by Riley Sager
We’ve come to Bryant Park’s Ping-Pong tables—one of those “only in New York” things. Both tables are occupied, one of them by an elderly Asian couple and the other by two office drones, their ties loosened as they smack the ball back and forth. I spend a moment watching them as I try to form a suitable answer to Jonah’s question.
“It’s not that simple,” I say.
“I know something that might change your mind,” Jonah tells me.
“What do you mean?”
It’s a stupid question. I already know what he means. The big lie that Sam’s been telling me. That Jonah has information I don’t annoys me to no end.
“Just tell me what you know, Jonah.”
“I’d like to, Quincy,” he says, again scratching his head. “I really would. But good journalists don’t readily share what they know with sources who aren’t cooperative. I mean, if you really want me to give you some top secret intel, I’d need a little something in return.”
More than ever, I want to leave. I know it’s what I should do. Tell Jonah to leave me alone and then head home for a much-needed nap. Yet I also need to know just how much Sam’s been lying to me. One overrules the other.
“Tina Stone,” I say.
“Who’s that?”
“Samantha Boyd’s name. She had it legally changed years ago, to avoid people like you. That’s how she was able to keep a low profile all those years. Samantha Boyd technically no longer exists.”
“Thank you, Quincy,” Jonah says. “I think I’ll do some digging into the life of Tina Stone.”
“You’ll tell me what you find out.”
It’s not a question. Jonah acknowledges that with a terse nod.
“Of course.”
“Now it’s your turn,” I say. “Tell me what you know.”
“It concerns that article I swore I’d never mention again. Specifically the photos that ran with it.”
“What about them?”
Jonah takes a deep breath and raises his hands, proclaiming his innocence before saying a word.
“Remember, I’m just the messenger,” he finally says. “Please don’t kill me.”
25.
Sam’s in the kitchen, apron on, pretending to be Betty Fucking Crocker. Pretending to be anything other than a devious bitch. When I enter, she’s hovering over a mixing bowl, whisking eggs into a snowy pile of sugar and flour.
“We need to talk,” I say.
Her eyes never leave the bowl. “Just give me a minute.”
I rush to her. In a flash, the bowl is off the counter and slamming against the floor. A line of cake batter traces its descent, trailing from the countertop, down the cupboard beneath it, and across the floor to the bowl itself.
“What the fuck, Quinn?” Sam says.
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking, Sam. What the fuck?”
She leans against the counter and looks at me warily. And then she understands. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“How much did he tell you?”
“Everything.”
I know it all. How she went to Jonah’s newsroom the day after news of Lisa’s death broke. How she told him who she was and that she was in New York to see me. How she asked if he wanted the photo op of a lifetime.
“You knew he was still there when you introduced yourself,” I say. “You planned it that way. You wanted us to be on the front page.”
Sam doesn’t move, her boots planted on the kitchen floor, a slow sludge of cake batter pooling around one of them.
“Yeah,” she says. “So?”
I grab a nearby spatula and fling it across the room. It hits the wall next to the window, a blotch of cake batter sticking to the paint after it falls. It doesn’t make me feel better.
“Do you realize how stupid that was? People saw those pictures, Sam. Lots of them. Strangers now know who we are. They know where I live.”
“I did it for you,” Sam says.
I slam my hand against the counter. I don’t want to hear any of it. “Shut up.”
“Honest. I thought it would help you.”
“Shut up!”
Sam flinches, her drawn-on brows rising into startled arches. “I need you to know why I did it.”
There’s a carton of eggs sitting just to my right, a half dozen remaining. I pick one up.
“Shut—”
The egg goes flying toward Sam’s head. She ducks out of its path, the egg exploding against the cupboard behind her.
“—the—”
I toss another. Like a grenade. A quick flick of the wrist. When it joins the bowl on the floor, I grab two more, flinging them in quick succession.
“—fuck—up!”
Both eggs hit Sam’s apron. Chaotic detonations of yellow slime that push her against the counter, more from surprise than velocity. I reach for the others, but Sam rushes forward, unsteady across the slick tile. She yanks the carton away, sending the remaining eggs smashing to the floor.
“Will you just let me explain?” she shouts.
“I already know why you did it!” I shout back. “You wanted me to get angry! And I almost killed a man! Is that angry enough for you? What else do you want me to do?”
Sam grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me. “I want you to wake up! You’ve been hiding all these years.”
“You should talk. I’m not the one who vanished. I’m not the one who hasn’t even told her mother she’s still alive.”
“I don’t mean it like that.”
“Then what do you mean, Sam? I wish that for once you’d make some sense. I’ve tried to understand you, but I can’t.”
“Stop pretending to be someone you’re not!” Sam also decides to throw things. There’s another bowl on the counter, which she slaps onto the floor. It rolls into a corner, spinning on its rim. “You act like this perfect girl with this perfect life making perfect cakes. But that’s not you, Quinn, and you know it.”
She pushes me against the dishwasher, its handle poking into the base of my spine. I shove back and send her sliding through the muck of eggs and flour.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say.
