CHAPTER 21
Detective Hernandez is one of those women you can’t help but admire even as you envy them. Everything about her is precisely put together, from the maroon blouse beneath a black blazer to the impeccably tailored slacks and boots with just a hint of a heel. Her hair is the color of dark chocolate, pulled back to display the perfect bone structure of her face. When she shakes my hand, it’s both firm and friendly. She makes a point of pretending not to notice my battered knuckles.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she says. “I promise this will only take a few minutes.”
I breathe. I try to keep calm. Just the way Sam instructed after she picked me up off the floor.
“I’m happy to help,” I say.
Hernandez smiles. It doesn’t appear strained. “Fantastic.”
We’re in the Central Park Precinct. The same place from which Jeff and I fetched Sam days earlier, although now it feels like years. The detective leads me up the same set of steps I climbed that long-ago, not-long-at-all night. I’m then guided to her desk, which is free of clutter, save for a framed photograph of her, two kids and a barrel-chested man I can only assume is her husband.
There’s also a purse.
Placed on the center of the desk, it’s the same purse Sam and I left in the park. Its presence isn’t a surprise. We suspected it was the reason for the call and spent the walk to the precinct constructing an excuse as to why it—and we—were in the park last night. Yet my body freezes at the sight of it.
Hernandez notices.
“Do you recognize it?” she asks.
I have to clear my throat before answering, dislodging the words stuck there like an accidentally swallowed chicken bone.
“Yes. We lost it in the park last night.”
I want to retract the words as soon as I say them, pulling them back into my mouth like a serpent’s tongue.
“We?” Hernandez says. “You and Tina Stone?”
I take a deep breath. Of course she knows about Sam and her new name. The detective is as smart as she looks. That realization makes me feel weak. Exhausted, really. When she sits behind her desk, I drop into a chair next to it.
“Her real name is Samantha Boyd,” I say meekly, nervous about correcting the detective. “She changed it to Tina Stone.”
“After what happened to her at The Nightlight Inn?”
I take another deep breath. Detective Hernandez has certainly done her homework.
“Yes,” I reply. “She went through a lot. We both have, but I’m sure you know all about that.”
“It’s a terrible thing that happened. To both of you. Crazy world, right?”
“It is.”
Hernandez smiles again—this time in sympathy—before opening the purse and pulling out several battered paperbacks.
“We found the purse early this morning,” she says, stacking books on the desk between us. “We traced it to Miss Stone after finding her name in one of these books. It came up in a quick scan of our records. Seems she was taken into custody a few nights ago. Assault and resisting arrest, I think it was.”
“That was a misunderstanding.” I clear my throat again. “I believe the charges were dropped.”
“And so they were,” Hernandez says as she inspects one of the books. Its cover bears a robot in the shape of a woman roaming a purple starscape. “You picked her up that night, correct?”
“I did. Me and my boyfriend, Jefferson Richards. He’s with the public defender’s office.”
His name clangs a bell in the detective’s memory. She gives me another smile, this one painfully strained. “He’s got quite a case on his hands, doesn’t he?”
I swallow, relieved I didn’t call Jeff and ask him to come to the station with me. I wanted to, of course, but Sam talked me out of it. She said bringing a lawyer, even one who was my boyfriend, would instantly arouse suspicion. Turns out it also would have brought him into contact with a detective none too pleased about him defending a man accused of killing a fellow cop.
“I don’t know much about it,” I say.
Hernandez nods before skipping back to the original subject. “Since we don’t have a contact number for Miss Stone, I thought it wise to have a chat with you and see if you know of her whereabouts. Is she staying with you, perhaps?”
I could lie, but there’d be no point to it. I get the sense the detective already knows the answer.
“She is,” I say.
“And where is she now?”
“Waiting outside, actually.”
At least I hope she is. Although Sam was calm when we left the apartment, I suspect it was purely for my sake. Now that she’s alone, I picture her pacing outside, finishing up her third cigarette in a row while sneaking glances through the precinct’s glass-walled entrance. It occurs to me that while I’m in here, Sam could easily just leave town, again leaping off the grid. Honestly, I’m not sure that would be a bad thing.
“I guess it’s my lucky day,” Detective Hernandez says. “Do you think she’d want to come in and answer some questions?”
“Sure.” The word is high-pitched, akin to a squeak. “I suppose so.”
The detective reaches for the phone, taps a few numbers and informs the desk sergeant on duty that Sam can be found outside.
“Bring her in and have her wait outside my office,” she says.
“Is Sam in some kind of trouble?” I ask.
“Not at all. An incident occurred in the park overnight. A man was severely beaten.”
I keep my hands on my lap, the ugly, scabby right one covered by the less-ugly left. “That’s terrible.”
“A jogger found him this morning,” Hernandez continues. “He was unconscious. A complete bloody mess. God knows what would have happened if he hadn’t been discovered in time.”
“That’s terrible,” I say again.
“Since Miss Stone’s purse was found near the scene, I was wondering if she saw anything last night. Or you, for that matter, since you were apparently with her.”
“I was,” I say.
“And what time was this?”
“About one. Maybe a little after.”
Hernandez leans back in her chair, steepling her well-manicured fingers. “A bit late to be roaming the park, no?”
“It was,” I say. “But we had been drinking. You know, girl’s night out. And since I live near the park, we thought it would be quicker to cross it on foot instead of taking a cab.”
It’s the alibi Sam and I had concocted on the way here. I worried that I might not be able to tell it, yet the lie comes without hesitation, slipping from my mouth with such ease it surprises even me.
“And that’s when Miss Stone—”
“Boyd,” I say. “Her real name is Samantha Boyd.”
“That’s when Miss Boyd lost the purse?”
“It was taken, actually.”
Hernandez arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Taken?”
