As he was in proximity of the front yard, he turned to the left side of the house in hopes of entering through the kitchen door undetected. Momentarily hidden from sight in the driveway, he leaned back against the wall between the garage doors to give his bad leg a rest. He closed his eyes, swept his bangs back, and caught his breath.

*drip*

Just as his heart rate began to slow, he felt a gentle tap on his face. Perhaps it was rain. It would prove useful in cleansing him of the gory evidence.

*drip*

The tickling sensation of the dense liquid traveled down his cheek at a creeping pace. The thickness and speed of it didn't feel like water.

*drip*

Another drop. Curiosity finally forced his eyes open, revealing a gruesome image. A human body lodged in a pet door suspended from the open garage shutter. The already grisly display twisted into something much more horrifying upon closer inspection. White Doc Marten boots on sheer hosiery-clad legs running up to a tacky, psychedelic patterned skirt and lemon yellow mock neck sweater. A mess of golden blonde hair obscured a bent and broken face. A face that he had watched grow from a child to an independent young woman for 18 years.

Tatum Riley.

A torrent of guilt enveloped him. Dewey staggered away until his back hit the parked boat, unable to draw his teary eyes away from the sight. The sensation of freezing water pulsed through his veins, seizing his breath and accelerating his heart rate with the efficiency of an ice bath. The world spun and swayed under his feet until the wave of emotion knocked him on his hands and knees.

He instinctively brought a hand to his mouth. A guttural scream erupted from his throat, muffled by his palm. His eyes screwed shut which sent a flood of tears pouring down his face. All of his physical ailments seemed to go numb in favor of the suffocating emotional pain that engulfed him. It racked his bones and bubbled beneath his skin like acid. His throat was raw from his unintelligible cries of anguish.

"This… wasn't supposed to happen…" he croaked between sobs.

No matter how much it looked like her, Dewey couldn't bring himself to believe it. It couldn't be her because Tatum was never that still. Never that lifeless. Tatum was a feisty, carefree girl. Her enthusiasm and passion made her adored by her peers. She was one of the few who could bring Sidney Prescott out of her shell. When it came to catching eyes, her brightly colored fashion and flaxen locks didn't hold a candle to her smile. The same joyful smile that once lit up a room was now crushed between metal, permanently disfigured beyond recognition.

In his flurry of thoughts, there were two that echoed loudest over them all.

The girl he grew up with, helped raise, and cared for was dead.

His little sister was dead.

And…

It was all his fault.

If he hadn't left the party, he could've kept an eye on her and she would still be alive. If he hadn't taken so long with Gale in the woods, she'd still be alive. If he hadn't stupidly trusted Billy and helped the boys with their murders, she'd still be alive.

If it wasn't for him, Tatum would still be alive.

Dewey laid, a crumpled, teary mess on the blacktop. The force of his sobs brought upon a violent coughing fit almost triggering his gag reflex. He felt like he was about to hack up a lung. Like his entire being had shattered like glass and now he could only feel the pain of his own broken shards. They pierced his hands, embedding themselves between his fingers and coating them in plasma. Blood navigated the map of palm lines from heart to sun to fate. Every crease and wrinkle filled with the red sealant.

He couldn't help but imagine it as hers. The familial blood they shared had been spilled and he was the catalyst. As much as he wanted to blame Loomis and Macher, he couldn't ignore his part in their scheme. They may have shot the bullet, but he gave them the gun.

He could've stopped them. He could've been the man who caught the Woodsboro killers. The young deputy who managed to stop them before they could claim another victim. But he didn't.

Two teenage victims weren't enough to earn the title of "serial killer". He wasn't satisfied with that. It wasn't just attention and praise he was after. He wanted to hold the boys' secret over them. To know how helpless they were as he held their futures in his palm. He wanted to get his hands dirty. To do something he'd never trust himself to get away with alone. To finally be seen as more than a joke and prove he was not one to be fucked with. But he couldn't do that with his status or reputation. No. He needed to see the submission in their eyes. He needed to have someone completely at his mercy.

He got greedy. And now he was paying the price. He would be carted off to jail. His mother would be devastated with one child dead and the other imprisoned for fratricide. His poor mother. She'd be all alone because of his crimes. He really was selfish wasn't he?

He just wanted to stay on the ground and sleep. Hopefully he'd bleed out there and die like he deserved. Instead, he weakly brought himself to his feet, too tired to feel much of anything anymore. Only an aching hunger for vengeance.

He limped into the garage, catching another glimpse of the body. Getting a reluctant closer look at it, he noticed a shallow slice across her forearm. Dewey's hand subconsciously moved to the knife at his side. The knowledge that it was the same model used to attack his little sister gave him chills. Trails of blood cascaded down her slender arm and dripped off her fingertips. Her lifeless corpse hung limp like a doll. That's all she was. Something for Stu Macher to play with and throw away when he got bored. Whether it was Stu or Billy who actually killed her, he didn't care. One of them had to be complicit. All that mattered now was ensuring they didn't survive the night.

Dwight walked through the doors connecting the garage and kitchen. The bitcrushed audio from the television in the other room was accompanied by the drunken commentary of Randy Meeks.

"Jaimie, look behind you. Look BEHIND you. Turn around…" The boy slurred with his arms wrapped around a throw pillow.