Sam comes at me again, this time slamming me against the counter.
“I’m the only one who knows you. You’re a fighter. One who’ll do anything to survive. Just like me.”
I squirm against her, trapped. “I’m nothing like you.”
“You’re a fucking Final Girl,” Sam says. “That’s why I went to Jonah Thompson. So you couldn’t hide anymore. So you could finally live up to the name you’ve earned.”
Her face is so close to mine that I stop breathing. Her presence is like a fire sucking all the oxygen from the room. I shove her away, clearing enough space to turn around in. Sam latches onto my hand, trying to drag me toward her. My other hand fumbles along the countertop, reaching for anything I can find. Measuring cups bump against my knuckles. A spoon slips from my grip and hits the floor. My fingers finally close around something and I whirl toward her, brandishing it, thrusting it outward.
Sam cries out, scrambling backward. She drops to the floor and presses herself against a cupboard door.
I stalk across the kitchen, vaguely aware that she’s saying my name on repeat. The sound watery and distant, as if shouted from the depths of a well.
“Quinn!”
That one is loud enough to rattle the cupboards. Loud enough to pierce the furious haze surrounding me.
“Quincy,” Sam says, now merely whispering. “Please.”
I look down.
There’s a knife in my hand.
It’s tilted, the flat of the blade facing the ceiling, reflecting the overhead kitchen light in a starburst glint.
I drop it, hand tingling. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Sam
stays on the floor, curled into a ball, knees touching apron straps. She can’t stop shaking. It’s like a seizure.
“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” I say, tears at the back of my throat. “I swear.”
Sam’s hair hangs across her face. I see her ruby lips, a pebble of a nose, one eye peeking from between the strands, bright and terrified.
“Quincy,” she says. “Who are you?”
I shake my head. I honestly don’t know.
26.
A buzz at the front door breaks the silence that’s fallen over the kitchen. The building’s intercom system. Someone’s outside. When I press the intercom button by the door, a woman’s voice crackles at me from the street.
“Miss Carpenter?”
“Yes?”
“Hi, Quincy,” the voice says. “It’s Carmen Hernandez. Sorry to just show up like this, but I’m going to need a moment of your time.”
Soon Detective Hernandez is in the dining room, smartly dressed in a gray blazer and red blouse. The bracelet wrapped around her right wrist clicks as she takes a seat. A dozen circular charms dangle from the sterling silver. An anniversary present from her husband, maybe. Or perhaps a treat she purchased herself after getting tired of waiting for him to do it. Either way, it’s lovely. A bolder version of me would try to steal it. I imagine looking into the charms and seeing a dozen different versions of myself.
“Is this a good time?” she says, knowing it’s not. The kitchen is visible to anyone passing through the foyer on the way to the dining room. It’s a gloppy mess of batter and egg yolks. Even if she somehow missed it, there’s Sam and me, two flour-coated, egg-smeared shambles sitting across from her.
“No,” I say. “It’s fine.”
“Are you sure? You look flustered.”
“It’s been one of those days.” I flash a peppy smile. All teeth and gums. My mother would be proud. “You know how crazy it can get in a kitchen.”
“My husband does the cooking,” Hernandez says.
“Lucky you.”
“Why are you here, Detective?” asks Sam, speaking for the first time since the intercom buzzer sounded. She’s tucked her hair behind her ears, giving the detective a full view of her hard stare.
“I’ve got just a few follow-up questions about the Rocky Ruiz assault. Nothing serious. Just doing my due diligence.”
“We’ve already told you everything.” I try not to sound worried. I really do. Yet an anxious squeak hides inside every word. “There’s really nothing else to add.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
The charms of the detective’s bracelet clatter again as she plucks a notebook from inside her blazer and flips through it. “Well, I’ve got two witnesses who say otherwise.”
“Oh?” I say.
Sam says nothing at all.
Hernandez jots something down in her notebook.
“One of them is a hustler who works the Ramble,” she says. “His name’s Mario. A plainclothes officer brought him in last night. Not a big surprise to anyone. He’s got a list of solicitation charges a mile long. When the cop asked Mario if he saw anything the night of Rocky’s assault, he said no. But he did mention seeing something unusual the night before. Two women sitting in the park. Around one in the morning. One of them was smoking. He said she gave him a cigarette.”
I remember him. The handsome guy in leather. The mention of him makes me anxious, with good reason. Sam spoke to him. He saw our faces.
“He identified those two women for me,” Hernandez says. “The two of you.”
“How would he know that?” Sam says.
“He recognized you from the newspaper. I’m assuming the two of you know you were front-page news the other day.”
I keep my hands on my knees, where Hernandez can’t see them. Both are balled into nervous fists. The more she talks, the tighter I squeeze.
“I remember him,” I say. “He came up to us while we were sitting in the park.”
“At one a.m.?”
“Is that illegal?” Sam asks.
“No. Just unusual.” Detective Hernandez cocks her head at us. “Especially considering that you were there two nights in a row.”
