CHAPTER 23
Exhaustion catches up to me as soon as I return home. I get as far as the living room before collapsing face-first onto the sofa and plummeting into sleep. I awaken hours later, with Jeff kneeling beside me, nudging my shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, concern writ large on his face. “You okay?”
I sit up, eyes bleary, squinting at the late-afternoon sun pouring through the window. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Where’s Sam?”
“Out,” I say.
“Out?”
“Exploring the city. I think she’s getting tired of being cooped up here.”
Jeff gives me a peck on the lips. “A sentiment I know well. Which means we should go out, too.”
He tries hard to act like he came up with the idea on the spot, although I can easily detect his rehearsed eagerness. He’s been waiting for a Sam-free moment for days.
I agree, even though I don’t really want to go. Exhaustion and anxiety have caused my back, shoulders, and neck to ache. Then there’s the matter of my website, which is perilously close to careening off schedule. Responsible me would take an Advil and spend the evening doing some catch-up baking. But irresponsible me needs a diversion from the fact that I actually know nothing about Sam. Why she’s here. What she’s up to. Even who she really is.
I’ve invited a complete stranger into our home.
In the process, I’ve become a stranger myself. One who can beat someone to a pulp in Central Park and then lie to the police about it. One who used to be so content with Jeff but now itches to be alone.
Outside, the setting sun is at our backs. My shadow stretches before me, slender and dark. It occurs to me that I have more in common with that shadow than the woman creating it. I feel just as insubstantial. As if, once darkness arrives, I’ll dissolve until I vanish completely.
We end up walking a few blocks to a French bistro we claim to love but seldom patronize. And even though it’s chilly, we huddle at an outside table, Jeff in a second-hand Members Only jacket he wears ironically and me wrapped in a shawl-collared cardigan.
We refuse to talk about Sam. We refuse to talk about his case. That leaves little else to discuss as we pick at our ratatouille and cassoulet. I have no appetite to speak of. What little I eat has to be forced down. Each miniscule bite seems to lodge in my throat until I wash it down with wine. My glass is emptied at record speed.
When I reach for the carafe of house red, Jeff finally notices my hand.
“Whoa,” he says. “What happened there?”
Now would be the perfect time to tell Jeff everything. How I almost killed a man. How scared I am of getting caught. How I’m even more afraid of having another memory of Pine Cottage. How I know Sam was in Indiana at the time of Lisa’s death.
Instead, I plaster a smile on my face and do my best imitation of my mother. Nothing is wrong. I’m completely normal. If I believe it enough, it’ll come true.
“Oh, it’s just a silly burn,” I say, giving the words an airy spin. “I was so stupid this morning and accidentally touched a baking sheet that was still hot.”
I try to jerk my hand away but Jeff catches it, studying the topography of the scabs across my knuckles.
“That looks pretty bad, Quinn. Does it hurt?”
“Not really. It’s just ugly.”
I again try to pull away, but Jeff keeps my hand trapped in his. “Your hand is shaking.”
“Is it?”
I look to the street, pretending to be absorbed by the passing of a silver Cadillac Escalade. There’s no way I can look Jeff in the eye. Not when he’s being so sweetly concerned about me.
“Promise me you’ll see a doctor if it gets any worse.”
“I will,” I say brightly. “I promise.”
I drink more wine after that, emptying the carafe and ordering another before Jeff can protest. Frankly, wine is exactly what I need. The alcohol combined with the Xanax I took as soon I got home from the park makes me feel deliciously relaxed. Gone is the pain in my back and shoulders. I barely even think about Sam or Lisa or Rocky Ruiz. When I do, I simply reach for more wine until the thought passes.
On the way back from the bistro, Jeff holds my good hand. He leans down to kiss me when we stop at a crosswalk, slipping his tongue into my mouth just enough to send a heady shiver of desire running through me. Once home, we make out in the elevator, not caring about the camera installed in the corner or the sweaty, pot-bellied security guard probably watching us on a monitor in the basement.
Inside the apartment, we get as far as the foyer before I’m on my knees, taking Jeff into my mouth, liking the way he moans so loud I’m sure the neighbors can hear through the walls. When one of his hands holds my head in place, I reach back and curl his fingers around a length of hair, hoping he’ll tug on it.
I need it to hurt. Just a little.
I deserve the pain.
