by Riley Sager
I picture him nestled beside Sam, caressing her neck, lips just starting to push against hers. I hate Coop for doing that. He should have been all mine.
“I don’t,” I say.
“You’re lying.”
It’s hot inside the room. Stifling, actually. The humming AC unit under the window does little to change that. And then there’s Coop, so close to me, emanating a different kind of heat.
“I need to go,” I say.
“No, you don’t.”
When he edges closer, I push back, shoving his chest. He’s sweating under his shirt. The fabric beneath my hands sticks to his skin.
“What do you want from me, Coop? You said what you have to say. What else do you want?”
“You,” he says softly. “I want you, Quincy.”
Contrary to what I’ve told Sam, I have thought about what could make me succumb to my attraction to Coop. Those blue eyes always struck me as the likely culprit. They’re bright as lasers, seeing everything. But it’s his voice that finally does it. That soft confession pulling me into his arms.
It’s our first embrace since Pine Cottage. The first time he’s wrapped those strong arms around me. I expect the memory to tarnish this new embrace. It doesn’t. It only makes it sweeter.
With him, I feel safe.
I always have.
I kiss him. Even though it’s wrong. He kisses back, lips hungry, biting. Years of pent-up lust are finally being released, and the result is more need than desire. More pain than pleasure.
Soon we’re on the bed. There’s nowhere else to go. My clothes come off. I don’t know how. They seem to simply fall away, as do Coop’s.
He knows what he wants.
God help me, I let him take it.
PINE COTTAGE
11:42 P.M.
He was still asleep when Quincy slipped from the bed and crossed the room on tiptoe, hunting her shoes, her dress, her panties. It hurt to move. Soreness lingered between her legs, flaring whenever she bent over. Still, it wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. There was consolation in that.
She dressed quickly, suddenly aware of the sharp chill hanging in the room. It was as if she had a fever. She shivered from the cold even though her skin was burning hot.
In the hall, Quincy ducked into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the overhead light. She had no desire to face herself in the mirror under that harsh glare. Instead, she stared at her dark reflection, most of its features erased. She had become a shadow.
A chant popped into her head. Something from grade school. She and her friends in the pitch-black girls’ room, repeating a name.
Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.
“Bloody Mary,” Quincy said, eyes on her eyeless reflection.
Once out of the bathroom, she paused at the entrance to the great room, fearful that Craig and Janelle might have returned, drunk and giggling and pretending like nothing had happened between them. She only proceeded once she heard nothing. The cabin was silent.
Quincy headed to the kitchen, standing there, pondering her next step. Should she confront them? Demand to go home? Maybe she’d look for Craig’s keys and take his SUV, leaving all of them stranded without their cell phones.
The idea made her smile. Already she had entered the second stage of grief, which she learned in psych class only three days earlier. Janelle skipped that lecture and Quincy had yet to give her the notes. She didn’t know that second rung in the ladder of grief. But Quincy did.
It was anger.
Full-throated, bitch-on-wheels anger.
Quincy felt it warm in her stomach. Like heartburn, only hotter. It pulsed outward, zipping through her arms and legs.
She went to the sink, ready to put that fiery energy to use. That was her mom’s way. Good old passive-aggressive Sheila Carpenter, cleaning instead of screaming, fixing instead of breaking. Never, ever saying what she felt.
Quincy didn’t want to be that woman. She didn’t want to clean up the mess that everyone else had made. She wanted to get mad, dammit. She was mad. So angry that she plucked a dirty plate from the sink and prepared to smash it against the counter.
It was her reflection that stopped her. That pale face staring back at her from the window above the kitchen sink. This time she couldn’t avoid it. This time, she saw herself clearly.
Eyes red with tears. Lips curled into a snarl. Skin throbbing pink from anger and heartbreak and shame that she had just given herself to a complete stranger.
That wasn’t the Quincy she had thought herself to be. It was someone else entirely. Someone she didn’t recognize.
Darkness crept up around her. Quincy sensed it moving in. A black tide washing onto shore. Soon it had surrounded her, shrinking the kitchen, eclipsing it. Quincy could only see her face staring back at her. The stranger’s face. Until that too was consumed by darkness.
Quincy put the plate back in the sink, replacing it in her hand with something else.
The knife.
She didn’t know why she grabbed it. She certainly had no idea what she was going to do with it. All she knew was that it felt good to hold it.
With the knife firmly in her grip, she passed through Pine Cottage’s back door, crossing the deck in three quick strides. Outside, the trees closest to the cabin stood like gray sentinels guarding the rest of the forest.
On her way past, Quincy slapped one with the flat of the blade. The impact shivered into her hand and up her arm as she moved deeper into the woods.
35.
A door slams shut, echoing down the hall and jerking me out of a dead sleep. I open my eyes with a gasp, dry air scraping across my tongue. Morning sun burns through the window in a diagonal streak that lands directly on my pillow. Clear and sharp, it feels like needles poking my retinas. I roll over, cursing the sun as I throw my arm across the other side of the bed.
It’s empty.
