It was Halloween, and Dylan didn't know nearly anyone at this party. But that was okay, because they were all wearing masks. It was just someone's house party, a normal high school party -- he couldn't quite remember who was throwing it, that was a little weird -- or what time it was, for that matter -- well, probably he'd taken a little too much of something. Probably. The colors were awfully bright; shrooms? Or wormwood and absinthe, he might have invested in that. In any case, the masks were nice and the loudspeakers were playing Frank Sinatra, "I've Got You Under My Skin."

He was wearing the cleverest mask. He knew he was. He had to be. It looked like Dylan Rasmussen.

There was a killer at this Halloween party. But that was okay, because it was him: he had the knife up his sleeve and everything, right up the sleeve of his Mark Cohen sweater. It was good to know it was him -- after all, if you wanted a thing done right, you had to do it yourself, wasn't that right? Wasn't that right, Dylan. Dylan never did it himself in the past, and look where that had gotten him.

He couldn't find Jesse, which was a disappointment because the way his original plan went, he was going to kill Jesse first because Jesse had the most potential for making a stink if he went last. Maddy wouldn't present a problem, he thought with a touch of arrogance. His next plan was Ronnie -- and there Ronnie was, standing next to Cora. Ronnie would've stopped him before Cora. But Cora had a butterfly mask on and Dylan decided to talk to her first.

When he pulled her aside the rest of the party was like wallpaper -- Ronnie was gone. Somewhere. That was just as good.

Dylan opened his mouth to try to say hello, but he looked at Cora and looked at her hand in his hand and what he said instead was, "I'm here to kill you, Cora."

But Cora didn't hear him, and she just put both her hands in his hands and smiled at him.

He tried again. "No, you don't understand." He was getting perturbed. "I'm here to kill you. Stab you to death, with a knife."

"I like this song," said Cora, "you know, I remember when you told me you hated Frank Sinatra --"

Was the same song still on? "Cora," he was agitated, "Cora, you don't get it. I'm not Dylan. I'm a murderer. I have a knife," and he pulled out his knife to prove it, because that sort of thing always worked with people, didn't it?

But Cora laughed -- God, she didn't laugh much, either -- and batted the knife away. "Dylan," she said. "I don't understand the words that you're saying."

He shoved her and she looked startled, then wounded; as she watched he fumbled for the string that tied his cheap Halloween mask into place and tore it off and threw it to the ground. But she was just blinking in bafflement -- he had a mask on, still had a mask on. Another mask. He tore that one off too. The same mask.

They piled at his feet like pistachio shells. Someone dancing nearby went, "Dude, don't litter, Captain Pollution."

If you want something done right, do it yourself. The pile crunched under his feet, cheap plastic. Cora was staring in confusion still, like she hadn't perceived any of this happening.

Her hands were clasped at her navel, like a princess, so Dylan ran her through easily: and for a moment he wondered if she wouldn't notice that either. But she screamed in pain and blood bloomed from her stomach, around her spine, and he had to stab her again to stop the screaming, but it didn't stop, and all he could say was, "I told you, I told you, I told you, Cora. Why don't you ever listen to me?"

---

Dylan woke up with his arm wrapped around his sleeping girlfriend and his face buried in her hair, which was usual; she woke up with him, which was usual too. The Grants were on a three-day weekend trip somewhere. Mirrorwalk would take him to Hillworth in the morning when he had to.

She shifted, murmured: "You all right?"

"Just a dream," he said, closing his eyes again.

That troubled her and she pulled away enough to look at him, blinking a little. "So it's happening?"

"Maybe," he said, tiredly. "I don't know. It'll happen sooner or later."

"Dylan --"

"Let's go back to sleep," he said into his pillow, and endeavored to do exactly that. And after a while she, discontented, did. But try as he might, dreamland just didn't seem like quite so attractive a prospect.

He couldn't imagine why.