CHAPTER 5
Morning arrives gray and groggy. I awake to find Jeff already gone, off to meet his accused cop killer.
In the kitchen, a surprise awaits me: A vase filled not with flowers but baking tools. Wooden spoons and spatulas and a heavy-duty whisk with a handle as thick as my wrist. A red ribbon has been wrapped around the vase’s neck. Attached to it is a card.
I’m an idiot. And I’m sorry. You will always be my favorite sweet. Love, Jeff.
Next to the vase, the unfinished cupcakes resume staring at me. I ignore them as I take my morning Xanax with two swallows of grape soda. I then switch to coffee, mainlining it in the breakfast nook, trying to wake up.
My sleep was plagued with nightmares, a phase I thought had passed. In the first few years after Pine Cottage, I couldn’t go a night without having one. They were the usual therapy fodder—running through the woods, Janelle stumbling from the trees, Him. Lately, though, I go weeks, even months without having one.
Last night, my dreams were filled with reporters scratching at the windows and leaving bloody claw marks on the glass. Pale and thin, they moaned my name, waiting like vampires for me to invite them in. Instead of fangs, their teeth were pencils narrowed to icepick sharpness. Glistening chunks of sinew stuck to the tips.
Lisa made an appearance in one of the nightmares, looking exactly like the picture on her book jacket. The well-practiced form of her lips never wavered. Not even when she grabbed a pencil from one of the reporters and dragged its point across her wrists.
Her email was the first thing I thought of upon waking, of course. It spent the night sitting in my mind like a spring-loaded trap, waiting for the smallest bit of consciousness to set it off. It remains gripped to my brain as I down one cup of coffee, then another.
Foremost in my thoughts is the unshakeable idea that, other than her aborted 911 call, I truly had been the last person Lisa tried to contact. If that’s the case, why? Did she want me, of all people, to try to talk her off whatever mental ledge she had crawled onto? Did my failure to check my email make me in some way responsible for her death?
My first instinct is to call Coop and tell him about it. I have no doubt he’d drop everything and drive into Manhattan for the second day in a row just to assure me that nothing about this is my fault. But I’m not sure I want to see Coop on consecutive days. It would be the first time that happened since Pine Cottage and the morning after, and it’s not an experience I long to repeat.
I text him instead, trying to keep it casual.
Call me when you get a chance. No rush. Nothing important.
But my gut tells me it is important. Or at least it has the potential to be. If it wasn’t important, why did I wake up thinking about it? Why is my next thought to call Jeff just to hear his voice, even though I know he’s in court, his cell phone switched off and shoved into the depths of his briefcase?
I try not to think about it, although that proves to be impossible. According to my phone, I’ve missed a dozen more calls. My voicemail is a swamp of messages. I listen to only one of them—a surprise message from my mother, who called at an hour when she knew I’d still be asleep. The latest one of her constantly evolving attempts to avoid actual conversation.
“Quincy, it’s your mother,” her message begins, as if she doesn’t trust me to recognize her nasal monotone. “I was just woken up by a reporter calling to see if I had a comment about what happened to that Lisa Milner girl you were friends with. I told him he should talk to you. Thought you’d like to know.”
I see no point in calling her back. That’s the last thing my mother wants. It’s been that way ever since I returned to college after Pine Cottage. As a new widow, she wanted me to commute from home. When I didn’t, she said I was abandoning her.
Ultimately, though, it was me who got abandoned. By the time I finally graduated, she had remarried a retired dentist named Fred who came with three adult children from a previous marriage. Three happy, bland, toothy children. Not a Final Girl in the bunch. They became her family. I became a barely tolerated remnant of her past. A blemish on her otherwise spotless new life.
I listen again to my mother’s message, searching for the slightest hint of interest or concern in her voice. Finding none, I delete the voicemail and move on to that morning’s copy of the Times.
To my surprise, an article about Lisa’s death rests at the bottom of the front page. I read it in one distasteful gulp.
MUNCIE, IND. — Lisa Milner, a prominent child psychologist who was the lone survivor of a sorority house massacre that shocked campuses nationwide, died at her home here, authorities confirmed yesterday. She was 42.
Most of the article focuses on the horrors Lisa witnessed that long-ago night. As if no other moments from her life mattered. Reading it gives me a glimpse of what my own obituary will be like. My stomach churns.
Yet one sentence gives me pause. It’s near the bottom; almost like an afterthought.
Police are continuing their investigation.
Investigation of what? Lisa slit her wrists, which seems pretty straightforward to me. Then I remember what Coop said about the toxicology tests. To see if Lisa was on something at the time.
Tossing the newspaper aside, I reach for my laptop. Online, I skip the news sites and head straight for the true crime blogs, an alarming number of which are solely devoted to Final Girls. The guys who run them—and they are all men, by the way; women have better things to do—still occasionally contact me through my website, trying to sweet talk me into giving an interview. I never reply. The closest we’ve come to corresponding was after I received that threatening letter and Coop wrote them all asking if one of them had sent it. They all said no.
Normally, I avoid these sites, fearful of what I might see written about me. Today, however, calls for an exception, and I find myself clicking through website after website. Nearly all of them have mentions of Lisa’s suicide. Like the article in the Times, there’s little to no new information. Most of them stress the irony of a world-famous survivor being responsible for her own death. One even has the gall to suggest other Final Girls could follow suit.
