Page 97 of Final Girls

Hernandez leans forward, almost friendly, preparing to begin a just-us-girls chat. “Listen, ladies, I don’t know what went down in the park that night. Maybe Rocky was high out of his mind. Maybe he tried to hurt you and you fought back a little too hard. If that’s the case, it would be in both of your best interests to come forward.”

She pulls back, friend time over. The bracelet scrapes across the table as she grabs her notebook again.

“I even get why you might not want to do that. The man’s in a coma. That’s a serious situation. But I swear I won’t judge you. Not until I have the full story.” Hernandez consults her notes, looks to Sam. “Miss Stone, I’ll even overlook your past brushes with the law.”

To her credit, Sam doesn’t react. Her face is a mask of calm. But I can tell she’s seeking out my reaction. My lack of one tells her everything she needs to know.

“I just want to be clear that none of those things will in any way affect your treatment,” Hernandez says. “Should one of you decide to turn yourself in, of course.”

“We won’t,” Sam says.

“Take some time to think about it.” Across the table, Hernandez stands and tucks the notebook under her arm, bracelet singing. “Talk it over. But don’t take too long. The more you wait, the worse it will get. Oh, and if one of you did, you know, happen to do it, you better pray Rocky Ruiz comes out of that coma. Because if I find myself with an involuntary manslaughter in my lap, all bets are off.”

•••

“We’re not saying anything,” Sam announces once Hernandez leaves.

“We have to,” I say.

The two of us remain in the dining room, trapped in a heady, unbearable stillness. Sunlight slants through the window, illuminating the dust motes swirling just off the table’s surface. Not daring to look at each other, we watch them like people awaiting a storm. All raw nerves and unspoken dread.

“Actually, we don’t,” Sam says. “She’s grasping. She’s got nothing on us. It’s not illegal to sit in Central Park at night.”

“Sam, there were witnesses.”

“A homeless man and a gigolo who saw nothing.”

“If we tell the truth now, she’ll take it easy on us. She understands.”

Even I don’t believe this. Detective Hernandez has no intention of helping us. She’s just a very smart woman doing her job.

“Jesus,” Sam says. “She was lying, Quinn.”

The silence resumes. We watch the dust motes dance.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in Indiana?” I say.

Sam finally looks my way. Her face is foreign, unreadable. “You don’t want to go there, babe. Trust me.”

“I need answers,” I say. “I need the truth.”

“The only truth you need to know is that what happened in the park is all on you. I’m just trying to save your ass.”

“By lying?”

“By keeping your secrets,” Sam says. “I know too much about you now. More than you think.”

She pushes away from the table. The movement prompts a rush of questions from me, each one more pleading than the last.

“Did you meet Lisa? Were you at her house? What else aren’t you telling me?”

Sam turns away, dark hair whipping outward, her face a blur. It unlocks a memory of a similar sight. So faint it’s more like a memory of a memory.

“Sam, please—”

She leaves the dining room in silence. A moment later, the front door closes behind her.

I remain seated, too tired to move, too worried that if I try to stand, I’ll simply drop to the floor. The way Sam looked when she left replays in my head, gnawing at my memory. I’ve seen it before. I know I have.

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