Final Girls(94)

“Come on!” he shouted at Quincy.

But a fourth scream lured her forward, to the deck’s top step, the toes of her shoes peeking over the edge. Behind her, Craig tried to get inside, blocked by the others pushing their way out.

“What was that?” asked Amy, fear slashing her voice.

“Where’s Janelle?” asked Betz.

“Dead!” Craig yelled. “She’s dead!”

But she wasn’t. Quincy still heard her choked breaths hissing in the night. Footfalls as quiet as cat’s paws stumbled through the woods.

Janelle appeared suddenly, materializing like one of her Indian ghosts along the tree line behind the cabin. She didn’t stand so much as hover, only the instinct of standing keeping her upright. Dark blooms of red dotted her dress at her shoulder, chest, stomach.

Both hands were at her neck, one clamped tightly over the other. Blood streamed from beneath her palms—a crimson waterfall running down her chest.

That’s when the fear struck.

A gut-tightening, body-stilling fear that left the others motionless at the back door.

Only Quincy managed to move, the fear pushing her forward, off the deck, into grass just starting to gather frost. It crunched under her feet as she moved to Janelle. Cold wetness seeped into her shoes.

Then she was at Janelle, reaching out, catching her as she drooped forward. Janelle’s hands fell away from her neck, exposing the wide slash across it. Blood poured from the wound, hot and sticky, all over Quincy’s white dress.

Quincy covered the gash with her hands. The pumping blood tickled her palms. Then Janelle’s body went slack, the weight shifting onto Quincy, making her twist onto her knees. Soon she was seated on the ground, Janelle a rag doll in her lap, staring at her with wide, terror-struck eyes as her breath rattled.

“Help!” Quincy screamed, even though she already knew Janelle was beyond help. “Help! Please!”

The others remained on the deck. Amy curled against Rodney, the hem of her nightgown flapping. Betz began to sob uncontrollably, the sound rising and falling. Only Craig looked at them. Quincy felt like he could see into her very heart. Like he knew every one of her awful, awful secrets.

She stared at him, seeing a new rush of fear in his eyes.

“Quincy! Run!”

But Quincy couldn’t. Not with Janelle still dying in her arms. Not even when she felt a new presence in their midst. Something vile, seething hate.

He was upon them before she could turn around to look. Fingers dug into her hair, collecting a handful, yanking hard. Pain shimmered through her as she was whipped around, seeing what the others saw.

A figure looming.

A knife charging.

A silvery flash.

The stabs arrived almost simultaneously, one right after the other. Two sharp strikes of pain in her shoulder. Hot ones. Searing through skin and muscle. Nicking bone.

Quincy didn’t scream. It hurt too much. The pain screamed through her instead.

She slumped over, Janelle rolling from her lap. They lay together on the ground, face to face, Quincy staring into Janelle’s dead eyes. Blood pooled in the grass between them, melting the frost, steaming slightly.

He was still there. Quincy heard the even rhythm of his breathing.

A hand touched her hair again. Not pulling. Caressing.

“There, there,” he said.

Quincy saw him on the far edge of her vision, still a shadow. And as she waited for that final bite of the knife, he began to move.

Past her.

Past what had once been Janelle.

On his way back to Pine Cottage.

It was the last thing Quincy saw before pain and grief and fear overwhelmed her. Black clouds rolled across her vision, blurring the world. She closed her eyes, welcoming oblivion, letting the darkness take over.





CHAPTER 37


Jonah begs me to let him come back to the apartment with me, but I won’t allow it. He says it’s too dangerous, and he’s right. Yet his presence would only complicate things. This needs to be between me and Sam.

Or Tina.

Or whoever the fuck she is.

Once again, I practice caution when entering the apartment. And once again, I wish that she isn’t there.

But she is. In the foyer, I hear the steady flow of water coming from the hallway bathroom. Sam is in the shower. I go to the bathroom door and hover there until I hear noises from the other side. A cough from Sam. A clearing of her cigarette-agitated throat. The shower continues to flow.

I hurry into Sam’s room, where her knapsack still leans in the corner. I can’t open it. My hands are shaking too much.

I take some deep breaths, aching for a Xanax despite knowing I need a clear head. Yet addiction wins out, pulling me into the kitchen long enough to pop a single Xanax into my mouth. I then take several gulps of grape soda, continuing to drink long after the pill has slipped down my throat.

Properly fortified, it’s back to Sam’s room. My hands are steadier now, and the knapsack opens with ease. I root through it, pulling out stolen clothes, black T-shirts, an array of worn bras and panties. A bottle of Wild Turkey emerges—a fresh one, still unopened. It clunks to the floor and rolls against my knees.

Inside the knapsack, I swat against items that have slid to the bottom. A brush, deodorant, an empty pill bottle. I check the label. Ambien. Not anitrophylin.

I find the iPhone Sam took from my secret drawer. The same phone I had stolen from the cafe. It has a hair’s breadth of battery life left.