by Riley Sager
My mother’s tone softens. In her voice is something I haven’t heard in years—concern.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me this, Quincy?”
“I shouldn’t have had to,” I say. “You should have seen that something was wrong.”
“But you looked fine.”
“Because you forced it on me, Mom. The pills and the refusing to talk about it. That was all because of you. Now, I’m—”
I don’t know what I am.
Screwed up, obviously.
So screwed up that I could tally for my mother the many ways in which I’ve failed as a human being. I’m likely in trouble with the police. I’m possibly harboring Lisa’s murderer in an apartment I could only afford because my friends were butchered. I’m addicted to Xanax. And wine. I pretend I’m not depressed. And angry. And alone. Even when I’m with Jeff, I sometimes feel so unbearably alone.
What’s worse is that I never would have realized this without Sam crashing into my life. It took some prodding on her part, of course. All those tests and dares and nudges to reveal something about myself, to remember tiny details of something I’m all too happy to have forgotten.
Then it hits me. Hard. I’m like a nail just struck by a hammer—brittle, quivering, sinking deeper into something from which there is no escape.
“Mom, what did Lisa sound like on the phone?”
“What do you mean? She sounded like I imagined her to sound.”
“I need specifics,” I say. “How did her voice sound? Hoarse? Raspy?”
“I really didn’t notice.” My mother’s confusion is evident. I picture her staring at the phone, befuddled. “You’re the one who talked to Lisa all those years ago. I don’t know what she’s supposed to sound like.”
“Please, Mom. If you can think of anything.”
For the last time, my mother lapses into a deep silence. I clutch the steering wheel, hoping she’ll come up with something. And while she’s failed me many, many times in the past, in this instance, Sheila Carpenter comes through.
“There were a lot of pauses,” she says, ignoring the irony coiled in that statement. “Lisa would talk, then pause. And with each pause, I heard a little exhale.”
“Like a sigh?”
“Quieter than that.”
It’s all I need to know. In fact, it tells me everything.
“Mom, I need to go.”
“Will you be all right?” my mother asks. “Tell me that you’ll take care of yourself.”
“I will. I promise.”
“I hope that whatever’s going on, I was able to help.”
“Yes, Mom,” I say. “Thank you. You helped more than you’ll ever realize.”
Because now I know that those pauses my mother had heard definitely wasn’t sighing. It was the sound of someone smoking.
Which means she hadn’t spoken to Lisa.
My mother had talked to Sam.
Curious, inquisitive Sam. She knows more than she let on. She’s known it all along. That’s why she showed up out of the blue. It wasn’t to connect with me. It wasn’t for money.
She’s trying to find out everything she can about Pine Cottage.
About what I did there.
I end the call and roll down the window, letting myself be hit with bursts of crisp, Midwestern air. My grip tightens around the steering wheel as my foot presses on the accelerator. I watch the speedometer creep higher, passing seventy, seventy-five, flirting with eighty.
It doesn’t help, no matter how fast I drive. I still feel like a fly, wriggling in a web of Sam’s making. I realize there are only two ways to get free—fight or flight.
I know which one it needs to be.
• • •
Back at the hotel, I change my airline reservation. There’s an eight p.m. flight from Chicago to New York. I’m going to be on it.
Jeff, of course, doesn’t understand why I need to fly back to New York so suddenly. He peppers me with questions as I stuff clothes into my suitcase. I answer each one twice—the lie out loud, the truth in my head.
“Does this have something to do with Sam?”
“No.”
Of course it does.
“Quincy, did she do something wrong?”
“Not yet.”
Yes, she’s done something terrible. We both have.
“I just don’t understand why you need to leave this second. Why now?”
“Because I need to get back as soon as possible.”
Because Sam knows things about me. Horrible things. Just as I know horrible things about her. Now I need to get her out of my life for good.
“Would it help if I went with you?”
“That’s sweet, but no. You still have work to take care of.”
You can’t go with me, Jeff. I’ve been lying to you. About many things. And if you find them out, you won’t want to be anywhere near me.
Once I’m packed and heading for the door, Jeff grabs me and pulls me tight against him. I long to remain in that exact spot, held in place, comforted. But that’s not possible. Not with Sam still in my life.
“Will you be okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him.
No. Despite what you might think, I’ll never be okay.
• • •
The plane is small, barely booked. A money-losing trip that exists solely to get the aircraft to JFK for a more profitable flight in the morning. I have an entire row to myself. After takeoff, I stretch across the empty seats.
Lying there, I do everything possible not to think about Sam. Nothing works. There’s no way to ignore the suspicion that skitters into my thoughts as if on spider legs. I imagine her dropping pills into Lisa’s wineglass, seeing her sip them into her system, waiting until they take effect. I picture Sam with the knife, slicing Lisa’s wrists, watching the results as she bites her fingernails.
Is she capable of doing such a thing?
Maybe.
Why would she do such a thing?
