Page 80 of Final Girls

I want to retract the words as soon as I say them, pulling them back into my mouth like a serpent’s tongue.

“We?” Hernandez says. “You and Tina Stone?”

I take a deep breath. Of course she knows about Sam and her new name. The detective is as smart as she looks. That realization makes me feel weak. Exhausted, really. When she sits behind her desk, I drop into a chair next to it.

“Her real name is Samantha Boyd,” I say meekly, nervous about correcting the detective. “She changed it to Tina Stone.”

“After what happened to her at the Nightlight Inn?”

I take another deep breath. Detective Hernandez has certainly done her homework.

“Yes,” I reply. “She went through a lot. We both have, but I’m sure you know all about that.”

“It’s a terrible thing that happened. To both of you. Crazy world, right?”

“It is.”

Hernandez smiles again—this time in sympathy—before opening the purse and pulling out several battered paperbacks.

“We found the purse early this morning,” she says, stacking books on the desk between us. “We traced it to Miss Stone after finding her name in one of these books. It came up in a quick scan of our records. Seems she was taken into custody a few nights ago. Assault on an officer and resisting arrest, I think it was.”

“That was a misunderstanding.” I clear my throat again. “I believe the charges were dropped.”

“And so they were,” Hernandez says as she inspects one of thebooks. Its cover bears a robot in the shape of a woman roaming a purple starscape. “You picked her up that night, correct?”

“I did. Me and my boyfriend, Jefferson Richards. He’s with the Public Defender’s Office.”

His name clangs a bell in the detective’s memory. She gives me another smile, this one painfully strained. “He’s got quite a case on his hands, doesn’t he?”

I swallow, relieved I didn’t call Jeff and ask him to come to the station with me. I wanted to, of course, but Sam talked me out of it. She said bringing a lawyer, even one who was my boyfriend, would instantly arouse suspicion. Turns out it also would have brought him into contact with a detective none too pleased about him defending a man accused of killing a fellow cop.

“I don’t know much about it,” I say.

Hernandez nods before skipping back to the original subject. “Since we don’t have a contact number for Miss Stone, I thought it wise to have a chat with you and see if you know of her whereabouts. Is she staying with you, perhaps?”

I could lie, but there’d be no point to it. I get the sense the detective already knows the answer.

“She is,” I say.

“And where is she now?”

“Waiting outside, actually.”

At least, I hope she is. Although Sam was calm when we left the apartment, I suspect it was purely for my sake. Now that she’s alone, I picture her pacing outside, finishing up her third cigarette in a row while sneaking glances through the precinct’s glass-walled entrance. It occurs to me that while I’m in here, Sam could easily just leave town, again leaping off the grid. Honestly, I’m not sure that would be a bad thing.

“I guess it’s my lucky day,” Detective Hernandez says. “Do you think she’d want to come in and answer some questions?”

“Sure.” The word is high-pitched, akin to a squeak. “I suppose so.”

The detective reaches for the phone, taps a few numbers, and informs the desk sergeant on duty that Sam can be found outside.

“Bring her in and have her wait outside my office,” she says.

“Is Sam in some kind of trouble?” I ask.

“Not at all. An incident occurred in the park overnight. A man was severely beaten.”

I keep my hands on my lap, the ugly, scabby right one covered by the less-ugly left. “That’s terrible.”

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