March 13, 14:28, rainy.
The phone rings, and heavy steps echo across the empty lobby of the Night Owl Inn. He finds no clerk, only a note on the front desk in neat, flowing handwriting.
He doesn't pick up the phone but waits for it to go to the answering machine.
Officer: "Miss Blonney, I'm a detective with the Violent Crimes Department. Regarding the property you were robbed of, we ..."
Rain taps against the window, and the distant woods loom dark and foreboding. The inn's door opens again, and he hunches his back, stepping out into the rain.
Blonney: Ugh.
Her eyes squint open against a dull but throbbing pain. She moves to put her hand to her head but finds them tied.
???: Don't struggle. I wouldn't want that rope to cut your soft, delicate skin.
The man examines the girl closely. What a perfect little blonde treasure she is!
He presses two fingers to her neck, checking her pulse.
???: Glad you didn't have a heart attack on me. It's happened before.
???: I mean it, Blonney. Don't go having a heart attack on me.
A lively, athletic blonde, beautiful and innocent. She'd make for a fine cheerleader, just like those girls in Seventeen magazine.
Blonney: It's you.
Hotel Owner: You found your way here. Now, things are right on track, just as I thought they'd be.
With his gloves now on, he takes out a leather flask from his coat, unscrews the cap, and nods at her.
Then, he pours liquor down her throat.
Blonney: cough
Hotel Owner: I hope you die a bit slower than the others, because ... Well, you made a mean tuna salad.
Blonney: Baptiste?
The man applauds.
Baptiste: What a clever girl you are!
Baptiste toys with a gleaming, pointed hammer, and Blonney sees her own blood glistening on it.
Blonney: Too bad you chose the wrong career. I told you! You'd make for a great actor!
Blonney: So, then you're behind all of this? Then, it was you that gave that rot-gut to Judie?
Blonney: You were putting something in the wine. She knew something, and you wanted to keep her lost in those "happy water" clouds. But then, Stahl found out. Of course he would. Tom said he was a wine snob, so he noticed something was off.
Blonney: So, you lured him into the woods, and then ...
She recalls the charred remains.
Blonney: You burned him, and Jack too. Then started that forest fire to cover it up.
Baptiste: What, you want a gold star or something? There's no prize for figuring out this mystery.
Blonney focuses her gaze, trying to see Baptiste clearly, but his face keeps shifting. Her mind is clouded from the alcohol.
The rope is tight, but she twists hard against it, hoping to get free and cutting at it with her fingernails.
Blonney: But that scrub mark on the kitchen floor, it wasn't recent.
Blonney: You brought one of your victims back there, didn't you? The wife! Thought you'd use the kitchen-grade industrial bleach to wipe away the evidence?
Baptiste scrapes his chin lightly with the hammer, a mocking smile on his face.
That day, he cleaned the kitchen more meticulously than ever before, but one spot proved too stubborn for him, like a still frame from a horror movie.
He poured all the bleach he could on it. It left a massive stain. Seeing that was the first time Stahl became suspicious of him.
Blonney: What about Jack?
Baptiste: Hah, yeah. That stupid kid wouldn't stop whining about his daddy. Told me he had to find him, so I helped him out. They had a touching little reunion, until I lit the matches anyway.
Blonney: You're insane!
Baptiste smiles.
Baptiste: I've heard that one before, too.
Baptiste: It was a woman, actually. I'm sure you'll figure out who. She said that after I tried a bit of her favorite cream sherry. I joked that she drank so much of it, her blood probably tasted of it. And it did.
Blonney: You think I'm just another victim that got too smart, but you messed with the wrong chick.
The nylon rope snaps, and Blonney hops to her feet, then reaches for a branch nearby. She swings it back, aiming straight for the killer's eyes, but he catches her wrist with one hand.
Baptiste stops for a second, marveling at the blood oozing from Blonney's fingers, watching as it slips down her slender wrist, and onto his own.
Baptiste: You've seen enough movies to know better than that, haven't you?
Blonney: Let me go, a**hole!
Baptiste: So expressive. I'm telling you, Blonney, you were wasted behind the camera.
Baptiste: I'll make sure you stay in one piece when I'm done with you. Not like your tuna salad, all torn up and shredded to fit on a plate. It'd be a shame to carve up that body.
Baptiste: You know you're not like the others.
Baptiste: But I'll tell you this: You do have one thing in common. Your reckoning has come, just as it does for us all. You'll die here, Blonney. Just like the rest. But don't worry, we all have to meet our maker sometime.
Blonney: You're the only one meeting his maker today!
She pulls out a sheet of drawing paper.