Later, in bed, Jeff lets me pick the movie. I choose Vertigo. When the opening credits start to swirl across the screen in all their trippy, Technicolor glory, I lie down tight against Jeff and spread my arm across his chest. We watch the movie in silence, Jeff dozing off and on through most of it. But he’s awake during the climax, when Jimmy Stewart drags poor Kim Novak up those bell tower steps, begging for the truth.
“I don’t have to go,” he says once the movie’s over. “To Chicago. I can stay here if you want.”
“It’s important that you go. Plus, you won’t be gone long, right?”
“Three days.”
“They’ll fly by.”
“You can come with me,” Jeff says. “I mean, if you want.”
“Won’t you be busy?”
“Swamped, actually. But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself. You love Chicago. Think of it—a nice hotel, deep dish pizza, some museums.”
Lying with my head on Jeff’s shoulder, I can hear the quickening of his heart. It’s clear he really wants me to go. I do, too. I’d love to replace this city with another, just for a few days. Long enough to forget about what I’ve done.
“What about Sam?” I say. “We can’t just leave her here alone.”
“She’s not a dog, Quinn. She can take care of herself for a couple of days.”
He has no idea that one wrong move on my part could upset the careful balance of our lives. By leading me to the spot where I attacked Rocky Ruiz, Sam made it abundantly clear that she’s doing me a favor by keeping quiet. One word from her has the power to destroy us.
“I’d feel bad,” I say. “Besides, it’s not as if she’s going to be staying here much longer.”
“It’s not about that,” Jeff says. “I’m worried about you, Quinn. Something’s not right. You’ve been acting strange ever since she got here.”
I start to slide away from him. It was such a good night until he started talking.
“I’ve had a lot to deal with.”
“And I know that. It’s a crazy, stressful time for you. But I just feel like there’s something else going on. Something you’re not telling me.”
I lie on my back and close my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“And you swear you’d tell me if you weren’t?”
“Yes. Now please stop asking me that.”
“I just want to make sure you’ll be okay when I’m gone,” Jeff says.
“Of course I will. I have Sam.”
Jeff rolls away from me. “That’s what worries me.”
I wait an hour for sleep to arrive, flat on my back, breathing evenly, telling myself that at any moment I’ll sink into slumber. But my thoughts are an unruly bunch, always on the move, in no hurry to settle down. I picture them as part of the dream sequence from Vertigo—bright spirals that are forever spinning. Each one has its own color. Red for thoughts about Lisa’s murder. Green for Jeff and his concern. Blue for Jonah Thompson’s assurance that Sam is lying to me.
Sam’s spiral is black, barely visible as it rotates through the sleepless gloom of my brain.
When one a.m. comes and goes, I get out of bed and pad down the hallway. The door to the guest room is closed. No light peeks out from under it. Maybe Sam has returned. Maybe she hasn’t. Even her presence has become uncertain.
In the kitchen, I fire up my laptop. Since I’m awake, I might as well do some much-needed work on the website. Yet instead of Quincy’s Sweets, my fingers lead me to my email. Dozens of new messages from reporters have poured into my inbox, some from as far away as France, England, even Greece. I scroll past them, their addresses a monotonous blur, stopping only when I spot an address not from a reporter.
Lmilner75
I open the email, even though I’ve committed its contents to memory. Neon pink, if I were to use the Vertigo thought-color scale.
Quincy, I need to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Please, please don’t ignore this.
“What happened to you, Lisa?” I whisper. “What was so important?”
I open a new browser window, heading straight to Google. I type in Sam’s name and am greeted with the predictable jumble of items about The Nightlight Inn, Lisa’s death and the Final Girls. Despite a smattering of articles about Sam’s disappearance, I see nothing that hints at where she might have been.
Next, I search for Tina Stone, which yields an avalanche of information about the many, many women who bear that name. There are Facebook profiles and obituaries and LinkedIn updates. Finding anything about a specific Tina Stone seems impossible. It makes me wonder if Sam understood this when she chose the name. That she, like I’m doing now, saw the pool of Tina Stones in the world and decided to dive in, knowing she wouldn’t resurface.
I click away from Google, going back to Lisa’s email.
Quincy, I need to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Please, please don’t ignore this.
As I read it, Jonah Thompson’s words seem to sneak into the text, transforming it into something else.
It’s about Samantha Boyd. She’s lying to you.
I’m about to do another Google search when I hear something behind me. It’s a muted cough. Or maybe the slightest creak of the floor. Then suddenly someone is there, right at my back. I slam the laptop shut and spin around to see Sam, silent and still in the dark kitchen. Her arms are at her sides. Her face is an inscrutable blank.