Disgusted, I close the browser window and slam the laptop shut. I then stand, trying to shake away some of the angry adrenaline scooting through my body. All that Xanax, caffeine, and misguided web surfing have left me antsy and aggravated. So much so that I change into workout clothes and lace up my running shoes. When I get like this, which is often, the only cure is to jog until it passes.
In the elevator, it dawns on me that there could be reporters outside. If they know my phone number and email address, there’s every reason to think they also know where I live. I make a plan to start running as soon as I hit the street, instead of taking my customary stroll to Central Park. I begin while still inside the building, busting out of the elevator at a light jog.
Once outside, though, I see there’s no need. Instead of a crush of reporters out front, I’m confronted by exactly one. He looks young, eager and handsome in a nerdy way. Buddy Holly glasses. Great hair. More Clark Kent than Jimmy Olsen. He rushes toward me as I trot from the building, the pages of his notebook fluttering.
“Miss Carpenter.”
He tells me his name—Jonah Thompson. I recognize it. He’s one of the reporters who called, emailed and texted. The nuisance trifecta. He then tells me the name of the paper he works for. One of the major daily tabloids. Judging by his age, it means he’s either very good at his job or else incredibly unscrupulous. I suspect it’s both.
“No comment,” I say, breaking into a full run.
He makes an attempt to keep up, the flat soles of his Oxfords clapping against the sidewalk. “I just have a few questions about Lisa Milner.”
“No comment,” I say again. “If you’re still here when I get back, I’m calling the police.”
Jonah Thompson falls back while I keep moving. I feel him watch my retreat, his gaze a sunburn on the back of my neck. I increase my pace, quickly navigating the cross blocks to Central Park. Before entering, I glance over my shoulder, just in case he somehow managed to follow me there.
Not likely.
Not in those shoes.
In the park, I head north toward the reservoir. My preferred jogging spot. It’s flatter than other areas of the park, with better sightlines. No curving paths with God-knows-what waiting just around the bend. No pockets of trees thick with shadows. Just long stretches of gravel where I can clench my jaw, straighten my back and run.
But this morning it’s hard to focus on running. My thoughts are elsewhere. I think about fresh-faced Jonah Thompson and his annoying tenacity. I think about the article on Lisa’s death and its refusal to acknowledge how what she went through messed her up so much she decided to sink a knife into both her wrists. Mostly, though, I dwell on Lisa herself and what possibly could have been going through her mind when sent me that email. Was she sad? Desperate? Was the knife already gripped in her trembling hands?
It’s suddenly all too much, and the adrenaline drains from my limbs as quickly as it filled them. Other joggers continually pass me, the gravelly crunch of their footsteps warning of their approach. Giving up, I slow to a stroll, move to the path’s edge and walk the rest of the way home.
Back at my building, I’m relieved to see that Jonah Thomson has departed. In his place, though, is another reporter, idling on the other side of the street. On second glance, I decide she’s not a traditional reporter. She looks too edgy for mainstream media, reminding me of those unapologetic Riot Grrrls who roamed Williamsburg before the hipsters took over. A leather jacket sits over a black dress that hugs her hips. Fishnet stockings rise out of scuffed combat boots. Her raven hair is a parted curtain that provides only a partial view of eyes ringed with liner. She wears red lipstick as bright as blood. A blogger, I surmise. One with a far different readership than me.
Yet there’s something familiar about her. I’ve seen her before. Maybe. My stomach flips with the sensation of not recognizing someone even when I know I should.
She recognizes me, though. Her raccoon eyes assess me through the dark drapes of her hair. I watch her watch me. She doesn’t even blink. She merely slouches against the building across the street, making no attempt to blend in with her surroundings. A cigarette juts from her ruby lips, smoke swirling. I’m about to head inside when she calls to me.
“Quincy.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Hey, Quincy Carpenter.”
I stop, do a half-turn, frown in her direction. “No comment.”
She scowls—a storm cloud darkening the landscape of her face. “What? I don’t want a comment.”
“Then what do you want?” I face her head on, attempting to stare her down. “Aren’t you a blogger or whatever?”
“No. I just want to talk.”
“About Lisa Milner?”
“Yeah,” she says. “And other stuff.”
“Which makes you a reporter. And I have no comment.”
She mutters—“Jesus Christ”—and tosses the cigarette into the street. She reaches for a large knapsack sitting at her feet. Heavy and full, whatever’s inside presses against the frayed seams when she lifts it. Soon she’s across the street, right in front of me, dropping the knapsack so close to me that it almost lands on my right foot.
“You don’t need to be such a bitch,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“Listen, all I want to do is talk.” Up close, her voice sounds husky and seductive. Cigarettes and whiskey ride her breath. “After what happened to Lisa, I thought it might be a good idea.”
I suddenly realize who she is. She looks different than I expected. A far cry from the yearbook photo that was printed everywhere one long-ago summer. Gone is the too-high hair, the ruddy cheeks, the double chin. She’s thinned out since then, shed the cherubic glow of youth. Time has made her a taut and weary version of her former self.
“Samantha Boyd,” I say.
She nods. “I prefer Sam.”