Page 77 of Final Girls

“Going to the police now won’t make things right again,” she says. “No matter how much you want it to.”

It’s not that I want to go to the police. I think Ihaveto. I know from Jeff’s work that it’s always better for a criminal to come forward rather than get caught. Cops have at least a grudging respect for those who confess. So do judges.

“We should tell Coop,” I say.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“He might be able to help us.”

“He’s still a cop,” Sam says.

“He’s my friend. He would understand.”

At least I hope he would. He’s said many times that he’d do anything to protect me. Is that the truth, or is there a limit to Coop’s loyalty? After all, he made that promise to the Quincy he thinks he knows, not the one who actually exists. I’m not sure it would still apply to the Quincy who’s already taken two Xanax since returning from the park this morning. Or the Quincy who steals shiny objects just so she can see her reflection in them. Or the Quincy who pummels a man until he’s comatose.

“Let it drop, babe,” Sam says. “We’re good. We got away. It’s over.”

“And you’re absolutely certain there was nothing in that purse that could lead to us?” I ask for what’s probably the fiftieth time.

“I’m positive,” Sam says. “Chill out.”

Yet an hour later, my phone rings as I’m pulling the tarte tatin from the oven. I place the tarte on the counter, tear off an oven mitt, and grab the phone. Answering it brings a woman’s voice to my ear.

“May I speak to Miss Quincy Carpenter?”

“This is Quincy.”

“Miss Carpenter, I’m Detective Carmen Hernandez with the NYPD.”

Fear freezes me—a sudden, numbing chill. How I manage to keep hold of the phone is a mystery. The fact I can still speak is a minor miracle.

“How can I help you, Detective?”

Hearing this, Sam whirls away from the counter, a large mixing bowl hugged to her stomach.

“I was wondering if you had time to come to the station today,” Detective Hernandez says.

I only half listen to the rest of what she has to say. The deep freeze of fear has made its way to my ears, blocking out a good deal of it. Yet the key words are clear. Like blows of a pickax against the ice.

Central Park. Purse. Questions. Lots of questions.

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Once I end the call, the frigid grip of fear subsides. Taking its place is the hot burn of despair. Trapped between cold and heat, I act accordingly, melting into a puddle on the kitchen floor.

TWO DAYS AFTER PINE COTTAGE

Their names are Detective Cole and Detective Freemont, although they might as well have been called Good Cop and Bad Cop. Each had a role to play, and they performed them well. Cole was the nice one. He was young—probably not yet thirty. Quincy liked his friendly eyes and the warm smile that sat beneath a wispy mustache grown in an attempt to make him look older. When he crossed his legs, Quincy saw that his socks matched the green of his tie. A nice touch.

Freemont was the gruff one. Short, stout, and balding, he had the jowls of a bulldog. They flopped slightly when he said, “We’re confused by something.”

“More curious than confused,” Cole added.

Freemont shot him an annoyed look. “Things just don’t add up, Miss Carpenter.”

They were in Quincy’s hospital room, she too sore to leave the bed. Instead, she was propped into a sitting position by several pillows. There was an IV needle in her arm, its low, perpetual sting distracting her from the detective’s words.

“Things?” she said.

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