Page 89 of Final Girls

“This color looks good on you,” Sam says. “Mysterious.”

“What’s it called?”

“Black Death. I picked it up at Bloomingdale’s.”

I nod in understanding. She used the five-finger discount.

Several minutes pass in which we say nothing. Then Sam, out of nowhere, says, “We’re friends, right?”

It’s another of her nesting-doll questions. To answer one is to answer them all.

“Of course,” I say.

“Good,” she says. “That’s good, Quinn. I mean, imagine what it would be like if we weren’t.”

I try to read the expression on her face. It’s a blank. A void.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I know so much about you now,” she says quietly. “The things you’re capable of. The things you’ve actually done. If we weren’t friends, there’s so much I could use against you.”

My hands tense within hers. I fight the urge to pull them away and run from the room, fingernails half-painted and streaked with black. Instead, I gaze at her sweetly, hoping she’ll think it’s sincere.

“That’ll never happen,” I say. “We’re friends for life.”

“Good,” Sam replies. “I’m glad.”

Once again, the room plunges into silence. It stays that way for another five minutes. That’s when Sam stuffs her black-polished brush back into its bottle, smiles tightly, and says, “You’re finished.”

I leave the room before my nails are completely dry, forced to turn the doorknob awkwardly with my palms. I blow on my hands in the hallway, waiting for the polish to become a glistening shell. Then I head to the master bedroom and take a quick look at Jeff, making sure he’s sound asleep before I slip inside the bathroom.

I don’t bother turning on the light. It’s better without it. I lie on the floor, my spine flat, shoulder blades cold against the tile. Then I dial the phone, Coop’s number permanently fixed in my memory.

It takes several rings for him to answer. When he does, his voice is husky with sleep.

“Quincy?”

Just hearing him makes me feel better.

“Coop,” I say. “I think I’m in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I think I’ve gotten myself into something I can’t get out of.”

I hear the faint rustle of sheets as Coop sits up in bed. It crosses my mind that he might not be alone. It’s likely he has someone sleeping next to him most nights and I just don’t know it.

“You’re worrying me,” he says. “Tell me what’s going on.”

But I can’t. That’s the most twisted part about all this. I can’t tell Coop my suspicions about Sam without also mentioning the terrible thing I’ve done. They’re intertwined, one inseparable from the other.

“That’s not a good idea,” I say.

“Do you need me to drive out there?”

“No. I just wanted to hear your voice. And to see if you had any advice for me.”

Coop clears his throat. “It’s hard to give advice when I don’t know what’s going on.”

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