“Excuse me,” the man says again, putting a more urgent spin on it, getting the attention of others, who look up, look at him, look at us. We’re visible again.
Sam increases her pace, making me do the same. We reach the door and start to push through it, but the man is behind us, moving fast, reaching out to tap me on the shoulder.
Out on the street, Sam prepares to run. Her body tenses next to mine, readying for the sprint. I tense up, too, mostly because the man is right at my back now. His hand drops onto my shoulder, making me spin around and hold the purse out to him, as if in offering.
The man looks not at the purse, but at the two of us, a stupid grin on his face. “I knew it was you.”
“We don’t know you, man,” Sam says.
“I know you,” he says. “Quincy Carpenter and Samantha Boyd, right? The Final Girls.”
The man fishes in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a pen tangled in a ring of keys. He yanks it loose and hands it to me.
“It’d be awesome if I could get your autographs.”
He then offers the newspaper. It’s a tabloid, the cover stretched tight and facing us. When we look at it, our own faces stare back.
I teeter backwards, dropping to earth, the sidewalk under my feet suddenly hard and jarring. A second look at the newspaper confirms what I already know.
Somehow, Sam and I have become front page news.
CHAPTER 12
Our picture takes up most of the front page, filling it all the way to the masthead. The image shows Sam and me during our first meeting, standing outside my building, sizing each other up. It captures me at my very worst—with my weight shifted to my right leg, hip jutting, arms crossed in suspicion. Sam’s positioned slightly away from the camera, with just a slice of her pale profile visible. Her knapsack is still settling at my feet and her mouth yawns open as she speaks. I recall that moment with cutting exactitude. It was right before Sam started to say, You don’t need to be such a bitch.
The headline sits below the photo in large, red letters. SOUL SURVIVORS.
Beneath it is a photo of Lisa Milner, similar to the one on her book cover. Next to it is a headline smaller in size but no less alarming.
Final Girls meet after suicide of kill spree victim Lisa Milner.
I look to the masthead again. It’s the same tabloid that reporter idling outside my building yesterday said he works for. His name lurches into my head. Jonah Thompson. That devious prick. He must have still been there, probably spying on us while scrunched in the front seat of a parked car, camera poised on the dashboard.
I snatch the newspaper from the autograph hound and start to walk away.
“Hey!” he says.
I keep walking, tripping down Fifth Avenue. Even though my legs are wobbly from Xanax, my muscles yearn for another. And then another. As many as it takes to plunge me into oblivion for a few days. Which still wouldn’t be enough to snuff out my anger.
I flip through the newspaper as I walk. Inside it is a bigger photograph of Lisa and a series of shots detailing the first conversation between Sam and me, all taken from the same angle. I look gradually less angry in those pictures, my stance and expression softening. As for the actual article, I can barely make it through the first two paragraphs.
“What does it say?” Sam asks as she hurries to keep up.
“That we’re both in the city, united by Lisa’s sudden suicide.”
“Well, it’s kind of the truth.”
“And it’s no one’s goddamn business but ours. Which is exactly what I’m going to say to Jonah Thompson.”
I toss through the newspaper until I find the address of its newsroom. West 47th Street. Two blocks south and one block west. I surge forward, fueled only by rage. I go two steps before realizing that Sam hasn’t moved. She stands on the corner, nibbling at her cuticles while watching my retreat.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Sam shakes her head.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not a good idea.”
“Says the woman who just encouraged me to shoplift.” This turns the heads of several people passing by. I don’t care. “I’m still going.”
“Whatever cranks your chain, babe.”
“You’re really not pissed off about this?”
“Sure, I’m pissed.”
“Then we should do something about it.”
“It won’t make any difference,” Sam says. “We’ll still be on the front page.”
More heads turn. I scowl at those who meet my gaze. Then I scowl at Sam, frustrated by her lack of anger. I want the Sam from an hour ago, urging me to embrace my rage, but she’s been replaced by someone made mellow by the same Xanax that surges through me.
“I’m still going,” I say.
“Don’t,” Sam says.
I start walking again, anger pushing me forward. I call to Sam over my shoulder, my words stretching into a taunt. “I’m go-ing.”
“Quinn, wait.”
But it’s too late for that. I’ve reached the other end of the block and am crossing the street against the light. I think I hear Sam still calling after me, her voice blending into the din of the city. I keep going, newspaper in my fist, refusing to stop until I’m face to face with Jonah Thompson.
There’s no getting past the security desk. It sits just inside the lobby, mere feet from the busy bank of elevators. I could make a run for the constantly opening and closing doors, but the guard on duty is a full foot taller than me. He’d be able to cross that lobby in a flash, blocking my path.
So I march right up to him, rolled newspaper in hand, and announce, “I’m here to see Jonah Thompson.”
“Name?”
“Quincy Carpenter.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No,” I say. “But I know he’ll want to see me.”
The guard checks a directory, makes a call and tells me to wait by the mural positioned opposite the elevators. It’s a massive Art Deco thing. A Manhattan skyline, painted in muted tones. I’m still looking at it when a voice sounds at my back.
“Quincy,” Jonah Thompson says. “You change your mind about talking?”
I whirl around, the sight of him boiling my blood. He’s wearing a checked shirt and skinny tie, trendy and smug. A bulging file folder is tucked under one arm. Probably dirt on his next victim.
“I’m here to get an apology, you son of a bitch.”
“You’ve seen the paper.”
“And now the whole goddamn city can see where I live,” I say, waving said paper in his face.
He blinks behind his thick-framed glasses, more amused than alarmed. “Neither the article nor the photo captions mention where you live. I made sure of that. I didn’t even name the street.”
“No, but you showed us. You identified who we are. Now the whole world can Google our names and see what Samantha Boyd and I look like. Which means any psycho can show up and stalk us.”
This he hasn’t thought of. The slight whitening of his face makes that abundantly clear.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Of course you didn’t. You were just thinking about how many papers you’ll sell. What kind of raise you’ll get. How much the inevitable offer from TMZ will be.”
“That’s not the reason—”
“I could sue you,” I say, interrupting again. “Sam and I both could. So you better pray that nothing happens to us.”
Jonah gives a hard swallow. “So you came here to tell me you’re going to sue the paper?”
“I’m here to warn you that there’ll be hell to pay if I ever see another article about me or Samantha Boyd. What happened to us was years ago. Let it rest.”
“There’s something you need to know about that article,” Jonah says.
“You can shove that article up your ass.”
I move to leave but he grabs my arm, tugging me backward.
“Don’t touch me, you prick!”
Jonah’s stronger than he looks, his grip alarmingly tight. I try to get free, arm twisting, elbow aching.
“Just listen to me,” he says. “It’s about Samantha Boyd. She’s lying to you.”
“Let me go!”
I give him a shove. Harder than I intend. Hard enough to get the attention of the guard, who barks, “Miss, you need to leave.”