At first, he was surprised the teen hadn't left with the others, but knowing him, it wasn't unusual for him to choose Jaimie Lee Curtis over his peers. As he tried to silently sneak through the kitchen, he found Randy wasn't alone in the living room. A menacing, cloaked figure loomed over him from behind the couch. Dwight instantly recognized it as the Father Death costume, or as Tatum once called it: Ghostface. They slowly raised their arms over their head, both hands around the knife. Randy laid back, preoccupied with the film and oblivious to his impending doom. From the height and overdramatic pre-attack pose, the officer could tell it was likely Stu Macher behind the mask.

Riley's pulse pounded in his ears, seeing red at the mere reminder of the traitorous snake. Barely stopping to think, the man drew his pistol and aimed for the head. He braced himself for the oncoming recoil and couldn't help but squint his eyes shut upon firing. Suddenly, there was a scream from outside.

"HELP ME!" a feminine voice cried. Ghostface turned towards the sound.

*BANG*

The bullet fired and lodged itself in the killer's arm. Dwight flinched at the loud noise and cursed under his breath. If he had kept his eye on the target and Ghostface hadn't been distracted, it could've been a clean headshot.

Randy immediately spun around and screamed in terror.

"Ah! Shit!" Ghostface shouted from behind the mask, further confirming Stu's identity. Randy reflexively tossed the throw pillow at the killer then scrambled off the couch and into the kitchen. The officer tried to aim again, but couldn't get a clear shot. Stu's panicked flailing made it hard to make out his limbs under the baggy bolt of fabric. The injured killer ran out the back door, clutching his bicep wound. Dwight defeatedly lowered the gun, turned on the safety, and placed it on the kitchen island.

In his rush to escape, Randy bumped directly into the officer. "What happened to you?" the boy asked.

"Ghostface," Dwight replied, employing his sister's nickname for the killer, "I got attacked."

After the boy's inebriated brain registered who the name was referring to, Randy looked bemused. "And he let you live?"

"Well, he must've been in a rush," he said with a shrug. Which wasn't technically untrue. He had been under a time constraint to take care of the late Top Story duo. Perhaps his leg would still be intact if he'd been more vigilant and not let Weathers get the jump on him. "Is there anyone else in the house?" he asked.

"Everyone left after Sidney went upstairs with…" he trailed off until his eyes went wide with realization. "Oh fuck!" he exclaimed, pushing past the officer while making a break for the foyer doorway.

"Wait, hold on!" He turned to grab the zealous boy's arm, faltering slightly when the teen's momentum pulled him onto his bad leg. Even with his balance disturbed, he held the teen back.

"Look Dewey, I know you're a little slow on the uptake, so let me clue you in," Randy condescended.

Riley bristled at the patronizing remark coupled with the use of his nickname. It somehow sounded even more pathetic coming out of Randy's mouth. He didn't appreciate being talked down to.

Randy continued, "Billy Loomis is obviously the killer!" The film buff waved his arms in an animated fashion as he shouted, eyes wide with panic. "He probably got Sid and Stu already and that means WE'RE next on the chopping block!"

Dwight put both hands on the hysterical boy's shoulders. "Just calm down. We don't know that yet." He brought him close to look him in the eyes and calm him down.

Randy started to take deeper breaths until his brow furrowed into a critical, curious expression. "…Whose blood is that?"

Dwight took a step back, caught off guard by the question. He forgot that he still had Gale's blood all over him. Of course, Randy had no way of knowing that. "Wh… Mine!" he answered after a noticeable pause, "I told you-"

"No, your face, it's… covered in blood."

"Wh-what?" Dewey stammered, his nervousness obvious in his tone. He spoke haltingly with each mumbled word barely forming before it trailed off into a lost silence. Lying usually came naturally to him; most of his personality was a fraud at this point. But for some reason, he couldn't think straight. "I-I don't… I can't give you a full trauma assessment! It-It's not important!"

Randy was skeptical. Covered in blood and dodging questions: two red flags for a suspect.

"Look," the officer began, handing over a bundle of keys, "I need you to lock yourself in the patrol car and call the police. Do not come out until backup gets here, understand?"

"But-"

"Listen kid, there's no use in getting yourself killed. Don't be a hero." His suggestion sounded less like advice and more like a threat.

Randy was quickly shut up by that intimidating remark. He didn't get to finish his question. If he got attacked, why hadn't Dewey called for backup already?

In spite of his better judgment, he kept himself from verbalizing his suspicions. He briskly walked past the older man to head out, but stopped to interrogate him further. "What if Sidney shows up? Can I let her in the car?"

Dwight groaned. "Yes, of course."

Randy pressed. "What about Stu?"

"Sure," he said shortly, his patience wearing thin. At this point, he hardly cared if Randy lived or died. He was lukewarm towards the kid, but right now the inquisitive little brat was getting on his nerves and complicating the plan.

"How do you kn-"

Riley finally snapped. "God damn it, Meeks! I don't have time for this, I need to find Billy!"

"What about Sid?" Randy asked, appalled at the blatant disregard for his pseudo-sibling's safety.

"I-Yes, I'll find Sidney, just go!" he yelled, ignoring his slip up.

"What if-"

"Oh for crying out loud! Here!" Riley shouted, thrusting the gun into the teens hands. "Hopefully you won't have to use it."

Randy awkwardly held the weapon in both of his palms. "I don't know how to-"

The deputy retrieved his firearm and demonstrated the safety mechanism. "Safety on," he moved his thumb across the lever, "Safety off." After reengaging the safety, he handed it back to Randy. "Just don't look down the barrel and you'll be fine, now go!"

Surprised and slightly frightened by the officer's uncharacteristic assertiveness, the teen ran out the front door without another word.