Page 101 of Final Girls

I know exactly who she is.

Nancy.

“Can I help you?” she says in a voice as blunt as a Plains wind.

I have no plan about what to do or say. All that mattered was getting here. Now that I’ve arrived, I don’t know what my next step will be.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m—”

Nancy nods. “Quincy. I know.”

She looks at my fingernails, messily painted black. My right hand, with its mottled scabs smarting like a sunburn across my knuckles, catches her attention. I shove it deep into my pocket.

“You here for the funeral?” she says.

“I thought that already happened.”

“Tomorrow.”

I should have known there’d be a delay. There had been an autopsy to contend with, plus that all-important tox report.

“Lisa thought a lot about the two of you,” Nancy says. “I know she would want you there.”

As would members of the press, who I assume will be arriving in droves, the clicking of their cameras punctuating the Twenty-Third Psalm.

“It’s probably not a good idea,” I say. “I’m afraid I’d be a distraction.”

“Then it’d be real nice if you told me why you’re here. I’m no genius, but I sure as hell know that Muncie’s not exactly a stone’s throw from New York.”

“I’m here to learn about Lisa,” I say. “I’m here for details.”

•••

Inside, Lisa’s house is a tidy, depressing affair. The bulk of it is taken up by the living room, dining area, and kitchen, which merge together to form one giant room. The walls are covered in wood paneling, making the place feel musty and old-fashioned. It’s the home of a widowed grandmother, not a forty-two-year-old woman.

I see no signs that a murder took place here. There are no cops dusting for prints, no grim-faced CSI grunts picking through the carpet with tweezers. Those tasks are complete, results hopefully pending.

Stacks of cardboard boxes—some folded, others not—clutter the living room, which has already been stripped of a few knickknacks. End tables bear dust-free circles where vases and bowls once sat.

“Lisa’s family asked if I could start packing up her things,” Nancy says. “They don’t want to set foot in the place anymore. Can’t say I blame them.”

We sit at the oval dining-room table. In front of her is a laminated place mat. I assume it’s where Lisa usually ate her meals. A table setting for one. We talk while sipping tea from mugs with pink roses around the rims.

Her full name is Nancy Scott. She’s been an Indiana State Trooper for twenty-five years, although she’ll probably be retired by this time next year. She’s single, never married, owns two German shepherds that are decommissioned police dogs.

“I was one of the first people to enter that sorority house,” she says. “And I was the first person to realize Lisa wasn’t dead like therest. All the other guys—and they were all guys except me—took one look at those bodies and assumed the worst. I did too, I guess. Oh, it was bad. The blood. It was just everywhere.”

She stops, remembering who she’s talking to. I nod for her to continue.

“When I took one look at Lisa, I knew she was still alive. I didn’t know if she’d stay that way, but somehow she pulled through. After that, I took a shine to her. She was a fighter, that girl.”

“And that’s how the two of you became close?”

“Lisa and I were close in the way that you and Frank are close.”

Frank. It’s disconcerting to hear him called that. To me, he’s simply Coop.

“She knew she could call me whenever she needed to,” Nancy says. “That I was there to listen and help in whatever way I could. That kind of thing is delicate, you see. You need to let them know you’re there for them, but not get too involved. You have to keep a distance. It’s better that way.”

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