“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.”
CHAPTER 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 cabinet door. 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.
CHAPTER 26
A buzz at the front door breaks the silence that’s fallen over the kitchen. It’s 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 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?”