Final Girls(73)

“Actually, we don’t,” Sam says. “She’s grasping. She’s got nothing on us. It’s not illegal to sit in Central Park at night.”

“Sam, there were witnesses.”

“A homeless man and a gigolo who saw nothing.”

“If we tell the truth now, she’ll take it easy on us. She understands.”

Even I don’t believe this. Detective Hernandez has no intention of helping us. She’s just a woman doing her job.

“Jesus,” Sam says. “She was lying, Quinn.”

The silence resumes. We watch the dust motes dance.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in Indiana?” I say.

Sam finally looks my way. Her face is foreign, unreadable. “You don’t want to go there, babe. Trust me.”

“I need answers,” I say. “I need the truth.”

“The only truth you need to know is that what happened in the park is all on you. I’m just trying to save your ass.”

“By lying?”

“By keeping your secrets,” Sam says. “I know too much about you now. More than you think.”

She pushes away from the table. The movement prompts a rush of questions from me, each one more pleading than the last.

“Did you meet Lisa? Were you at her house? What else aren’t you telling me?”

Sam turns away, dark hair whipping outward, her face a blur. It unlocks a memory of a similar sight. So faint it’s more like a memory of a memory.

“Sam, please—”

She leaves the dining room in silence. A moment later, the front door closes behind her.

I remain seated, too tired to move, too worried that if I try to stand, I’ll simply drop to the floor. The way Sam looked when she left replays in my head, gnawing at my memory. I’ve seen it before. I know I have.

Suddenly I remember, which sends me hurrying to my laptop. I log on to Facebook, seeking out Lisa’s profile. More condolences fill her page. Hundreds of them. I ignore them and head to the pictures Lisa had posted, quickly finding the one I’m looking for—Lisa lifting a bottle of wine with a happy glow.

Wine time! LOL!

I study the woman in the background of the photo. The dark blur that had so fascinated me the first time I saw it. I stare at the picture, as if I can will the image into focus. The best I can do is squint, trying to make my vision as blurry as the object in the photo and hope they balance each other into clarity. It works to an extent. A white smudge emerges in the far edge of the dark blur. Within that smudge is a drop of red.

Lipstick.

Sam’s lipstick.

As bright as blood.

Seeing it makes my body hum with an internal acceleration. I feel like I’ve been strapped to a bottle rocket, hurtling through the ozone, streaking sparks until we both explode.





CHAPTER 27


The kitchen is cleaned and my bags are packed by the time Jeff gets home from work. One suitcase. One carry-on. He stands in the doorway to our bedroom, blinking, as if I’m a mirage.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going with you,” I say.

“To Chicago?”

“I bought my ticket online. Same flight, although we can’t sit together.”

“You sure?” Jeff asks.

“It was your idea.”

“True. It’s just very sudden. And what about Sam?”

“You said yourself that we can leave her alone for a few days,” I say. “She’s not a dog, remember?”

In truth, I hope she’ll be gone when we return. Quietly. Without fuss. A scorpion in such a hurry to get away that it forgets to sting.

Jeff, meanwhile, looks around the bedroom as if for the last time and says, “Let’s hope there’s something left when we get back.”

“I’ll take care of that,” I say.

Sam doesn’t return until late in the night, long after Jeff and I have gone to bed. Before we leave for the airport in the morning, I knock on the door to her room. After several knocks and no answer, I crack open the door and peer inside. Sam’s in bed, comforter pulled to her chin. The blanket ripples as she thrashes beneath it.

“No,” she moans. “Please don’t.”

I rush to the bed and shake her by the shoulders, barely getting out of the way before she bolts upright, wide awake.

“What’s going on?” she says.

“A nightmare,” I say. “You were having a nightmare.”

Sam stares at me, making sure I’m not part of the bad dream. She looks like a woman just rescued from drowning—red-faced and damp. Hair sticks to her sweat-soaked cheeks in long, dark strands that resemble seaweed. She even does a little shake, as if trying to flick away excess water.

“Whoa,” she says. “That was a bad one.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, tempted to ask her what she was dreaming about. Was it Calvin Whitmer and his sack-covered face? Or was it something else? Maybe Lisa, bleeding out in the bathtub. But Sam keeps looking at me, knowing something is about to happen.

“Jeff and I are going away for a few days,” I say.

“Where?”

“Chicago.”

“Are you kicking me out? I can’t afford a hotel.”

“I know,” I say, keeping my tone calm and even. Nothing I say can upset her. That’s vital. “You can stay here while we’re gone. Kind of like a house sitter. Maybe do some baking, if you feel like it.”