Page 70 of Final Girls

Yet he’s watching me. I notice how his Yankees cap keeps turning my way.

I slow down, taking half-steps, making sure he’ll be in front of me when our paths connect roughly twenty yards ahead. I long to check behind me and see if Sam has caught up, but I can’t. That might tip him off. A risk I need to avoid.

The man whistles as he walks. The nondescript trill cuts through the silence of the park, high-pitched and airy. I get the feeling he’s trying to put me at ease. An attempt, innocent or not, to get me to let down my guard.

Up ahead is the spot where our paths meet. I stop and mime rooting through the purse, making sure he notices. He has to. The purse is too big to miss. Yet he pretends not to see it, continuing his exaggerated stroll until he’s on the same path, just ahead of me. He keeps up the whistling, trying not to scare me, trying to get me moving again. The Pied Piper.

I start walking. One, two, three steps.

The whistling stops.

He does too.

Suddenly he’s whirling around to face me. His pupils ping-pong around his sockets, crazed and dark. The eyes of an addict in need of a fix. On the surface, though, he’s hardly threatening. Gaunt cheeks. Body as thin as a broom handle. He’s practically the same height as me, maybe even shorter. The jacket gives him some girth, but it’s all show. He’s a featherweight.

The hardness of his face is amplified by the sweat slicking his high forehead and razor-blade cheeks. His skin is as taut as a drum. He practically vibrates with hunger and desperation.

When he speaks, his voice is a sluggish mumble. “I don’t wanna bother you, okay? But I need some money. For food, you know?”

I say nothing. Stalling. Giving Sam enough time to get closer. If she’s even there.

“You hear what I’m sayin’, mama?”

The silence continues on my end. I leave everything up to him. He can leave. He can stay. If he does and causes trouble, Sam will certainly strike.

Maybe.

“I’m real hungry,” the man says, gaze flicking to my purse. “You got food in there? Some cash you can give?”

I look behind me at last, seeking out Sam’s approaching shadow.

She’s not there.

No one is.

It’s just me and the man and a purse that’ll make him really pissed if he looks inside and sees it’s stuffed with nothing but paperbacks. I should be scared. I should have been scared this entire time. But I’m not. Instead, I feel the opposite of fear.

I feel radiant.

“No,” I say. “I don’t.”

I stare at him, monitoring his movements, waiting to see the flex of an arm or the curl of a fist. Anything to suggest he’s thinking of doing harm.

“You sure you got nothin’ at all in there?” he says.

“Are you threatening me?”

The man raises his hands, takes a step back. “Whoa, mama. I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

“You’re bothering me,” I say. “That’s something.”

I turn, start to walk away, the purse dangling limply from my hands. The man lets me go. He’s too strung out to put up a fight. All he can muster is a parting insult.

“You’re one cold bitch.”

“What did you just say?”

I spin around and stride toward him, pushing close enough to smell his breath. It stinks of cheap wine, stale smoke, and rotting gums.

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