Final Girls(68)

“You’re worrying me,” he says. “Tell me what’s going on.”

But I can’t. That’s the most twisted part about all of this. I can’t tell Coop my suspicions about Sam without also mentioning the terrible thing I’ve done. They’re intertwined, one inseparable from the other.

“That’s not a good idea,” I say.

“Do you need me to drive out there?”

“No. I just wanted to hear your voice. And to see if you had any advice for me.”

Coop clears his throat. “It’s hard to give advice when I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Please,” I say.

There’s a moment of silence on Coop’s end. I picture him sliding out of bed and slipping into his uniform, getting ready to come here and help whether I want him to or not. Eventually, he says, “All I can tell you is that if you’re in a bad situation, the best thing to do is try to deal with it head on.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Quincy, you’re stronger than you think.”

“I’m not,” I say.

“You’re a miracle and you don’t even know it,” Coop says. “Most girls in your situation would have died that night at Pine Cottage. But not you.”

My mind flashes back to that scary and tantalizing memory I had in the park. Him. Crouched on the floor of Pine Cottage. Why did that image, of all things, return to me?

“Only because you saved me,” I say.

“No,” Coop tells me. “You were already in the process of saving yourself. So no matter what you’ve gotten yourself into, I know you have the power to get yourself out of it.”

I nod, even though I know he can’t see it. I do it because I think it would make him happy if he could.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Never feel sorry for reaching out to me,” Coop says. “It’s what I’m here for.”

I know that. And I’m grateful beyond words.

I stay where I am once Coop hangs up, the phone still in my grip. I stare at it, squinting at the glow, watching the clock at the top of the screen tick off one minute, then another. After eleven more minutes come and go, I know what I need to do, even though the very idea makes me sick to my stomach.

So I search my phone for one of the texts Jonah Thompson sent me. I text back, my fingers fighting every tap.

ready to talk. bryant park. 11:30 sharp





CHAPTER 24


Late-morning.

Bryant Park.

A lull before the impending lunchtime crowds. A few office workers have already started to trickle in from adjacent buildings, sneaking away from their cubicles early. I watch them from my seat in the shadow of the New York Public Library, jealous of their camaraderie, their carefree lives.

It’s a clear morning, although still on the chilly side. The leaves that canopy the walkways have turned a dusty gold. Surrounding the trees are patches of ivy already girding for winter.

I spot Jonah on the other side of the park—a head of shining hair bouncing through the crowd. He’s dressed as if arriving for a first date. Checked shirt. Sport coat with pocket square. Burgundy chinos with rolled cuffs. No socks despite the fact that October’s shivery side has settled in. What a hipster douchebag.

I’m wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday, having been too tired to pick out something fresh. The call to Coop had calmed me enough to get some sleep, but even five or six hours wasn’t enough to erase the deprivation from earlier in the week.

When Jonah sees me, he smiles and says, “A co-worker and I bet ten dollars over whether you’d come or not.”

“Congrats,” I say. “You just won ten dollars.”

Jonah shakes his head. “My money was on a no-show.”

“Well, I’m here.”

I don’t even try to sound pleased. I sound like someone with either a serious sleeping problem or a massive headache. In reality, I have both. The headache sits just behind my eyes, making me squint Jonah’s way as he says, “So now what?”

“Now you have one minute to convince me to stay.”

“Fine,” he says, looking at his watch. “But before the clock starts, I have a question.”

“Of course you do.”

Jonah scratches his head, his hair immobile. He must spend hours grooming. Like a cat, I think. Or those monkeys forever plucking things from their fur.

“Do you even remotely remember me?” he asks.

I remember him staking out the sidewalk outside my building. I remember barfing at his feet. I certainly remember him telling me the true, horrible nature of Lisa Milner’s death. But other than that, I have no recollection of Jonah Thompson, which he deduces from my lack of a speedy answer.

“You don’t,” he says.

“Should I?”

“We went to college together, Quincy. I was in your psych class.”

Now that’s a surprise, mostly because it means Jonah is a good five years older than I first thought. Or else he’s sorely mistaken.

“Are you sure” I say.

“Positive,” he says. “Tamburro Hall. I sat one row behind you. Not that there was assigned seating or anything.”

I do remember the classroom in Tamburro Hall. It was a drafty half-circle that sloped sharply to ground level. The rows of seats were arranged stadium style, with the knees of the person behind you mere inches from the back of your head. After the first week, everyone more or less sat in the same spot every class. Mine was near the back, slightly to the left.