Page 107 of Final Girls

Quincy flashed a smart-assed smile. “Only mildly handsome.”

“I wouldn’t be smiling if I were you,” Cole said. “Six kids are dead, Quincy. Their parents want answers. And the only survivor is you, a wispy little girl who claims she can’t remember a thing.”

“You actually think I did it?”

“I think you’re certainly hiding something. Possibly protecting someone. Maybe I’ll change my mind if you finally tell me everything you saw that night, including the stuff you’ve conveniently forgotten.”

“I’ve told you everything I know,” she said. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Because it doesn’t add up,” Cole replied. “Your prints are on the knife that killed all your friends.”

“And so are everyone else’s.” Anger swelled in Quincy’s chest as she thought about how many times that knife switched hands. Janelle, Amy, and Betz all definitely touched it.Hedid too. “And I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but I was also stabbed. Three times.”

“Two stab wounds to the shoulder and one in the abdomen,” Cole said. “None of them life-threatening.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“You want to hear what the others experienced?”

Cole reached for the folder atop the table. When he opened it, Quincy saw photographs.Herphotographs. Taken with her camera. Of course the police had found it at Pine Cottage and downloaded the pictures stored within it.

The detective slid a photograph across the table. It showed Janelle sticking out her tongue in front of Pine Cottage, mugging for the camera.

“Janelle Bennett,” he said. “Four stab wounds. One each to the heart, lung, shoulder, and stomach. Plus a slit throat.”

The comforting mental shell Quincy had felt earlier suddenly faded into nothingness. Now she was all exposed underbelly.

“Stop,” she murmured.

Cole ignored her, whipping out another photograph. Craig this time. Standing heroically atop the rock they had hiked to.

“Craig Anderson. Six stab wounds, ranging in depth from two to six inches.”

“Please.”

Next came the photo of Rodney and Amy squeezing each other on the hike. Quincy remembered what she’d said while taking it:Make love to the camera.

“Rodney Spelling,” Cole said. “Four stab wounds. Two to the abdomen. One on his arm. One in the heart.”

“Stop!”Quincy screamed, loud enough to bring in Freemont and a uniformed cop who hovered in the doorway. She recognized him immediately. Officer Cooper, fixing her with a protective blue-eyed stare. The mere sight of him filled her with relief.

“What’s going on in here?” he asked. “Quincy, are you okay?”

Quincy looked at him, still on the verge of tears but refusing to let them see her cry.

“Tell him,” she begged. “Tell him I didn’t do anything. Tell him I’m a good person.”

Officer Cooper moved to her side, making Quincy think he was about to hug her. She welcomed it. She wanted to feel safe in someone’s arms. Instead, he put a large, steady hand on her shoulder.

“You’re a wonderful person,” he said, addressing her but looking squarely at Detective Cole. “You’re a survivor.”

30.

A big rig thunders by, horn streaking as it rocks the Camry parked on the highway’s shoulder. I sit in the front passenger seat, legs bent out the open door. The interior light throws a dim halo over my hands and the folder gripped between them.

It’s opened to the transcript of my interview with Freemont and that asshole Cole. Seeing the first few lines is all it takes to remember.

COLE:Now, tell us, Quincy, to the best of your ability, what you remember about that night.

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