Final Girls(31)

“Hey!” Craig called, stepping forward with his walking stick wielded like a weapon.

The stranger at the door—a man, Quincy now saw—spun around, startled.

He looked to be about their age. Maybe a couple years older. It was hard to tell because of his glasses, which reflected the dying light, obscuring his eyes. He was thin, almost gangly, with his long arms pressed stiffly against the sides of his beige cable-knit sweater. A dime-sized hole sat at the shoulder, the white T-shirt beneath it peeking through. His pants were green corduroy, scuffed at the knees and so loose around the waist that he had to crook an index finger through a belt loop to keep them from sagging.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you.” Hesitation streaked each word, as if he didn’t quite know how to talk. He spoke English the way a foreigner did, halting and formal. Quincy listened for a trace of an accent, not finding one. “I was looking to see if someone was here.”

“That would be us,” Craig said, taking another step forward, his bravery impressing Quincy, which just might have been his plan.

“Hello,” the stranger said, waving with the hand not hooked to his waist.

“Are you lost?” Janelle said, more curious than afraid.

“Sort of. My car broke down a few miles away. I’ve been walking all afternoon. Then I finally saw the driveway to this place and hoped someone here would be able to help me.”

Janelle broke away from the rest of them, emerging from the woods and crossing to the deck in three assured strides. The stranger flinched. For a moment, Quincy thought he was going to bolt, springing like a startled deer into the woods. But he stayed, keeping completely still as Janelle studied his shock of dark hair, his slightly crooked nose, the faintly sexy curve of his lips.

“All afternoon, huh?” she said.

“Most of it.”

“You must be tired.”

“A little.”

“You should come in and party with us.” Janelle shook his free hand as the index finger of his other one twisted around his belt loop. “I’m Janelle. These are my friends. It’s my birthday.”

“Happy birthday.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Joe.” The stranger gave her a nod, followed by a cautious smile. “Joe Hannen.”





CHAPTER 11


It’s past ten when I wake up. Jeff’s side of the bed has long been empty, the sheets there cool under my palm. In the hallway, I pause by the guest room. Although the door is open, I know Sam is still around. Her knapsack remains in the corner and the Wild Turkey still sits on the nightstand, only an inch of amber liquid remaining.

Noise bursts from the kitchen—drawers closing, pans banging. I find Sam there, a white apron tossed over a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a pair of black jeans.

My head hurts, less the product of Wild Turkey than the surreal circumstances in which it was consumed. Although the events of last night are hazy, I have no trouble recalling Sam’s repeated attempts to get me to say His name. I’m annoyed at both her and the memory.

Sam knows this. I can tell from the apologetic way she smiles when she sees me. From the mug filled with coffee she all but shoves into my hands. From the blueberry-scented warmth that drifts from the oven.

“You’re baking?”

Sam nods with pride. “Lemon-blueberry muffins. I found the recipe on your blog. I thought you might like some.”

“Should I be impressed?”

“Probably not,” Sam says. “Although I was hoping you’d be.”

Secretly, I am. No one has baked anything for me since my father died. Not even Jeff. Yet here’s Sam, eyeing the oven timer as it counts down to zero. I’m reluctantly touched.

Sam removes the muffins from the oven, not giving them nearly enough time to cool before flipping the pan. Muffins drop onto the counter in a spray of crumbs and blueberry sludge.

“How’d I do, Coach?” Sam asks, giving me a hopeful look.

I take a judgmental nibble. They’re slightly dry, which tells me she skimped on the butter. There’s also a severe lack of sugar, which suppresses the fruit. Rather than either lemon or blueberry, the muffin is the flavor of paste. I take a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. The bitter taste on my tongue bleeds into my words.

“We need to talk about last night—”

“I was a bitch,” Sam says. “You’re being all nice and I—”

“I don’t talk about Pine Cottage, Sam. It’s off limits, okay? I’m focused on the future. You should be, too.”

“Got it,” Sam says. “And I’d like to make it up to you somehow. If you let me stay longer, of course.”

She takes a deep breath, waiting for me to give her an answer. It might be an act. Part of me thinks she’s certain I’ll tell her she can stay. Just like she was certain I wouldn’t let her trudge away with her knapsack last night. Only I’m not certain about anything.

“It’ll only be for another day or two,” she says after I say nothing.

I take another sip of coffee, more for the caffeine than the taste. “Why are you really here?”

“Isn’t wanting to meet you enough?”

“It should be,” I say. “But it’s not your only reason. All these questions. All this prodding. And you so unwilling to talk about yourself.”