Don’t worry about it. I know what to do.
I see her swearing a path through the crush of reporters outside, unafraid of the cameras, completely unfazed when Jonah tells us that Lisa’s been murdered. Her face is painted white by the flashbulbs, turned the same shade as a corpse on the slab. There’s no expression there. No sadness or surprise.
Nothing.
“Miss Carpenter?” The detective’s voice sounds faint among the shuffling memories. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I know all about those. Sam has never lied to me.”
She hasn’t. At least there’s nothing I can definitively pinpoint as a lie. But she hasn’t exactly told me the truth, either. Since her arrival, Sam hasn’t told me much of anything.
I don’t know where she’s been.
I don’t know who she was with.
Most of all, I have no idea what horrible things she might have done.
CHAPTER 22
The chill has returned to the park in full force, shocking in the same way water feels when you take that first plunge into a swimming pool. Change hangs in the air—a sense of time running out. Fall has officially arrived.
Because of the weather, everyone moves with manic energy. Joggers and cyclists and nannies pushing ridiculous double-wide strollers. It makes them look like they’re fleeing something, even though they travel in all directions. Willy-nilly ants evading the foot about to crush their hill.
I, however, am stillness personified as I stand outside the precinct’s tall glass window. Sam is inside, talking to Detective Hernandez, hopefully telling her the same things I did. And although I appear content to remain motionless, all I really want to do is run. Not toward home, but away from it. I long to run until I reach the George Washington Bridge, where I’ll keep running. Through New Jersey. Through Pennsylvania and Ohio. Vanishing into the heartland.
Only then will I be away from the reality of what I’d done in the park. Away from the brief, confounding flashes of Pine Cottage that still cling to me like a sweat-soaked shirt. Most of all, I’d be away from Sam. I don’t want to be here when she emerges from the police station. I’m afraid of what I’ll see, as if one look will reveal the guilt on her face, as bright and glaring as her red lipstick.
But I stay, even though my legs tremble with pent-up energy. I long to take a Xanax so bad I can already taste the grape soda on my tongue.
I stay because I could be wrong about Sam.
I want to be wrong.
So she was in Indiana while Lisa was still alive. In all likelihood, their paths never came close to crossing. Indiana is a big state, after all, with more to it than just Muncie. Sam’s presence there certainly doesn’t mean she went to see Lisa. And it’s definitely no reason to suggest Sam killed her. That I immediately jumped to that conclusion says more about me than it does her.
At least that’s what I try to tell myself as I huddle against the chill, my leg still twitching, wondering what exactly Sam is saying deep inside the building behind me. She’s been in there twenty minutes now—far longer than me. Worry nudges my sides, riling me up, making me want to run even more.
I yank my phone from my pocket and run the pad of my thumb across its screen. I think about calling Coop and confessing all my sins, even if it means he’ll hate me. Short of running, it’s the only logical course of action. Face my misdeeds. Let the chips fall.
But then Sam emerges through the precinct’s glass doors, smiling like a kid that’s just gotten away with something. The grin sets off a lightning bolt of fear in my heart. I’m afraid that Sam has told the truth about last night. Worse, I’m afraid she’s now on to my suspicions. That she instinctively knows what’s going through my mind. Already, she sees something off about my expression. Her grin flattens. She tilts her head, assessing me.
“Relax, babe,” she says. “I stuck to the script.”
She has the purse with her. It dangles from her forearm, giving her a disconcertingly dainty appearance. She tries to pass it to me, but I take a step back. I want nothing to do with it. Nor do I want anything to do with Sam. I keep an arm’s length between us as we walk away from the police station. Even walking is a chore. My body still longs to sprint.
“Hey,” she says, noticing the distance. “You don’t have to be so tense now. I told Detective McBitch exactly what we discussed. Girls’ night out. Drunk in the park. That dude stole the purse.”
“He has a name,” I say. “Ricardo Ruiz.”
Sam hits me with a sidelong glance. “Oh, you’re into saying names now?”
“I think I have to.”
I feel compelled to start repeating it every day like a Hail Mary, atoning for my sins. I would do it, too, if I knew it would help.
“Just so we’re clear,” Sam says. “It’s okay to say the name Rocky Ruiz, but I’m not allowed to say—”
“Don’t.”
The word emerges like the crack of a whip, sharp and stinging. Sam shakes her head. “Damn. You are tense.”
I have every right to be. A man is in a coma because of me. Lisa was murdered. And Sam—Maybe? Possibly?—was there.
“Where were you before you came to New York?” I ask. “And don’t tell me ‘Here and there.’ I need someplace specific.”
Sam stays silent a moment. Just long enough for me to wonder if she’s picking through several possible lies stored in her brain, deciding on the best one to use. Finally, she says, “Maine.”
“Where in Maine?”
“Bangor. Happy now?”
I’m not. It tells me nothing.
We keep walking, heading south, deeper into the park. Red oaks line both sides of the path, their leaves barely clinging to the branches. Acorns have already started to drop, scattered in wide, unruly circles around the tree trunks. A few fall as we pass. Each one makes a tiny plunking noise when it hits the ground.
“How long were you there?” I ask Sam.
“I don’t know. Years?”
“And did you go anywhere else during that time?”
Sam lifts her arms, the purse swinging, and assumes a haughty voice. “Oh, nowhere special. You know, just the Hamptons in the summer and the Riviera in winter. Monaco is simply gorgeous this time of year.”
“I’m serious, Sam.”
“And I’m seriously getting annoyed by all these questions.”
I want to shake Sam so hard that the truth finally dislodges and plunks to the ground like the acorns dropping all around us. I want her to tell me everything. Instead, I calm the emotional storm swirling inside me long enough to say, “I’m just making sure there are no secrets between us.”
“I never lied to you, Quincy. Not once.”
“But you haven’t told me your full story,” I say. “I just need to know the truth.”
“You really want the truth?”
Sam nods at the path just ahead of us. It’s only then that I realize how far we’ve walked, that Sam has used the distance I put between us to her advantage, subtly steering us to the spot we had fled last night.
The cops have gone, taking their fluttering partition of police tape with them. The only sign of their former presence is a wide swath of grass that’s been flattened against the ground. Tamped down, no doubt, by officers searching for evidence. I study the grass, looking for heel prints left by Detective Hernandez’s boots.
A cluster of candles blocks the path where Rocky Ruiz was found. They’re tall, skinny glass ones with pictures of the Virgin Mary on the sides, sold for a dollar in nearly every bodega in the city. There’s also a cheap teddy bear holding a heart, a hastily scrawled poster board sign reading JUSTICE 4 ROCKY and a helium balloon held in place by a plastic weight tied to its string.
“Right there is the truth,” Sam says. “You did that, babe, and I’m covering for you. I could have told that detective everything, but I didn’t. That’s all the truth you need to know.”