Page 83 of Final Girls

Don’t worry about it. I know what to do.

I see her swearing a path through the crush of reporters outside, unafraid of the cameras, completely unfazed when Jonah tells us that Lisa’s been murdered. Her face is painted white by the flashbulbs, turned the same shade as a corpse on the slab. There’s no expression there. No sadness or surprise.

Nothing.

“Miss Carpenter?” The detective’s voice sounds faint among the shuffling memories. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I know all about those. Sam has never lied to me.”

She hasn’t. At least there’s nothing I can definitively pinpoint as a lie. But she hasn’t exactly told me the truth either. Since her arrival, Sam hasn’t told me much of anything.

I don’t know where she’s been.

I don’t know who she was with.

Most of all, I have no idea what horrible things she might have done.

22.

The chill has returned to the park in full force, shocking in the same way water feels when you take that first plunge into a swimming pool. Change hangs in the air—a sense of time running out. Fall has officially arrived.

Because of the weather, everyone moves with manic energy. Joggers and cyclists and nannies pushing ridiculous double-wide strollers. It makes them look like they’re fleeing something, even though they travel in all directions. Willy-nilly ants evading the foot about to crush their hill.

I, however, am stillness personified as I stand outside the precinct’s tall glass window. Sam is inside, talking to Detective Hernandez, hopefully telling her the same things I did. And although I appear content to remain motionless, all I really want to do is run. Not toward home, but away from it. I long to run until I reach the George Washington Bridge, where I’ll keep running. Through New Jersey. Through Pennsylvania and Ohio. Vanishing into the heartland.

Only then will I be away from the reality of what I’d done in the park. Away from the brief, confounding flashes of Pine Cottage that still cling to me like a sweat-soaked shirt. Most of all, I’d be away from Sam. I don’t want to be here when she emerges from the police station. I’m afraid of what I’ll see, as if one look will reveal the guilt on her face, as bright and glaring as her red lipstick.

But I stay, even though my legs tremble with pent-up energy. I want a Xanax so badly I can already taste the grape soda on my tongue.

I stay because I could be wrong about Sam.

Iwantto be wrong.

So she was in Indiana while Lisa was still alive. In all likelihood, their paths never came close to crossing. Indiana is a big state, after all, with more to it than just Muncie. Sam’s presence there certainly doesn’t mean she went to see Lisa. And it’s definitely no reason to suggest Sam killed her. That I immediately jumped to that conclusion says more about me than it does her.

At least, that’s what I try to tell myself as I huddle against the chill, my legs twitching, wondering what exactly Sam is saying deep inside the building behind me. She’s been in there twenty minutes now—far longer than I. Worry nudges my sides, riling me up, making me want to run even more.

I yank my phone from my pocket and run the pad of my thumb across its screen. I think about calling Coop and confessing all my sins, even if it means he’ll hate me. Short of running, it’s the only logical course of action. Face my misdeeds. Let the chips fall.

But then Sam emerges through the precinct’s glass doors, smiling like a kid who’s just gotten away with something. The grin sets off a lightning bolt of fear in my heart. I’m afraid that Sam has told the truth about last night. Worse, I’m afraid she’s now on to my suspicions. That she instinctively knows what’s going through my mind. Already, she sees something off about my expression. Her grin flattens. She tilts her head, assessing me.

“Relax, babe,” she says. “I stuck to the script.”

She has the purse with her. It dangles from her forearm, giving her a disconcertingly dainty appearance. She tries to pass it to me, but I take a step back. I want nothing to do with it. Nor do I want anything to do with Sam. I keep an arm’s length between us as we walk away from the police station. Even walking is a chore. My body still longs to sprint.

“Hey,” she says, noticing the distance. “You don’t have to be so tense now. I told Detective McBitch exactly what we discussed. Girls’ night out. Drunk in the park. That dude stole the purse.”

“He has a name,” I say. “Ricardo Ruiz.”

Sam hits me with a sidelong glance. “Oh, you’re into saying names now?”

“I think I have to.”

I feel compelled to start repeating it every day, like a Hail Mary, atoning for my sins. I would do it too, if I knew it would help.

“Just so we’re clear,” Sam says, “it’s okay to say his name, but I’m not allowed to say—”

“Don’t.”

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