“We stopped at a park bench so Sam could have a smoke.” A pebble of truth, tossed into the churning river of falsehood. “While we were there, a guy ran by, grabbed the purse and took off. We didn’t report it stolen because, as you can see, there’s nothing valuable in it.”
“Why was she carrying it in the first place?”
“Sam’s a little paranoid about things,” I say, furthering the lie. “I can’t blame her, considering what happened to her. To us, really. She told me she carries the purse for protection.”
A nod from Detective Hernandez. “Like a decoy?”
A nod from me. “Exactly. A mugger aims for the big stuff, like that purse, while neglecting the items of true value, such as her wallet.”
Hernandez studies me from across the desk, parsing the information, taking time to respond. It looks as if she’s counting the seconds, waiting until a suitably intimidating length of time has passed. Finally, she says, “Did you get a good look at the man who stole the purse?”
“Not really.”
“Nothing at all?”
“It was dark,” I say. “And he was wearing dark clothes. A puffy jacket, I think. I don’t really know. It all happened so fast.”
I lean back in my chair, relieved and, I’ll admit, exceedingly proud of myself. I had given our false alibi without a hitch. It was so convincing that even I almost believe it. But then Hernandez reaches into a drawer, removes a photograph, slides it across the desk.
“Could this be the man you saw?”
It’s a mugshot of a young punk of a man. Wild eyes. Neck tattoo. The papery skin of a junkie. The very same junkie whose nose collapsed beneath my fist. Seeing his face makes my heart momentarily stop.
“Yes,” I say with a gulp. “That’s him.”
“This is the same guy that was found almost beaten to death this morning,” Hernandez says, although I already know this. “His name is Ricardo Ruiz. Rocky, for short. He’s homeless. An addict. The usual sad story. Cops patrolling the park know him pretty well. They say he didn’t seem like the type of guy to get into much trouble. Only wanted a place to sleep and his next fix.”
I continue to stare at the photo. Knowing the man’s name and what he’s like saps all the emotion right out of me. I feel nothing. It’s a survival technique—shutting things down to keep myself from falling apart. Ever since Pine Cottage, I’ve become an expert at it.
“That’s awful,” I mutter. “Will he be okay?”
“Doctors say it’s too soon to tell. But someone sure did a number on him. You two didn’t happen to see anything suspicious last night? Someone running away from something, maybe? Or anyone acting shady?”
“After the purse was taken, Sam and I left the park as fast as we could. We didn’t see anything like that.” I shrug, frowning for emphasis, showing her how much I long to help. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything else.”
“When I talk to Miss Stone—I mean, Miss Boyd—she’ll tell me the same thing?”
“Of course,” I say.
At least, I hope she will. After last night, I’m not sure Sam and I are on the same side.
“You two are close, I imagine,” Hernandez says. “Going through similar ordeals. What’s that name the papers call you?”
“Final Girls.”
I say it angrily, with all the scorn I can muster. I want Detective Hernandez to know that I don’t consider myself one of them. That I’m beyond that now, even if I no longer quite believe it myself.
“That’s it.” The detective senses my tone and wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I guess you don’t like being called that.”
“Not at all,” I say. “But I suppose it’s better than being referred to as victims.”
“What would you like to be called?”
“Survivors.”
Hernandez leans back in her chair again, impressed. “And are you and Miss Boyd close?”
“We are,” I say. “It’s nice to be around someone who understands me.”
“Of course it is.” She sounds like she means it. There’s sincerity there, I think. Yet her face is pinched just a fraction. “And you said she’s staying with you?”
“For a few days, yes.”
“So the fact that she’s had prior brushes with the law doesn’t bother you?”
I swallow. “Prior? As in, more than what happened the other night?”
“I guess Miss Boyd neglected to tell you about those,” Hernandez says, consulting her notes. “I did a little digging into her recent history. Nothing big. Just the past five years or so. In addition to being picked up for assault two nights before Rocky’s unfortunate accident, she had a drunk and disorderly arrest in New Hampshire four years ago, another one in Maine two years after that, and an unpaid speeding ticket following a traffic stop just last month in Indiana.”
The world stops just then. A sudden screeching halt that sends everything tilting. My hands slide off my lap and grip the underside of my chair, as if I might fall right out of it.
Sam was in Indiana.
Just last month.
I try to smile at Detective Hernandez, to show her I’m unflappable, that I know everything there is to know about Sam. In reality, my mind fills with memories, flipping like pages of a photo album. Each memory is a snapshot. Bright. Vivid. Full of detail.
I see Lisa’s email on my phone, glowing ice blue in the darkness.
Quincy, I need to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Please, please don’t ignore this.
I see Jonah Thompson gripping my arm, his features tight.
It’s about Samantha Boyd. She’s lying to you.
I hear Coop’s low, concerned voice.
We don’t know what she’s capable of.
I see Sam in the park, covering my stained clothes with her jacket, steering me toward water, washing the blood from my hands. So swift and decisive. I see those same clothes being scooped into her arms, as if it were a normal occurrence.
Don’t worry about it. I know what to do.
I see her swearing a path through the crush of reporters outside, unafraid of the cameras, completely unfazed when Jonah tells us that Lisa’s been murdered. Her face is painted white by the flashbulbs, turned the same shade as a corpse on the slab. There’s no expression there. No sadness or surprise.
Nothing.
“Miss Carpenter?” The detective’s voice sounds faint among the shuffling memories. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I know all about those. Sam has never lied to me.”
She hasn’t. At least there’s nothing I can definitively pinpoint as a lie. But she hasn’t exactly told me the truth, either. Since her arrival, Sam hasn’t told me much of anything.
I don’t know where she’s been.
I don’t know who she was with.
Most of all, I have no idea what horrible things she might have done.