now she stepped forward.

  “If the killer is watching us,” she said calmly, “they already know where we are.”

  Everyone turned toward her.

  “At Emma’s place,” she continued, “we control the environment.”

  Joel raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s optimistic.”

  Neve gave a small shrug.

  “It’s better than waiting around for the next headline.”

  The room slowly absorbed the idea.

  One by one, heads began to nod.

  Trevor sighed.

  “Well.”

  He stood up and grabbed his jacket.

  “If we’re walking into a horror movie, we might as well bring drinks.”

  Mason chuckled nervously.

  Jasmin rolled her eyes.

  “This is such a bad idea.”

  Oliver slipped his phone into his pocket.

  Trevor glanced at him.

  “You’re thinking it too, aren’t you?”

  Oliver nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  Trevor tilted his head.

  “Thinking what?”

  Oliver looked around the room slowly.

  Then said—

  “Every Scream movie has a party scene.”

  Trevor groaned.

  “Oh no.”

  “And you know what happens at the party scene,” Oliver continued.

  Trevor sighed.

  “Someone dies.”

  The group began gathering their things.

  Outside the studio windows, the Los Angeles skyline was beginning to glow with evening lights.

  Across the city, in the hills overlooking Hollywood, Emma Roberts’ house flickered to life.

  Music started softly inside.

  Glasses were placed on the kitchen counter.

  The lights warmed the empty living room.

  Emma stood near the window and looked out over the city.

  Waiting.

  Tonight, the entire cast of Scream 1-8 would finally be in the same place.