Page 112 of Final Girls

About what I did there.

I end the call and roll down the window, letting myself be hit with bursts of crisp, Midwestern air. My grip tightens around the steering wheel as my foot presses on the accelerator. I watch the speedometer creep higher, passing seventy, seventy-five, flirting with eighty.

It doesn’t help, no matter how fast I drive. I still feel like a fly, wriggling in a web of Sam’s making. I realize there are only two ways to get free—fight or flight.

I know which one it needs to be.

•••

Back at the hotel, I change my airline reservation. There’s an eight p.m. flight from Chicago to New York. I’m going to be on it.

Jeff, of course, doesn’t understand why I need to fly back to New York so suddenly. He peppers me with questions as I stuff clothes into my suitcase. I answer each one twice—the lie out loud, the truth in my head.

“Does this have something to do with Sam?”

“No.”

Of course it does.

“Quincy, did she do something wrong?”

“Not yet.”

Yes, she’s done something terrible. We both have.

“I just don’t understand why you need to leave this second. Why now?”

“Because I need to get back as soon as possible.”

Because Sam knows things about me. Horrible things. Just as I know horrible things about her. Now I need to get her out of my life for good.

“Would it help if I went with you?”

“That’s sweet, but no. You still have work to take care of.”

You can’t go with me, Jeff. I’ve been lying to you. About many things. And if you find them out, you won’t want to be anywhere near me.

Once I’m packed and heading for the door, Jeff grabs me and pulls me tight against him. I long to remain in that exact spot, held in place, comforted. But that’s not possible. Not with Sam still in my life.

“Will you be okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I tell him.

No. Despite what you might think, I’ll never be okay.

•••

The plane is small, barely booked. A money-losing trip that exists solely to get the aircraft to JFK for a more profitable flight in the morning. I have an entire row to myself. After takeoff, I stretch across the empty seats.

Lying there, I do everything possible not to think about Sam. Nothing works. There’s no way to ignore the suspicion that skitters into my thoughts as if on spider legs. I imagine her dropping pills into Lisa’s wineglass, seeing her sip them into her system, waiting until they take effect. I picture Sam with the knife, slicing Lisa’s wrists, watching the results as she bites her fingernails.

Is she capable of doing such a thing?

Maybe.

Whywould she do such a thing?

Because she was on the hunt for information about me. Perhaps she roped Lisa into helping her. But Lisa had second thoughts, pushed her away, threatened to kick her out. Now it’s my turn to do the same thing. I pray the results are different.

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