Final Girls(53)

Sam jerks her chin toward the purse still looped over my forearm. “That’s why we brought that.”

“When can we use it?”

She lifts one drawn-on brow and smiles in spite of herself. “Now, if you want.”

Quickly, we form a plan. Because I’m smaller and therefore an easier target, I’ll stroll through the park alone, the purse a tease dangling from my arm. Sam will follow at a discreet distance, staying off the path, where it’s less likely she’ll be noticed. If and when someone strikes, we’ll be ready to strike back.

It’s a solid plan. Only mildly reckless.

“I’m ready,” I say.

Sam points the way down the tree-shrouded path. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

At first, I walk too fast, the purse swinging as I tear down the path in a hurried gait that would give even the most experienced muggers second thoughts. I move so quickly that Sam has trouble keeping up. Looking over my shoulder, I glimpse her far in the distance, skirting around trees and hurrying over the grass.

After that, I force myself to slow down, reminding myself the aim is to look vulnerable and easy to catch. Also, I don’t want Sam to fall so far behind that she can’t rescue me if the need arises. Eventually I settle into a nice, even pace and head south along the path hugging the shore of Central Park Lake. I see no one. I hear nothing but the occasional car on Central Park West and the scuffing of my soles against the ground. To my right is a sliver of empty park bordered by high stone walls. On my left sits the lake, its placid surface reflecting a smattering of lights from buildings along the Upper West Side.

I’ve lost track of Sam, who’s still somewhere behind me, creeping through the darkness. I am alone, which doesn’t unnerve me as much as it should. I’ve been alone in the woods before. In situations more dangerous than this.

It takes me fifteen minutes to make a loop back to my starting point. I stand right where I began, my skin slimy with perspiration and two damp patches under my arms. Now is a rational time to find Sam and head back to the apartment, to bed, to Jeff.

But I’m not feeling rational. Not after the day I’ve had. A hollow ache has formed like hunger in my gut. My single pass through the park isn’t enough to make it go away. So I set off on a second one, again walking beside the lake.

This time, fewer lights reflect off the water’s surface. The city around me is winking to sleep one window at a time. When I reach Bow Bridge at the lake’s southern end, everything is darker. The night has swept me into its arms, wrapping me in shadows.

With that dark embrace comes something else. It’s a man, drifting through the park on a separate path fifty yards to my right. Immediately, I can tell he’s not one of the prowling men looking for sex. His walk is different, less confident. Head down and hands thrust into the pockets of his black jacket, his progress is more amble than walk. He’s trying hard to look inconspicuous and nonthreatening.

Yet he’s watching me. I notice how his Yankees cap keeps turning my way.

I slow down, taking half-steps, making sure he’ll be in front of me when our paths connect roughly twenty yards ahead. I long to check behind me and see if Sam has caught up, but I can’t. That might tip him off. A risk I need to avoid.

The man whistles as he walks. The nondescript trill cuts through the silence of the park, high-pitched and airy. I get the feeling he’s trying to put me at ease. An attempt, innocent or not, to get me to let my guard down.

Up ahead is the spot where our paths meet. I stop and mime rooting through the purse, making sure he notices. He has to. The purse is too big to miss. Yet he pretends not to see it, continuing his exaggerated stroll until he’s on the same path, just ahead of me. He keeps up the whistling, trying not to scare me, trying to get me moving again. The Pied Piper.

I start walking. One, two, three steps.

The whistling stops.

He does, too.

Suddenly he’s whirling around to face me. His pupils ping-pong around his sockets, crazed and dark. The eyes of an addict in need of a fix. On the surface, though, he’s hardly threatening. Gaunt cheeks. Body as thin as a broom handle. He’s practically the same height as me, maybe even shorter. The jacket gives him some girth, but it’s all show. He’s a featherweight.

The hardness of his face is amplified by the sweat slicking his high forehead and razorblade cheeks. His skin is as taut as a drum. He practically vibrates with hunger and desperation.

When he speaks, his voice is a sluggish mumble. “I don’t wanna bother you, okay? But I need some money. For food, you know?”

I say nothing. Stalling. Giving Sam enough time to get closer. If she’s even there.

“You hear what I’m sayin’, mama?”

The silence continues on my end. I leave everything up to him. He can leave. He can stay. If he does and causes trouble, Sam will certainly strike.

Maybe.

“I’m real hungry,” the man says, gaze flicking to my purse. “You got food in there? Some cash you can give?”

I look behind me at last, seeking out Sam’s approaching shadow.

She’s not there.

No one is.

It’s just me and the man and a purse that’ll make him really pissed if he looks inside and sees it’s stuffed with nothing but paperbacks. I should be scared. I should have been scared this entire time. But I’m not. Instead, I feel the opposite of fear.