Page 92 of Final Girls

“Why are you so interested in Sam?”

“It’s not just me, Quincy. You should have seen the interest that article about the two of you generated. The Internet traffic was insane.”

“If you mention that article again, I’m leaving.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonah says, the base of his neck slightly reddening. It makes me happy to see that he’s at least a little embarrassed by his actions. “Back to Sam.”

“You want me to spill some dirt on her,” I say.

“No,” he says, the too-high pitch of his protest telling me I’m right. “I simply want you to share what you know. Think of it as a profile of her.”

“Would this be off the record or on?”

“I’d prefer it to be on,” Jonah says.

“Too bad.” I’m getting irritated. It makes my headache pulse just a little more and sends restlessness coursing through my legs. “Let’s walk.”

We start to stroll away from the library, toward Sixth Avenue. More people have crowded into the park, filling the slate walkways and angling for the coveted chairs that line them. Jonah and I find ourselves pushed tightly together, moving shoulder to shoulder.

“People really want to know about Sam,” Jonah says. “What she’s like. Where she’s been hiding all this time.”

“She hasn’t been hiding.” For some reason, I still feel the need to defend her. As if she’ll know if I don’t. “She was just laying low.”

“Where?”

I wait a split second before telling him, wondering if I should. But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Even though I keep telling myself it’s not.

“Bangor, Maine.”

“Why did she suddenly stop laying low?”

“She wanted to meet me after Lisa Milner’s suicide,” I say, quickly realizing my mistake. “Murder, I mean.”

“And you’ve gotten to know her?”

I think of Sam painting my nails.We’re friends, right?

“Yes,” I say.

It’s such a simple word. Three little letters. But there’s so much more to it than that. Yes, I’ve gotten to know Sam, just as she’s gotten to know me. I also know I don’t trust her. And I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about me.

“And you’re positive you’re not going to share what you know about her?” Jonah asks.

We’ve come to Bryant Park’s Ping-Pong tables—one of those “only in New York” things. Both tables are occupied, one of them by an elderly Asian couple and the other by two office drones, their ties loosened as they smack the ball back and forth. I spend a moment watching them as I try to form a suitable answer to Jonah’s question.

“It’s not that simple,” I say.

“I know something that might change your mind,” Jonah tells me.

“What do you mean?”

It’s a stupid question. I already know what he means. The big lie that Sam’s been telling me. That Jonah has information I don’t annoys me to no end.

“Just tell me what you know, Jonah.”

“I’d like to, Quincy,” he says, again scratching his head. “I really would. But good journalists don’t readily share what they know with sources who aren’t cooperative. I mean, if you really want me to give you some top secret intel, I’d need a little something in return.”

More than ever, I want to leave. I know it’s what I should do. Tell Jonah to leave me alone and then head home for a much-needed nap. Yet I also need to know just how much Sam’s been lying to me. One overrules the other.

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