Final Girls(70)

“What do you mean?”

It’s a stupid question. I already know what he means. The big lie that Sam’s been telling me. That Jonah has information I don’t annoys me to no end.

“Just tell me what you know, Jonah.”

“I’d like to, Quincy,” he says, again scratching his head. “I really would. But good journalists don’t readily share what they know with sources who aren’t cooperative. I mean, if you really want me to give you some top-secret intel, I’d need a little something in return.”

More than ever, I want to leave. I know it’s what I should do. Tell Jonah to leave me alone and then head home for a much-needed nap. Yet I also need to know just how much Sam’s been lying to me. One overrules the other.

“Tina Stone,” I say.

“Who’s that?”

“Samantha Boyd’s name. She had it legally changed years ago, to avoid people like you. That’s how she was able to keep a low profile all those years. Samantha Boyd technically no longer exists.”

“Thank you, Quincy,” Jonah says. “I think I’ll do some digging into the life of Tina Stone.”

“You’ll tell me what you find out.”

It’s not a question. Jonah acknowledges that with a terse nod.

“Of course.”

“Now it’s your turn,” I say. “Tell me what you know.”

“It concerns that article I swore I’d never mention again. Specifically the photos that ran with it.”

“What about them?”

Jonah takes a deep breath and raises his hands, proclaiming his innocence before saying a word. “Remember, I’m just the messenger,” he finally says. “Please don’t kill me.”





CHAPTER 25


Sam’s in the kitchen, apron on, pretending to be Betty Fucking Crocker. Pretending to be anything other than a devious bitch. When I enter, she’s hovering over a mixing bowl, whisking eggs into a snowy pile of sugar and flour.

“We need to talk,” I say.

Her eyes never leave the bowl. “Just give me a minute.”

I rush to her. In a flash, the bowl is off the counter and slamming against the floor. A line of cake batter traces its descent, trailing from the countertop, down the cupboard beneath it and across the floor to the bowl itself.

“What the fuck, Quinn?” Sam says.

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking, Sam. What the fuck?”

She leans against the counter and looks at me warily. And then she understands. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“How much did he tell you?”

“Everything.”

I know it all. How she went to Jonah’s newsroom the day after news of Lisa’s death broke. How she told him who she was and that she was in New York to see me. How she asked if he wanted the photo op of a lifetime.

“You knew he was still there when you introduced yourself,” I say. “You planned it that way. You wanted us to be on the front page.”

Sam doesn’t move, her boots planted on the kitchen floor, a slow sludge of cake batter pooling around one of them.

“Yeah,” she says. “So?”

I grab a nearby spatula and fling it across the room. It hits the wall next to the window, a blotch of cake batter sticking to the paint after it falls. It doesn’t make me feel better.

“Do you realize how stupid that was? People saw those pictures, Sam. Lots of them. Strangers now know who we are. They know where I live.”

“I did it for you,” Sam says.

I slam my hand against the cabinet door. I don’t want to hear any of it. “Shut up.”

“Honest. I thought it would help you.”

“Shut up!”

Sam flinches, her drawn-on brows rising into startled arches. “I need you to know why I did it.”

There’s a carton of eggs sitting just to my right, a half-dozen remaining. I pick one up.

“Shut—”

The egg goes flying toward Sam’s head. She ducks out of its path, the egg exploding against the cupboard behind her.

“—the—”

I toss another. Like a grenade. A quick flick of the wrist. When it joins the bowl on the floor, I grab two more, flinging them in quick succession.

“—fuck—up!”

Both eggs hit Sam’s apron. Chaotic detonations of yellow slime that push her against the counter, more from surprise than velocity. I reach for the others but Sam rushes forward, unsteady across the slick tile. She yanks the carton away, sending the remaining eggs smashing to the floor.

“Will you just let me explain?” she shouts.

“I already know why you did it!” I shout back. “You wanted me to get angry! And I almost killed a man! Is that angry enough for you? What else do you want me to do?”

Sam grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me. “I want you to wake up! You’ve been hiding all these years.”

“You should talk. I’m not the one who vanished. I’m not the one who hasn’t even told her mother she’s still alive.”

“I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then what do you mean, Sam? I wish that for once you’d make some sense. I’ve tried to understand you, but I can’t.”