My forearms ache as my fists stay clenched in my lap. I try to relax them one finger at a time.
“We told you why we were there,” I say.
“Out drinking, right?” Hernandez says. “That’s what you were doing the night Mario the Gigolo saw you too?”
“Yes,” I say, chirping out the word.
Sam and I look at each other. Hernandez jots something down in her notebook, makes a show of crossing it out, writes something else.
“Fair enough,” she says. “Now, let’s talk about this second witness.”
“Another man-whore?” Sam asks.
Detective Hernandez is not amused. She frowns at Sam, saying, “A homeless man. He spoke to one of the cops canvassing the park about Rocky Ruiz. He says he saw two women at that fancy pool where kids sail their boats. That place was in a book, I think. I read it to my kids. Something about a mouse?”
“Stuart Little,” I say, unsure why.
“That’s it. Nice place. That homeless man sure thinks so. He sometimes sleeps on a bench near there. But on the night Rocky was assaulted, he said he was chased away by those two women. They caught him watching as one of them washed her hands in the water. He said it looked like one of them was bleeding.”
I don’t dare ask if he described these women. Clearly, he has.
“The two of you match the description he gave us,” Hernandez says. “So I’m just going to take a wild guess and assume it really was you. Would either of you like to explain what was going on there?”
She folds her hands atop the table, bracelet hand on top. Under the table, my fists have become rocks. Nuggets of coal being squeezed into diamonds. The pressure splits one of the scabs on my knuckles. A trickle of blood slips between my fingers.
“It was exactly what it looked like,” I say, spinning the lie with no thought. It just comes out of my mouth. “I tripped when we were crossing the park. Scraped my hand up in the process. It was bleeding pretty hard, so we went to the pool so I could rinse it off.”
“Was this before or after the purse was stolen?”
“Before,” I say.
Hernandez stares me down, her gaze hard. Beneath the neat hair and tailored blazer is one tough cookie. She probably had to work hard to get where she is. More than the men, that’s for damn sure. I bet they all underestimated her.
Yet so have I, and now here we are.
“That’s interesting,” she says. “Our homeless friend didn’t mention seeing a purse.”
“We—”
For some reason, I stop myself. The lie disappears like a pinch of salt melting on my tongue.
Hernandez leans forward, almost friendly, preparing to begin a just-us-girls chat. “Listen, ladies, I don’t know what went down in the park that night. Maybe Rocky was high out of his mind. Maybe he tried to hurt you and you fought back a little too hard. If that’s the case, it would be in both of your best interests to come forward.”
She pulls back, friend time over. The bracelet scrapes across the table as she grabs her notebook again.
“I even get why you might not want to do that. The man’s in a coma. That’s a serious situation. But I swear I won’t judge you. Not until I have the full story.” Hernandez consults her notes, looks to Sam. “Miss Stone, I’ll even overlook your past brushes with the law.”
To her credit, Sam doesn’t react. Her face is a mask of calm. But I can tell she’s seeking out my reaction. My lack of one tells her everything she needs to know.
“I just want to be clear that none of those things will in any way affect your treatment,” Hernandez says. “Should one of you decide to
turn yourself in, of course.”
“We won’t,” Sam says.
“Take some time to think about it.” Across the table, Hernandez stands and tucks the notebook under her arm, bracelet singing. “Talk it over. But don’t take too long. The more you wait, the worse it will get. Oh, and if one of you did, you know, happen to do it, you better pray Rocky Ruiz comes out of that coma. Because if I find myself with an involuntary manslaughter in my lap, all bets are off.”
• • •
“We’re not saying anything,” Sam announces once Hernandez leaves.
“We have to,” I say.
The two of us remain in the dining room, trapped in a heady, unbearable stillness. Sunlight slants through the window, illuminating the dust motes swirling just off the table’s surface. Not daring to look at each other, we watch them like people awaiting a storm. All raw nerves and unspoken dread.
“Actually, we don’t,” Sam says. “She’s grasping. She’s got nothing on us. It’s not illegal to sit in Central Park at night.”
“Sam, there were witnesses.”
“A homeless man and a gigolo who saw nothing.”
“If we tell the truth now, she’ll take it easy on us. She understands.”
Even I don’t believe this. Detective Hernandez has no intention of helping us. She’s just a very smart woman doing her job.
“Jesus,” Sam says. “She was lying, Quinn.”
The silence resumes. We watch the dust motes dance.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were in Indiana?” I say.
Sam finally looks my way. Her face is foreign, unreadable. “You don’t want to go there, babe. Trust me.”
“I need answers,” I say. “I need the truth.”
“The only truth you need to know is that what happened in the park is all on you. I’m just trying to save your ass.”
“By lying?”
“By keeping your secrets,” Sam says. “I know too much about you now. More than you think.”
She pushes away from the table. The movement prompts a rush of questions from me, each one more pleading than the last.
“Did you meet Lisa? Were you at her house? What else aren’t you telling me?”