Page 118 of Final Girls

“How long were you there?”

“About a week,” Sam says.

“So she liked having you there?”

It’s a wasted question. Of course Lisa liked having Sam there. It’s what she lived for—taking troubled young women under her wing and helping them. Sam was likely the most troubled of them all.

“She did,” Sam says. “At first. But by the end of the week, Lisa couldn’t deal with me anymore.”

I infer the rest. Sam showed up out of the blue, knapsack bulging with Wild Turkey and expressions of sisterhood. Lisa gladly let her crash in the guest room. But that wasn’t enough. Not for Sam. She needed to pry, to needle. She probably tried to shake Lisa out of her complacency. To make her get angry, to make her a survivor.

Lisa didn’t let her. I did. Both of us paid a very different price.

“So why did you lie about it?”

“Because I knew you’d become a drama queen if I told you. That you’d start getting suspicious.”

“Why?” I say. “Do you have something to hide? Did you kill Lisa, Sam?”

There it is. The question that’s been itching at the back of my brain for days, now spoken, made real. Sam shakes her head as if she pities me.

“Poor, sad Quincy. You’re more messed up than I thought.”

“Tell me you had nothing to do with her death,” I say.

Sam drops the cigarette, making a show of grinding it out on the hardwood floor with the toe of her boot. “No matter what I say, you’re not going to believe me.”

“You’ve given me no reason so far,” I reply. “Why start now?”

“I didn’t kill Lisa,” Sam says. “Believe me or not. I don’t give a fuck.”

A beep rises from deep within my pocket. My phone.

“That’s probably your boyfriend,” Sam says with pronounced disgust. “One of them, at least.”

I check the phone. Sure enough, there’s a text from Coop.

we need to talk

At the window, Sam asks, “Which one is it?”

I don’t answer, which is an answer in itself. I stare at the screen, my heart seizing up at the prospect of seeing Coop again. Not just tonight. But ever again.

Sam jams another cigarette between her lips and says, “Run to your little cop, Quincy Carpenter. But remember, watch what you say. My secrets are your secrets. And Officer Cooper might not like yours.”

“Go to hell,” I say.

Sam lights up and smiles. “Already been there, babe.”

PINE COTTAGE

11:12 P.M.

Quincy was out of breath by the time she reached the cabin. Her lungs burned, scraped by both exertion and the night air. Despite the chill, a thin coating of sweat covered her skin, cold and sticky.

Inside, it was quietly chaotic, all dirty dishes and liquor bottles with only dregs remaining. The great room was abandoned. Even the fire had gone out, a trace of woodsmoke heat the only reminder it ever existed.

Sleep. That was all Quincy wanted. To fall asleep and wake up having forgotten everything she had seen. It was possible, she knew. Already her brain was telling her that she was mixed up, saw something she didn’t really see. Maybe Janelle had been with someone else. Joe, perhaps. Or maybe Quincy only thought she saw Craig lying on his back, face contorted, pushing into her.

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