Because she was on the hunt for information about me. Perhaps she roped Lisa into helping her. But Lisa had second thoughts, pushed her away, threatened to kick her out. Now it’s my turn to do the same thing. I pray the results are different.
Somehow, I manage to sleep for most of the flight, although even that offers little relief. I dream of Sam sitting stiff-backed on my living-room sofa. I’m in a chair across from her.
Did you kill Lisa Milner? I ask.
Did you kill those kids at Pine Cottage? she says.
You’re avoiding the question.
So are you.
Do you think I killed people at Pine Cottage?
Sam smiles, her lipstick so red it looks like her mouth has been smeared with blood. You’re a fighter. One who’ll do anything to survive. Just like me.
A flight attendant snaps me awake as we make our descent into New York. I get into the upright position, shaking the dream away. I look out the window, the night sky and plane’s interior lights turning it into an oval mirror. I barely recognize the reflection staring back at me.
I can’t remember the last time I did.
PINE COTTAGE
10:14 P.M.
In the bedroom, Craig wasted no time in shedding his pants. Quincy didn’t even realize they were off until he was on top of her, drunkenly kissing her, pushing the dress up to her stomach while grinding hard against her inner thigh. When he reached for Quincy’s breasts, she put her hands over his, nodding her consent.
She was ready for this. Janelle had prepared her. She knew what to expect. She was a vestal virgin, tossed upon the altar, waiting for eternity.
But then Craig’s breathing grew ragged and rough. So did his movements, which had been made brutish by too much alcohol and pot. When he slid his knees between her legs and pried them ope
n, Quincy’s whole body tensed.
“Wait,” she murmured.
“Just relax,” Craig said. His face was buried against her neck, sucking it, skin sticking to his hungry mouth.
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
Craig made another attempt at parting her legs with his knees. Quincy kept them shut, thigh muscles straining.
“Stop.”
Craig thrust his mouth upon hers, his flopping tongue silencing her. He was heavy on top of her, pinning her down, breathing like a bull while bucking against her closed thighs. Quincy felt like she was being smothered, suffocated. Craig’s hands fell from her breasts to her knees, prying at them.
“Stop,” Quincy said, putting more force into it this time. “I mean it.”
She gave Craig a shove, slid out from under him, and sat up, back against the headboard. Craig’s smile lasted a few more seconds before fading as realization set in.
“I thought we agreed to do this,” he said.
“We did.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Quincy didn’t know if there even was a problem. Her body pulsed with desire, aching for Craig to be on top of her, against her, inside her. Yet a small part of her knew it didn’t have to be like this. If they continued, it would be rushed and blunt, almost like they were following another one of Janelle’s stupid rules.
“I want my first time to be special.”
She thought it would make sense to him. That he would see how much this really meant to her. Instead, he said, “This isn’t special enough for you? It’s better than what I had.”
The words confirmed something Quincy had always suspected but never wanted to ask. This wasn’t Craig’s first time. He had been through this before. The revelation felt to Quincy like a betrayal, small yet painful.
“I thought you knew,” Craig said, easily reading her thoughts.
“I just assumed you were too.”
“I never told you I was a virgin. I’m sorry if that’s what you thought, but it wasn’t my doing.”
“I know,” Quincy said.
She wondered how many other girls had been in the same position with him and if all of them had simply given in to the pressure. She hoped someone else had resisted. She hoped she wasn’t the only one.
“I didn’t lie to you, Quincy. So you’re going to have to come up with a better excuse than that for saying no.”
“But I’m not saying no,” Quincy said, suddenly backtracking, mad at herself for doing so. “I just thought—”
“That it would be candles and flowers and romance?”
“That it would mean something,” Quincy said. “Don’t I mean anything to you?”
Craig rolled off the bed, suddenly shy. He searched for his pants while stretching the bottom of his shirt over his crotch. It was all the answer Quincy needed. Still, she reached for him, trying to lure him back to bed before he could get fully dressed.
“This doesn’t have to be a problem,” she said. “I still want to spend the night together. Who knows what will happen.”
Despite her efforts, Craig found his pants on the floor next to the bed and started to stuff his legs into them. “Nothing is going to happen. I think you’ve made that very clear.”
“Please come back to bed. I just need to give it some more thought.”
“Think all you want.” Craig zipped his fly and headed for the door. “But I’m done thinking.”
Then he was gone, rejoining the party, leaving Quincy curled up in bed and crying. Large tears dripped onto the borrowed white dress, each one spreading, darkening the silk.
32.
It’s past midnight when I reach home. Rather than well rested from my nap on the plane, I am drowsy and weak. My hands tremble as I unlock the door, partly from exhaustion, partly from uncertainty. I don’t know what’s awaiting me inside the apartment. I imagine opening the door to see the place stripped of every item we own, my postdated check tossed onto the bare floor. And even that’s better than finding Sam waiting for me in the shadows of the foyer, knife raised.