“You startled me,” I say. “When did you get home?”
Sam shrugs.
“How long have you been there?”
Another shrug. She could have been there the entire time or merely for a second. I’ll never know.
“Can’t sleep?”
“No,” Sam says. “You?”
I shrug. Two can play this game.
The corners of Sam’s lips twitch slightly, resisting a smile. “I’ve got something that might help.”
Five minutes later, I’m sitting on Sam’s bed, Wild Turkey in my lap, trying to keep my hands from shaking as Sam paints my fingernails. The polish is black and shiny—a miniature oil slick atop each finger. It pairs well with the scabs on my knuckles, now the same shade as rust.
“This color looks good on you,” Sam says. “Mysterious.”
“What’s it called?”
“Black Death. I picked it up at Bloomingdale’s.”
I nod in understanding. She used the five-finger discount.
Several minutes pass in which we say nothing. Then Sam, out of nowhere, says, “We’re friends, right?”
It’s another of her nesting doll questions. To answer one is to answer them all.
“Of course,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “That’s good, Quinn. I mean, imagine what it would be like if we weren’t.”
I try to read the expression on her face. It’s a blank. A void.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I know so much about you now,” she says quietly. “The things you’re capable of. The things you’ve actually done. If we weren’t friends, there’s so much I could use against you.”
My hands tense within hers. I fight the urge to pull them away and run from the room, fingernails half-painted and streaked with black. Instead, I gaze at her sweetly, hoping she’ll think it’s sincere.
“That’ll never happen,” I say. “We’re friends for life.”
“Good,” Sam replies. “I’m glad.”
Once again, the room plunges into silence. It stays that way for another five minutes. That’s when Sam stuffs her black-polished brush back into its bottle, smiles tightly and says, “You’re finished.”
I leave the room before my nails are completely dry, forced to turn the doorknob awkwardly with my palms. I blow on my hands in the hallway, waiting for the polish to become a glistening shell. Then I head to the master bedroom and take a quick look at Jeff, making sure he’s sound asleep before I slip inside the bathroom.
I don’t bother turning on the light. It’s better without it. I lie on the floor, my spine flat, shoulder blades cold against the tile. Then I dial the phone, Coop’s number permanently fixed in my memory.
It takes several rings for him to answer. When he does, his voice is husky with sleep.
“Quincy?”
Just hearing him makes me feel better.
“Coop,” I say. “I think I’m in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I think I’ve gotten myself into something I can’t get out of.”
I hear the faint rustle of sheets as Coop sits up in bed. It crosses my mind that he might not be alone. It’s likely he has someone sleeping next to him most nights and I just don’t know it.
“You’re worrying me,” he says. “Tell me what’s going on.”
But I can’t. That’s the most twisted part about all of this. I can’t tell Coop my suspicions about Sam without also mentioning the terrible thing I’ve done. They’re intertwined, one inseparable from the other.
“That’s not a good idea,” I say.
“Do you need me to drive out there?”
“No. I just wanted to hear your voice. And to see if you had any advice for me.”
Coop clears his throat. “It’s hard to give advice when I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Please,” I say.
There’s a moment of silence on Coop’s end. I picture him sliding out of bed and slipping into his uniform, getting ready to come here and help whether I want him to or not. Eventually, he says, “All I can tell you is that if you’re in a bad situation, the best thing to do is try to deal with it head on.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Quincy, you’re stronger than you think.”
“I’m not,” I say.
“You’re a miracle and you don’t even know it,” Coop says. “Most girls in your situation would have died that night at Pine Cottage. But not you.”
My mind flashes back to that scary and tantalizing memory I had in the park. Him. Crouched on the floor of Pine Cottage. Why did that image, of all things, return to me?
“Only because you saved me,” I say.
“No,” Coop tells me. “You were already in the process of saving yourself. So no matter what you’ve gotten yourself into, I know you have the power to get yourself out of it.”
I nod, even though I know he can’t see it. I do it because I think it would make him happy if he could.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Never feel sorry for reaching out to me,” Coop says. “It’s what I’m here for.”
I know that. And I’m grateful beyond words.
I stay where I am once Coop hangs up, the phone still in my grip. I stare at it, squinting at the glow, watching the clock at the top of the screen tick off one minute, then another. After eleven more minutes come and go, I know what I need to do, even though the very idea makes me sick to my stomach.
So I search my phone for one of the texts Jonah Thompson sent me. I text back, my fingers fighting every tap.
ready to talk. bryant park. 11:30 sharp