That’s the moment I remember where I am.
Who I was with.
What I’ve done.
I leap from the bed, head dizzy, room spinning. I make it as far as the minuscule bathroom before collapsing to the floor, its tile cold beneath my bare ass, knees drawn to my chest. My thoughts are clouded, indistinct. I feel of this world but not part of it.
It’s a hangover, I realize. A guilt hangover. Haven’t had one of those in years.
Memories creep in at a steady pace, like the tick of a clock’s second hand. Tick, tick, tick. Within a minute, it’s all come back to me. Every slutty, sordid detail.
Coop, obviously, is gone. He could have even been the source of the slamming door, although I suspect he slipped out quietly, preferring not to wake me. I can’t say I blame him.
At least he was gentlemanly enough to leave a note, hastily scrawled on hotel stationery. I saw it sitting next to the TV as I wobbled to the bathroom.
I’ll read it later. Once I’m able to pick myself up off the floor.
My entire body is sore, but in that satisfied way that comes after getting what it wants. It’s the way I sometimes feel after jogging. Exhausted and sated and just a little bit worried that I might have overdone it.
This time, I have no doubt. I’ve overdone things in the most cataclysmic way.
I look at my hands. Most of the black polish Sam painted on has chipped away, leaving only flecks. There’s crud beneath the nails. More polish, most likely. Or maybe flakes of Coop’s skin from when I scratched at his back, begging him to fuck me harder. His scent remains on my hands. They smell of sweat, semen, and, faintly, Old Spice.
I climb to my feet and go to the bowl-size sink. I splash cold water on my face, careful not to look at myself in the mirror. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. Actually, I’m afraid I’ll see nothing at all.
Two steps later I’m at the bed again, sitting down. Coop’s note stares at me fr
om its spot beside the TV remote.
I grab it and read it.
Dear Quincy, I’m ashamed of my behavior. As much as I wanted this to happen, I realize now that it never should have. I think it’s best if we don’t communicate for a long time. I’m sorry.
And that’s that. Ten years of protection, friendship, and idol worship lost in a single night. Tossed away as easily as I toss the crumpled note at the plastic trash can against the wall. When it misses and bounces onto the floor, I crawl over, pick it up, drop it in.
Then I pick up the trash can and fling it across the room.
After it slams into the wall and drops straight down, I grab something else. The remote. This, too, goes flying, breaking apart against the bed’s headboard.
I lunge for the tangled sheets drooping onto the floor, tearing at them, twisting them around my balled fists, holding them to my mouth to muffle my sobs.
Coop’s gone.
I’d always assumed this day would come at some point. Hell, it had almost already happened, right before that threatening letter pulled him back into my orbit. But I’m not prepared for a life in which Coop isn’t there when I need him. I’m not sure I can handle things on my own.
But now I have no choice. Now there’s no one left in my life but Jeff.
Jeff.
Fuck.
Knowing how much I’ve betrayed him sends a wave of nausea pushing into my gut, jabbing me. This will devastate him.
I decide on the spot to never, ever tell him what I’ve done. It’s my only option. I’ll find a way to forget about this musty room, these tangled sheets, the feeling of Coop’s chest against my breasts, his breath hot in my ear. Like Pine Cottage, I’ll block it all from my memory.
And when I face Jeff again, he won’t suspect a thing. He’ll see only the Quincy he thinks he knows. The normal Quincy.
Plan in place, I sit up, trying to ignore the guilt squeezing my insides. It’s a feeling I’ll need to get used to.
I check my phone and see three missed calls and one missed text from Jeff. I can’t listen to his messages. The sound of his voice will break me. But I read his text, every word of it weighted with worry.
why aren’t you answering your phone? everything ok??
I text him back.
sorry. fell asleep as soon as I got home. will call you later.
I tack on an I love you but delete it, worried it might make him suspicious. Already, I’m starting to think like a cheater.
Besides Jeff, I’ve missed one other call. It’s from Jonah Thompson, received shortly after eight. Roughly an hour ago. When I call back, he answers after only one ring.
“Finally,” he says.
“Good morning to you too,” I say.
Jonah ignores me. “I did a little digging on Samantha Boyd, aka Tina Stone. I think you’ll be very interested to see what I came up with.”
“What did you find?”
“It’s hard to explain over the phone,” Jonah says. “You need to see it in person.”
I sigh. “Bethesda Fountain. Twenty minutes. Bring coffee.”
PINE COTTAGE
11:49 P.M.
The moon had slipped behind some clouds, leaving the woods darker than before. Quincy had trouble staying on the path, the ground beneath her feet a dim muddle of leaves and underbrush. But she had reached the incline. She could feel the weight of extra effort tight in her calves.
She had no plan. Not really. She just wanted to confront them. She wanted to go to that rock, stand before their panting, moon-streaked bodies, and tell them how much she hurt.
The knife would make them believe it. It would make them scared.