I drop my bags just inside the door, freeing my hands in case I need to defend myself. But there’s no Sam gripping a knife. No Sam offering a glass of wine swimming with pills. A quick look around seems to confirm everything that was here before I left remains here still. The apartment is dark and, from the feel of it, empty. The place has an air of abandonment, as if someone has only recently departed, leaving bits of their essence swirling like dust.
“Sam? It’s me.”
My heart begins to pound as I wait for a response that doesn’t arrive.
“I decided to come back early,” I call out as my chest fills with hope. “I caught a late flight.”
I roam the apartment, flicking on lights. Kitchen, dining room, living room. No trace of theft. No trace of Sam.
She’s gone. I’m certain of it. She’s skipped town, just as I had hoped. Taking her secrets with her and leaving mine.
I dig through my purse in search of my phone. I texted Jeff when I landed, telling him I’d arrived safely and that I’ll call him when everything is over. Now it is over, and I’m in the hallway, phone in hand, about to hit Dial.
That’s when I notice the door to the guest room is still closed. Light seeps from beneath the door, crossing my shoes as I stand in front of it. Music plays on the other side, muffled behind the wood.
My heart hits the floor.
Sam is still here.
“Sam?”
I reach for the doorknob. It’s loose in my hand, the door unlocked. Without hesitation, I swing it open and look inside.
The room is bathed in red-and-gold light. The red is from the nightstand lamp. The gold comes from several candles that sit beside it. Music plays from an old CD player that’s been pulled from the storage closet. Peggy Lee, purring out “Fever.”
In the soft half-light, I can make out Sam on the edge of the bed. At least I think it’s her. She looks so unlike her normal self that recognition is slow to arrive. She wears a dress far different from the grungy black one she first showed up in. This one is red, with capped sleeves, an A-line skirt, a scooped neck that gives a tantalizing peek of cleavage. Matching heels are on her feet. Her hair is pulled up, exposing her pale neck.
She’s not alone.
A man sits beside her in a crisp black polo shirt and khakis. I have no trouble recognizing him.
Coop.
His hand is on Sam’s neck, caressing the pale skin just beneath her chin. Sam is touching him too, her index finger riding the swell of his left biceps. They lean into each other, faces turned, on the verge of a kiss.
“What—”
What the fuck is going on?
That’s what I mean to say, but only the first word comes out. Sam drops her hand from his arm. Coop’s hand remains at her neck, his whole body stilled by surprise. I haven’t seen him so shocked since our first meeting outside Pine Cottage. He wears the same expression he did that night. It’s not as extreme, not as horrified. But it’s there. A slightly smudged copy of the original.
“Quincy,” he says. “I’m so—”
“Get out.”
He manages to stand and steps toward me. “I can explain.”
“Get out,” I say again, growling the words.
“But—”
“Get out!”
Suddenly I’m upon him, scratching at him with one hand while unleashing a series of slaps with the other. My hands soon turn to fists, flying at him, not caring what part of him I hit as long as I hit something. And I do, landing blow after blow as Coop merely stands there and takes it. But then Sam swoops in, a flash of red, all but tackling me against the wall.
“Go!” she hisses to Coop.
He pauses at the door, watching me wail and thrash and pound my head ag
ainst the wall, each thump harder than the last.
“Get the fuck out!” Sam yells.
This time, Coop obeys and slips out of the room. I slide down the wall, weeping. Pain makes me double over, arms folded across my stomach. It feels like a sharpened blade is pushing into my gut, stabbing me again and again and again.
PINE COTTAGE
10:56 P.M.
Quincy, drained of tears, left the room in search of Janelle. She needed that combination of abrasiveness and pity only Janelle could provide. She was like human sandpaper in that regard. Rough and soothing in equal measure.
In the great room, she found Ramdy stuffed into one of the armchairs. Amy sat on Rodney’s lap, one lithe arm around his neck as they made out. They reminded Quincy of swimmers, mouths open, gasping.
“Where’s Janelle?”
The female half of Ramdy surfaced, catching her breath, annoyed to be so disturbed. “What?”
“Janelle. Have you seen her?”
Amy shook her head before diving back under.
Quincy then headed outside, creaking across the deck. It was a clear night, the full moon coloring the trees pale gray. She paused on the deck steps, listening for signs of Janelle. Footsteps on the grass, for instance. Or the throaty laugh that was so familiar she could pick it out in a crowd. She heard nothing but the last of the season’s creepers in the trees and the distant, forlorn hoot of an owl.
Rather than go back inside, Quincy kept walking, drawn into the woods. She found herself following the same path they had trod earlier, the leaves still tamped down. It was only when the forest floor began to rise that Quincy thought about turning back. By then it was too late. She needed to push on, even though she wasn’t sure why. Call it a hunch. An instinct. A certainty, even, surging with the blood inside her veins.
The large rock peeked into view as she neared the top of the incline. Its sheer size created a break in the canopy of tree branches overhead. It was like a hole in an umbrella, silver moonlight pouring through it, raining down on two people atop the rock.