Final Girls(85)

She wondered how many others girls had been in the same position with him and if all of them had simply given in to the pressure. She hoped someone else had resisted. She hoped she wasn’t the only one.

“I didn’t lie to you, Quincy. So you’re going to have to come up with a better excuse than that for saying no.”

“But I’m not saying no,” Quincy said, suddenly backtracking, mad at herself for doing so. “I just thought—”

“That it would be candles and flowers and romance?”

“That it would mean something,” Quincy said. “Don’t I mean anything to you?”

Craig rolled off the bed, suddenly shy. He searched for his pants while stretching the bottom of his shirt over his crotch. It was all the answer Quincy needed. Still, she reached for him, trying to lure him back to bed before he could get fully dressed.

“This doesn’t have to be a problem,” she said. “I still want to spend the night together. Who knows what will happen.”

Despite her efforts, Craig found his pants on the floor next to the bed and started to stuff his legs into them. “Nothing is going to happen. I think you’ve made that very clear.”

“Please come back to bed. I just need to give it some more thought.”

“Think all you want.” Craig zipped his fly and headed for the door. “But I’m done thinking.”

Then he was gone, rejoining the party, leaving Quincy curled up in bed and crying. Large tears dripped onto the borrowed white dress, each one spreading, darkening the silk.





CHAPTER 32


It’s past midnight when I reach home. Rather than well-rested, my nap on the plane has made me drowsy and weak. My hands tremble as I unlock the door, partly from exhaustion, partly from uncertainty. I don’t know what’s awaiting me inside the apartment. I imagine opening the door to see the place stripped of every item we own, my post-dated check tossed onto the bare floor. And even that’s better than Sam waiting for me in the shadows of the foyer, knife raised.

I drop my bags just inside the door, freeing my hands in case I need to defend myself. But there’s no Sam gripping a knife. No Sam offering a glass of wine swimming with pills. A quick look around seems to confirm everything that was here before I left remains here still.

The apartment is dark and, from the feel of it, empty. The place has an air of abandonment, as if someone has only recently departed, leaving bits of their essence swirling like dust.

“Sam? It’s me.”

My heart begins to pound as I wait for a response that doesn’t arrive.

“I decided to come back early,” I call out as my chest fills with hope. “I caught a late flight.”

I roam the apartment, flicking on lights. Kitchen, dining room, living room. No trace of theft. No trace of Sam.

She’s gone. I’m certain of it. She’s skipped town, just as I had hoped. Taking her secrets with her and leaving mine.

I dig through my purse in search of my phone. I texted Jeff when I landed, telling him I’ve arrived safely and that I’ll call him when everything is over. Now it is over, and I’m in the hallway, phone in hand, about to hit dial.

That’s when I notice the door to the guest room is still closed. Light seeps from beneath the door, crossing my shoes as I stand in front of it. Music plays on the other side, muffled behind the wood.

My heart hits the floor.

Sam is still here.

“Sam?”

I reach for the doorknob. It’s loose in my hand, the door unlocked. Without hesitation, I swing it open and look inside.

The room is bathed in red and gold light. The red is from the nightstand lamp. The gold comes from several candles that sit beside it. Music plays from an old CD player that’s been pulled from the storage closet. Peggy Lee, purring out Fever.

In the soft half-light, I can make out Sam on the edge of the bed. At least I think it’s her. She looks so unlike her normal self that recognition is slow to arrive. She wears a dress far different from the grungy black one she first showed up in. This one is red, with capped sleeves, an A-line skirt, a scooped-neck that gives a tantalizing peek of cleavage. Matching heels are on her feet. Her hair is pulled up, exposing her pale neck.

She’s not alone.

A man sits beside her in a crisp black polo shirt and khakis. I have no trouble recognizing him.

Coop.

His hand is on Sam’s neck, caressing the pale skin just beneath her chin. Sam is touching him, too, her index finger riding the swell of his left bicep. They lean into each other, faces turned, on the verge of a kiss.

“What—”

What the fuck is going on?

That’s what I mean to say, but only the first word comes out. Sam drops her hand from his arm. Coop’s hand remains at her neck, his whole body stilled by surprise. I haven’t seen him so shocked since our first meeting outside Pine Cottage. He wears the same expression he did that night. It’s not as extreme, not as horrified. But it’s there. A slightly smudged copy of the original.

“Quincy,” he says. “I’m so—”

“Get out.”

He manages to stand and steps toward me. “I can explain.”

“Get out,” I say again, growling the words.

“But—”

“Get out!”