Page 82 of Final Girls

“Doctors say it’s too soon to tell. But someone sure did a number on him. You two didn’t happen to see anything suspicious last night? Someone running away from something, maybe? Or anyone acting shady?”

“After the purse was taken, Sam and I left the park as fast as we could. We didn’t see anything like that.” I shrug, frowning for emphasis, showing her how much I long to help. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything else.”

“When I talk to Miss Stone—I mean, Miss Boyd—she’ll tell me the same thing?”

“Of course,” I say.

At least, I hope she will. After last night, I’m not sure Sam and I are on the same side.

“You two are close, I imagine,” Hernandez says. “Going through similar ordeals. What’s that name the papers call you?”

“Final Girls.”

I say it angrily, with all the scorn I can muster. I want Detective Hernandez to know that I don’t consider myself one of them. That I’m beyond that now, even if I no longer quite believe it myself.

“That’s it.” The detective senses my tone and wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I guess you don’t like that label.”

“Not at all,” I say. “But I suppose it’s better than being referred to as victims.”

“What would you like to be called?”

“Survivors.”

Hernandez leans back in her chair again, impressed. “Andareyou and Miss Boyd close?”

“We are,” I say. “It’s nice to be around someone who understands me.”

“Of course it is.” She sounds like she means it. There’s sincerity there, I think. Yet her face is pinched just a fraction. “And you said she’s staying with you?”

“For a few days, yes.”

“So the fact that she’s had prior brushes with the law doesn’t bother you?”

I swallow. “Prior? As in, more than what happened the other night?”

“I guess Miss Boyd neglected to tell you about those,” Hernandez says, consulting her notes. “I did a little digging into her recent history. Nothing big. Just the past five years or so. In addition to being picked up for assault two nights before Rocky’s unfortunate accident, she had a drunk and disorderly arrest in New Hampshire four years ago, another one in Maine two years after that, and an unpaid speeding ticket following a traffic stop just last month in Indiana.”

The world stops just then. A sudden, screeching halt that sends everything tilting. My hands slide off my lap and grip the underside of my chair, as if I might fall right out of it.

Sam was in Indiana.

Just last month.

I try to smile at Detective Hernandez, to show her I’m unflappable, that I know everything there is to know about Sam. In reality, my mind fills with memories, flipping like pages of a photo album. Each memory is a snapshot. Bright. Vivid. Full of detail.

I see Lisa’s email on my phone, glowing ice-blue in the darkness.

Quincy,I need to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Please, please don’t ignore this.

I see Jonah Thompson gripping my arm, his features tight.

It’s about Samantha Boyd. She’s lying to you.

I hear Coop’s low, concerned voice.

We don’t know what she’s capable of.

I see Sam in the park, covering my stained clothes with her jacket, steering me toward water, washing the blood from my hands. So swift and decisive. I see those same clothes being scooped into her arms, as if it were a normal occurrence.

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