Page 76 of Final Girls

Jeff peers at me through puffy eyes, the lingering fog of sleep hovering around him. He scratches his head. He scratches his crotch. He says, “Is everything okay? This isn’t like you, Quinn.”

“I’m fine,” I say, clearly not. My body feels hollow, as if my insides have been scraped out by the ice-cream scoop I use to drop batter into muffin tins. “Just fine.”

“Is this about last night?”

I freeze in front of him, wondering what, if anything, he heard last night. That I’m keeping a secret from him at all makes me quiver with guilt. That he could possibly know about it only makes it worse.

“Me having to go to Chicago,” he says.

I exhale. Slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion.

“Of course not.”

“You seemed pretty annoyed about it. Believe me, I am. I don’t love the idea of leaving you alone with Sam.”

“We’ll be fine,” I say.

Jeff squints slightly, frowning just-so. The perfect picture of concern. “Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Because you were out jogging before six,” Jeff says. “And because you just found out that Lisa Milner was murdered and that there are no suspects.”

“Which is why I couldn’t sleep. Which led to the jogging.”

“But you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

I force a smile, trembling from the effort. “Of course.”

Jeff pulls me into a hug. He’s warm and soft and smells faintly of sweat and fabric softener from the sheets. I try to hug him back but can’t. I’m undeserving of such affection.

Later, I make him breakfast while he gets ready for work. We eat in silence, me hiding my injured hand under a dish towel or on my lap while Jeff leafs through theNew York Times. I take furtive peeks at each turning page, positive I’ll see an article about the man in the park even though I know it’s too early. My crime was past their deadline. That particular hell will have to wait until tomorrow’s edition.

As soon as Jeff leaves, I pull the key from around my neck and open my secret kitchen drawer. The pen Sam stole in the café is there. I pick it up and scrawl a single word across my wrist.

SURVIVOR

Then I hop into the shower, forcing myself not to blink as I watch the water smear the ink away.

•••

Sam and I don’t talk.

We bake.

Our tasks are well defined. Apple tarte tatin with caramel sauce for me. Sugar cookies for Sam. Our workstations are laid out on separate ends of the kitchen, like opposing sides in a war sharing a common front. While I make the dough for the tarte, I keep checking my hands for signs of blood, certain I’ll find lingering crimson stains across my palms. All I see is flesh turned puffy and pink from being washed too many times.

“I know you’re having second thoughts,” Sam says.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“We did the right thing.”

“Did we?”

“Yes.”

I’ve started on the Honeycrisp apples, my hands trembling slightly. I stare at the red-yellow apple skins, which fall in long, droopingspirals. My hope is that if I concentrate on them hard enough Sam will stop talking. It doesn’t work.

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