Page 144 of Final Girls

Coop keeps talking, his words carrying the relieved rush of confession.

“But I was curious. God help me, I was. I thought the military wouldshake it out of me. That killing for my country would make me not want to do it. But it didn’t work. All the messed-up things I saw over there only made it worse. And not long after I got back home I found myself back in these woods, in a car, getting sucked off by some whore trying to hitchhike her way to New York. That time I wasn’t afraid. War had beat all the fear out of me. That time I actually did it.”

I keep my expression blank, willing myself not to show the fear and disgust churning inside me. I don’t want him to know what I’m thinking. I don’t want to make him mad.

“I swore I’d only do it that one time,” Coop says. “That I got it out of my system. But I kept coming back to these woods. Usually with a knife. And when I saw those two campers, I knew the sickness hadn’t left me.”

“What about now?”

“I’m trying, Quincy. I’m trying real hard.”

“You weren’t trying that night,” I say, trembling with desire to glare at him, to show him how much I hate him. There’s nothing left of my heart. It’s been reduced to knifelike shards.

“I was testing myself,” Coop says. “Going to this cabin. That’s how I’d do it. I’d park down the road and walk up here, peeking in windows, both hoping and dreading I’d see something that would bring the sickness back. Nothing ever did. Until I saw you.”

I think I might pass out. I pray that I do.

“I was supposed to be looking for the kid who escaped from the psych hospital,” he says. “Instead, I started circling this place, ready for another test. That’s when I found you in the woods. With the knife. You walked right past me. So close I could have reached out and touched you. But you were too angry to see me. You were so angry, Quincy. And so fiercely sad. It was beautiful.”

“I wasn’t going to do what you think I was,” I say, hoping he believes me. Hoping that one day I’ll believe it too. “I dropped that knife.”

“I know. I watched you do it once he showed up. Then you left. And he left. But the knife stayed. So I picked it up.”

Coop takes another step closer. So close I can smell him. A mix ofsweat and aftershave. I’m hit with flashes of last night. Him on top of me. Inside me. His scent now is exactly the same as then.

“I never meant for all that to happen, Quincy. You’ve got to believe me. I just wanted to see where you were headed with that knife. I wanted to know what made someone as perfect as you so angry. So I went to the rock and saw them, and I knew that’s what upset you. The two of them screwing like filthy animals. That’s what they looked like, you know. Two grunting, dirty animals that needed to be put down.”

Coop lightly swings the hand that holds the gun, his elbow bending and unbending, as if he’s no longer willing to point it at me.

“But then your friend ran,” he says. “Craig. That was his name, right? And I couldn’t let him get away, Quincy. I just couldn’t. And there you were. And your friends. And I knew I had to get rid of all of you.”

I’m crying more now. Tears of shame and sorrow and confusion soak my face. “Why didn’t you kill me too? You killed the others. Why not me?”

“Because I could tell you were special,” Coop says slowly, as if he’s still amazed by me all these years later. “And I was right. You should have seen yourself running through those woods, Quincy. Strong even then. Even more, you were runningtowardme, wanting me to help you.”

He gives me a bright-eyed look of admiration. Of awe.

“I had no right to snuff that out.”

“Even though there was a chance I could suddenly remember it was you?”

“Yes,” Coop says. “Even then. Because I knew what was happening. I had created another Lisa Milner. Another Samantha Boyd.”

“You knew who they were,” I say.

“I’m a cop. Of course I knew,” Coop says. “The Final Girls. Such strong, defiant women. And I had made one. Me. In my mind, it made up for all the other bad things I’d done. And I swore I’d never let anything bad happen to you. I made sure you’d always need me. Even when it looked like you were drifting away from me.”

At first, I don’t know what he means. But then realization settles onto my shoulders, weighing me down. I slump further against the floor.

“The letter,” I say weakly. “You wrote that letter.”

“I had to,” Coop says. “You were straying too far from me.”

It’s true. I was. Getting the website off the ground, moving in with Jeff, finally becoming the woman I’d always wanted to be. So Coop drove to Quincy, Illinois, and mailed that typewritten threat, knowing it would make me run back to him in a heartbeat. And I did.

A question unfolds in my mind, curling open like a flower. I’m afraid to ask it, but I must. “What else have you done? After that night? Were there more bad things?”

“I’ve been good,” Coop says. “Mostly.”

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