Soon Quincy was halfway up the incline. Heart pumping hot blood. Breath escaping in ragged puffs. As she marched upward, she was struck with the sensation that she was being watched. It was nothing more than a tickle on the back of her neck, telling her she wasn’t alone. She stopped, looked around. Although she saw nothing, she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her body. It made her think of the Indian ghosts rumored to roam the forest. She welcomed them, those vengeful spirits, eager to have them join her cause.
A sound entered the woods. Quick footsteps shush-shushing through the fallen leaves. For a moment, Quincy thought there really were ghosts in the forest, a herd of them coming toward her. She glanced behind her, expecting to see them swooping through the trees. But this ghost was all too human. Quincy heard gasps of exertion, heavier than her own. Soon the sound was right behind her, making her spin.
Joe appeared, awake now and hastily dressed. His sweater was on backward. The tag scraped his Adam’s apple as he stared at Quincy.
“I need to be alone,” she said.
His breath was still heavy, gasping out words. “Don’t do this.”
Quincy turned away. Just looking at him made her queasy. She still felt him inside her. The burning between her legs both shamed and excited her.
“You don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“I do,” he said. “And it’s not worth it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve done it. And I felt the same way then that you do now.”
“Leave me alone.”
“I know you want to hurt them,” he said.
The thick darkness that had enveloped Quincy suddenly vanished, leaving her dizzy and disoriented. She saw the knife in her hand and sucked in air. She couldn’t remember why she had picked it up. Had she honestly intended to use it on them? On herself?
Shame burned through her. She shook her head back and forth. The dark forest blurred.
“It’s not what you think,” she said.
“Isn’t it?”
“I wasn’t—”
She stopped talking, knowing that whatever she said wouldn’t make sense. Words had failed her.
“You should go back,” he said. “It’s not right to be out here like this.”
“They hurt me,” Quincy said, suddenly crying again.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why you should go back now.”
Quincy wiped her eyes. She hated herself for crying in front of him. Hated how she had enjoyed being with him. Hated the fact that, out of everyone in that cabin, he was the only one who saw the real Quincy.
“I will,” she said. “Where are you going?”
He stared forward, as if seeking out a location in the far distance, somewhere beyond the trees.
“Home,” he said. “You should go home too.”
Quincy nodded.
She dropped the knife.
It landed on its side, cushioned by leaves.
Then she ran back the way she came, passing him, trying to ignore the way the moonlight clouded his glasses, turning the lenses opaque. Like a fog.
36.
Twenty-five minutes after hanging up with Jonah, I’m in Central Park, rushing through the Baroque tunnel that leads to Bethesda Terrace. I spot him through the ornate arches at the tunnel’s end, seated at the fountain’s edge. Pink shirt, blue pants, gray sport coat. Towering above him is the Angel of the Waters, a flock of pigeons resting on her outstretched wings.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, sitting beside him.
Jonah sniffs. “Whoa,” he says.
I too can smell myself. I’d wanted to take a shower in the hotel, but there was no hot water left. I had to make do with a few well-placed splashes from the sink before putting on the clothes I’ve been wearing since the day before.
While dressing, I thought about how many miles these clothes have traveled in the past twenty-four hours. From Chicago to Muncie and back again. From Chicago to New York to that Spartan closet of shame. Now they’ve made their way into Central Park, stinking and sweat-stained. After today, I think I’ll burn them.
“Walk of shame?” Jonah asks.
“Save it,” I say. “Where’s my coffee?”
Two cups sit by his feet. Beside them is a messenger bag, filled with what I hope is enough information about Sam to force her out of my life. If not, I’d settle for getting her out of my apartment.
“Pick your poison,” Jonah says, raising the cups. “Black or cream and sugar?”
“Cream and sugar. Preferably intravenously.”
He hands me a cup marked with an X. I gulp down half of its contents before coming up for air.
“Thank you,” I say. “No matter how many good deeds you perform today, nothing will top this.”
“You’ll be rethinking that in a minute,” Jonah says as he reaches for the messenger bag.
“What did you find?”
He unzips the bag and pulls out a beige folder. “A bombshell.”
Inside the folder are dozens of loose pages. Jonah riffles through them, fingers nimble, allowing me only brief glimpses of photocopied news articles and files printed from the Internet.
“A search of Samantha Boyd turns up all the usual information about the Nightlight Inn,” he says. “She’s the lone survivor. A Final Girl. Went off the grid eight years ago and was never seen or heard from again until a few days ago.”
“I already know that,” I say.
“Tina Stone is a different story.” Jonah finally stops flipping through the folder, landing on a news clipping. He hands it to me. “This is from the Hazleton Eagle. Twelve years ago.”
My heart thumps loud in my chest when I look at the clipping. I recognize it. The same one was at Lisa’s house.
HAZLETON, Pa.—A man was found stabbed to death yesterday inside the home he shared with his wife and stepdaughter. Responding to emergency calls, Hazleton police found Earl Potash, 46, dead in the kitchen of his Maple Street duplex, the victim of multiple stab wounds to the chest and stomach. Authorities have ruled the incident a homicide. The investigation is continuing.
“How did you find this?”
“Through a LexisNexis search on Tina Stone,” Jonah says.