CHAPTER 12
Our picture takes up most of the front page, filling it all the way to the masthead. The image shows Sam and me during our first meeting, standing outside my building, sizing each other up. It captures me at my very worst—with my weight shifted to my right leg, hip jutting, arms crossed in suspicion. Sam’s positioned slightly away from the camera, with just a slice of her pale profile visible. Her knapsack is still settling at my feet and her mouth yawns open as she speaks. I recall that moment with cutting exactitude. It was right before Sam started to say, You don’t need to be such a bitch.
The headline sits below the photo in large, red letters. SOUL SURVIVORS.
Beneath it is a photo of Lisa Milner, similar to the one on her book cover. Next to it is a headline smaller in size but no less alarming.
Final Girls meet after suicide of kill spree victim Lisa Milner.
I look to the masthead again. It’s the same tabloid that reporter idling outside my building yesterday said he works for. His name lurches into my head. Jonah Thompson. That devious prick. He must have still been there, probably spying on us while scrunched in the front seat of a parked car, camera poised on the dashboard.
I snatch the newspaper from the autograph hound and start to walk away.
“Hey!” he says.
I keep walking, tripping down Fifth Avenue. Even though my legs are wobbly from Xanax, my muscles yearn for another. And then another. As many as it takes to plunge me into oblivion for a few days. Which still wouldn’t be enough to snuff out my anger.
I flip through the newspaper as I walk. Inside it is a bigger photograph of Lisa and a series of shots detailing the first conversation between Sam and me, all taken from the same angle. I look gradually less angry in those pictures, my stance and expression softening. As for the actual article, I can barely make it through the first two paragraphs.
“What does it say?” Sam asks as she hurries to keep up.
“That we’re both in the city, united by Lisa’s sudden suicide.”
“Well, it’s kind of the truth.”
“And it’s no one’s goddamn business but ours. Which is exactly what I’m going to say to Jonah Thompson.”
I toss through the newspaper until I find the address of its newsroom. West 47th Street. Two blocks south and one block west. I surge forward, fueled only by rage. I go two steps before realizing that Sam hasn’t moved. She stands on the corner, nibbling at her cuticles while watching my retreat.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Sam shakes her head.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not a good idea.”
“Says the woman who just encouraged me to shoplift.” This turns the heads of several people passing by. I don’t care. “I’m still going.”
“Whatever cranks your chain, babe.”
“You’re really not pissed off about this?”
“Sure, I’m pissed.”
“Then we should do something about it.”
“It won’t make any difference,” Sam says. “We’ll still be on the front page.”
More heads turn. I scowl at those who meet my gaze. Then I scowl at Sam, frustrated by her lack of anger. I want the Sam from an hour ago, urging me to embrace my rage, but she’s been replaced by someone made mellow by the same Xanax that surges through me.
“I’m still going,” I say.
“Don’t,” Sam says.
I start walking again, anger pushing me forward. I call to Sam over my shoulder, my words stretching into a taunt. “I’m go-ing.”
“Quinn, wait.”
But it’s too late for that. I’ve reached the other end of the block and am crossing the street against the light. I think I hear Sam still calling after me, her voice blending into the din of the city. I keep going, newspaper in my fist, refusing to stop until I’m face to face with Jonah Thompson.
There’s no getting past the security desk. It sits just inside the lobby, mere feet from the busy bank of elevators. I could make a run for the constantly opening and closing doors, but the guard on duty is a full foot taller than me. He’d be able to cross that lobby in a flash, blocking my path.
So I march right up to him, rolled newspaper in hand, and announce, “I’m here to see Jonah Thompson.”
“Name?”
“Quincy Carpenter.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No,” I say. “But I know he’ll want to see me.”
The guard checks a directory, makes a call and tells me to wait by the mural positioned opposite the elevators. It’s a massive Art Deco thing. A Manhattan skyline, painted in muted tones. I’m still looking at it when a voice sounds at my back.
“Quincy,” Jonah Thompson says. “You change your mind about talking?”
I whirl around, the sight of him boiling my blood. He’s wearing a checked shirt and skinny tie, trendy and smug. A bulging file folder is tucked under one arm. Probably dirt on his next victim.
“I’m here to get an apology, you son of a bitch.”
“You’ve seen the paper.”
“And now the whole goddamn city can see where I live,” I say, waving said paper in his face.
He blinks behind his thick-framed glasses, more amused than alarmed. “Neither the article nor the photo captions mention where you live. I made sure of that. I didn’t even name the street.”
“No, but you showed us. You identified who we are. Now the whole world can Google our names and see what Samantha Boyd and I look like. Which means any psycho can show up and stalk us.”
This he hasn’t thought of. The slight whitening of his face makes that abundantly clear.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Of course you didn’t. You were just thinking about how many papers you’ll sell. What kind of raise you’ll get. How much the inevitable offer from TMZ will be.”
“That’s not the reason—”
“I could sue you,” I say, interrupting again. “Sam and I both could. So you better pray that nothing happens to us.”
Jonah gives a hard swallow. “So you came here to tell me you’re going to sue the paper?”
“I’m here to warn you that there’ll be hell to pay if I ever see another article about me or Samantha Boyd. What happened to us was years ago. Let it rest.”
“There’s something you need to know about that article,” Jonah says.
“You can shove that article up your ass.”
I move to leave but he grabs my arm, tugging me backward.
“Don’t touch me, you prick!”
Jonah’s stronger than he looks, his grip alarmingly tight. I try to get free, arm twisting, elbow aching.
“Just listen to me,” he says. “It’s about Samantha Boyd. She’s lying to you.”
“Let me go!”
I give him a shove. Harder than I intend. Hard enough to get the attention of the guard, who barks, “Miss, you need to leave.”
As if I don’t know that. As if I’m not aware that the longer I stay in Jonah’s presence, the angrier I get. So angry that when Jonah moves toward me again, I give him another shove, this time intentionally harder than the first.
He rocks backward and the folder drops from his arm. It flaps open on the way down, spitting out its contents. Dozens of newspaper clippings fan out across the floor, their headlines shouting variations of the same story.
Pine Cottage. Massacre. Survivor. Killer.
Low-quality photos accompany most of the articles. To someone else, they’d mean nothing. Copies of copies, all pixels and smudges and Rorschach blots. Only I can see them for what they really are. Exterior shots of Pine Cottage, taken both before and after the murders. Yearbook photos of Janelle, Craig, the others. A picture of me. The same one that graced the cover of People against my wishes.
He’s there, too. His image is in a separate box right next to mine. I haven’t seen that face in ten years. Not since that night. I shut my eyes, but it’s too late. That single glimpse breaks something loose inside me, not far from where His knife went in. A croak belches from my throat, followed by a sick rattling as that broken chunk of myself pushes upward, black and bilious and thick.
“I’m going to throw up,” I warn.
And so I do, spewing onto the floor until every single article there is covered.