Final Girls(72)

I remember him. The handsome guy in leather. The mention of him makes me anxious, with good reason. Sam spoke to him. He saw our faces.

“He identified those two women for me,” Hernandez says. “The two of you.”

“How would he know that?” Sam says.

“He recognized you from the newspaper. I’m assuming the two of you know you were front page news the other day.”

I keep my hands on my knees, where Hernandez can’t see them. Both are balled into nervous fists. The more she talks, the tighter I squeeze.

“I remember him,” I say. “He came up to us while we were sitting in the park.”

“At one a.m.?”

“Is that illegal?” Sam asks.

“No. Just unusual.” Detective Hernandez cocks her head at us. “Especially considering that you were there two nights in a row.”

My forearms ache as my fists stay clenched in my lap. I try to relax them one finger at a time.

“We told you why we were there,” I say.

“Out drinking, right?” Hernandez says. “That’s what you were doing the night Mario the Gigolo saw you, too.”

“Yes,” I say, chirping out the word.

Sam and I look at each other. Hernandez jots something down in her notebook, makes a show of crossing it out, writes something else.

“Fair enough,” she says. “Now, let’s talk about this second witness.”

“Another man-whore?” Sam asks.

Detective Hernandez is not amused. She frowns at Sam, saying, “A homeless man. He spoke to one of the cops canvassing the park about Rocky Ruiz. He says he saw two women at that fancy pool where kids sail their boats. That place was in a book, I think. I read it to my kids. Something about a mouse?”

“Stuart Little,” I say, unsure why.

“That’s it. Nice place. That homeless man sure thinks so. He sleeps on a bench near there when the weather is nice. But on the night Rocky was assaulted, he said he was chased away by those two women. They caught him watching as one of them washed her hands in the water. He said it looked like one of them was bleeding.”

I don’t dare ask if he described these women. Clearly, he has.

“The two of you match the description he gave us,” Hernandez says. “So I’m just going to take a wild guess and assume it really was you. Would either of you like to explain what was going on there?”

She folds her hands atop the table, bracelet hand on top. Under the table, my fists have become rocks. Nuggets of coal being squeezed into diamonds. The pressure splits one of the scabs on my knuckles. A trickle of blood slips between my fingers.

“It was exactly what it looked like,” I say, spinning the lie with no thought. It just comes out of my mouth. “I tripped when we were crossing the park. Scraped my hand up real good. It was bleeding pretty hard, so we went to the pool so I could rinse it off.”

“Was this before or after the purse was stolen?”

“Before,” I say.

Hernandez stares me down, her gaze hard. Beneath the neat hair and tailored blazer is one tough cookie. She probably had to work hard to get where she is. More than the men, that’s for damn sure. I bet they all underestimated her.

Yet so have I, and now here we are.

“That’s interesting,” she says. “Our homeless friend didn’t mention seeing a purse.”

“We—”

For some reason, I stop myself. The lie disappears like a pinch of salt melting on my tongue.

Hernandez leans forward, almost friendly, preparing to begin a just-us-girls chat. “Listen, ladies, I don’t know what went down in the park that night. Maybe Rocky was high out of his mind. Maybe he tried to hurt you and you fought back a little too hard. If that’s the case, it would be in both of your best interests to come forward.”

She pulls back, friend time over. The bracelet scrapes across the table as she grabs her notebook again.

“I even get why you might not want to do that. The man’s in a coma. That’s a serious situation. But I swear I won’t judge you. Not until I have the full story.” Hernandez consults her notes, looks to Sam. “Miss Stone, I’ll even overlook your past brushes with the law.”

To her credit, Sam doesn’t react. Her face is a mask of calm. But I can tell she’s seeking out my reaction. My lack of one tells her everything she needs to know.

“I just want to be clear that none of those things will in any way affect your treatment,” Hernandez says. “Should one of you decide to turn yourself in, of course.”

“We won’t,” Sam says.

“Take some time to think about it.” Across the table, Hernandez stands and tucks the notebook under her arm, bracelet singing. “Talk it over. But don’t take too long. The more you wait, the worse it will get. Oh, and if one of you did, you know, happen to do it, you better pray Rocky Ruiz comes out of that coma. Because if I find myself with an involuntary manslaughter in my lap, all bets are off.”

“We’re not saying anything,” Sam announces once Hernandez leaves.

“We have to,” I say.

The two of us remain in the dining room, trapped in a heady, unbearable stillness. Sunlight slants through the window, illuminating the dust motes swirling just off the table’s surface. Not daring to look at each other, we watch them like people awaiting a storm. All raw nerves and unspoken dread.