Page 84 of Final Girls

The word emerges like the crack of a whip, sharp and stinging. Sam shakes her head. “Damn. Youaretense.”

I have every right to be. A man is in a coma because of me. Lisa was murdered. And Sam—Maybe? Possibly?—was there.

“Where were you before you came to New York?” I ask. “And don’t tell me ‘Here and there.’ I need someplace specific.”

Sam stays silent a moment. Just long enough for me to wonder if she’s picking through several possible lies stored in her brain, deciding on the best one to use. Finally, she says, “Maine.”

“Where in Maine?”

“Bangor. Happy now?”

I’m not. It tells me nothing.

We keep walking, heading south, deeper into the park. Red oaks line both sides of the path, their leaves barely clinging to the branches. Acorns have already started to drop, scattered in wide, unruly circles around the tree trunks. A few fall as we pass. Each one makes a tiny plunking noise when it hits the ground.

“How long were you there?” I ask Sam.

“I don’t know. Years?”

“And did you go anywhere else during that time?”

Sam lifts her arms, the purse swinging, and assumes a haughty voice. “Oh, nowhere special. You know, just the Hamptons in the summer and the Riviera in winter. Monaco is simply gorgeous this time of year.”

“I’m serious, Sam.”

“And I’m seriously getting annoyed by all these questions.”

I want to shake Sam so hard that the truth finally dislodges and plunks to the ground like the acorns dropping all around us. I wanther to tell me everything. Instead, I calm the emotional storm swirling inside me long enough to say, “I’m just making sure there are no secrets between us.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Quincy. Not once.”

“But you haven’t told me your full story,” I say. “I just need to know the truth.”

“You really want the truth?”

Sam nods at the path just ahead of us. It’s only then that I realize how far we’ve walked, that Sam has used the distance I put between us to her advantage, subtly steering us to the spot we had fled last night.

The cops have gone, taking their fluttering partition of police tape with them. The only sign of their former presence is a wide swath of grass that’s been flattened against the ground. Tamped down, no doubt, by officers searching for evidence. I study the grass, looking for heel prints left by Detective Hernandez’s boots.

A cluster of candles blocks the path where Rocky Ruiz was found. They’re tall, skinny glass ones with pictures of the Virgin Mary on the sides, sold for a dollar in nearly every bodega in the city. There’s also a cheap teddy bear holding a heart, a hastily scrawled poster board sign readingJUSTICE4ROCKY,and a helium balloon held in place by a plastic weight tied to its string.

“Right there is the truth,” Sam says. “You did that, babe, and I’m covering for you. I could have told that detective everything, but I didn’t. That’s all the truth you need to know.”

She says nothing else. Nor does she need to. I understand loud and clear.

Sam resumes walking, still pointed south, heading God knows where. I stay where I am, guilt, fear, and exhaustion holding me in place. I can’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep. It was before Sam showed up, I know that much. Her arrival has whittled my rest down to nothing. I don’t see that changing anytime soon. I envision weeks of sleeplessness, my nights disrupted by dreams of Sam, of Rocky Ruiz, of Lisa being held down while her wrists are slit.

“You coming?” Sam asks.

I shake my head.

“Suit yourself.”

“Where are you going?”

“Here and there,” Sam says, dripping sarcasm. “Don’t wait up.”

She heads off, glancing back at me only once. Although she hasn’t gotten very far, I can’t make out her expression. The same clouds that brought the chill have muted the afternoon sun, breaking its glow, splitting her face between light and shadow.

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