Final Girls(24)

In the dining room, we find the table unoccupied, Sam’s chair pushed away from it. She’s not in the kitchen, either. Or the living room. In the foyer, the spot by the door where her knapsack sat is now an empty patch of floor.

Once again, Samantha Boyd has vanished.





CHAPTER 9


My phone rings at three a.m., yanking me from a nightmare of running through a forest. Running from Him. Tripping and screaming, tree branches reaching out to circle my wrists. I’m still running even after I wake, my legs thrashing beneath the covers. The phone keeps ringing—an urgent beep slicing the silence of the room. Jeff, the heaviest of sleepers, trained only to wake to the Pavlovian bell of his alarm clock, doesn’t stir. To keep it that way, I cover the screen when I grab the phone, blocking its glow. I peek through my fingers, in search of the caller’s identity.

Unknown.

“Hello?” I whisper as I slide out of bed and rush to the door.

“Quincy?”

It’s Sam, her voice hard to hear over the din surrounding her. There’s chatter and yelling and the harried clack of fingers on keyboards.

“Sam?” I’m in the hallway now, eyes bleary in the darkness, brain swimming in a soup of confusion. “Where did you disappear to? Why are you calling me so late?”

“I’m sorry. I really am. But something’s happened.”

I think she’s going to say something about Him. Most likely because of the nightmare, which lingers sticky on my skin. Like drying perspiration. I brace myself to hear her tell me that He’s resurfaced, as I always knew He would. It doesn’t matter that He’s dead. That I gladly watched Him die.

Instead, Sam says, “I need your help.”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I was sort of arrested.”

“What?”

The word echoes down the hallway, waking Jeff. From the bedroom, I hear the squeak of the mattress as he bolts upright and calls my name.

On the phone, Sam says, “Please come get me. Central Park Precinct. Bring Jeff.”

She hangs up before I get the chance to ask her how she knew my phone number.

Jeff and I take a cab to the precinct, which is situated just south of the reservoir. I’ve jogged past it dozens of times, always slightly confused by its mix of old and new. It consists of low-slung brick buildings, around since the park’s birth, bisected by a modern atrium that glows from within. Every time I see it, I think of a snow globe. A Dickensian village encased in glass.

Inside, I ask to see Samantha Boyd. The desk sergeant on duty is a ruddy-faced Irishman with love handles jiggling under his uniform. He checks the computer and says, “We haven’t brought in anyone by that name, miss.”

“But she told me she was here.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Twenty minutes,” I say as I adjust the half-tucked blouse bunched at my waist. Jeff and I dressed in a hurry, with me throwing on the same clothes I had worn that afternoon. Jeff slipped into jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, his hair jutting off his head in wild thatches.

Officer Love Handles frowns at the computer. “I’ve got nothing.”

“Maybe she’s already been released,” Jeff says, all but announcing his wishful thinking. “Is that a possibility?”

“She’d still be in the system. Maybe she gave you the wrong precinct. Or maybe you misheard her.”

“It was this one,” I tell him. “I’m sure of it.”

I scan the open expanse of the precinct. High-ceilinged and bright, it looks more like a modern train depot than a police station. There’s a sleek staircase, state-of-the-art lighting, the staccato click of footsteps on the polished floors.

“Have any women been brought in recently?” Jeff asks.

“One,” the desk sergeant says, still studying the computer. “Thirty-five minutes ago.”

“What’s her name?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

I look to Jeff, hopeful. “It could be her.” I then look to the desk sergeant, pleading. “Can we see her?”

“That’s not really allowed.”

Jeff pulls out his wallet and flashes his work ID. He explains, in his unfailingly polite way, that he’s a public defender, that we’re not here to cause trouble, that a friend of ours claimed to be in police custody at this precinct.

“Please?” I say to the desk sergeant. “I’m worried about her.”

He relents and passes us into the care of another officer, this one bigger, stronger, devoid of love handles. He guides us into the heart of the precinct. The room gives off a jittery, caffeinated vibe. All that institutional lighting brightening what’s technically the dead of night. Sam is there, after all, cuffed to a booking desk.

“That’s her,” I tell our escort. He grabs my arm when I try to surge forward, keeping me in place. I call her name. “Sam!”

The cop at the booking desk stands, asks her a question. I can read his lips. Do you know that woman?

When Sam nods, the cop holding me back gently walks me to her, his hand like a vise on my arm. He lets go once I’m within arm’s length of Sam’s booking officer.

“Sam?” I say. “What happened?”