“And you seduced him.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Sam says. “He was more than willing. Even though he kept talking about how wrong it was.”
“Then why did you do it?”
Sam lets out a weary sigh. She looks so tired, so defeated by life.
So utterly damaged.
“Because I thought it would help us,” she says. “You, especially. If the police are able to trace that guy’s beating back to us, we’re going to need someone on our side. Someone other than Jeff.”
“A cop,” I say, grim understanding settling over me. “One who can defend us to his colleagues. One too blinded by emotions to do the right thing and turn us in if he suspects something.”
“Bingo,” Sam says. “But you know all about that, don’t you?”
“I’ve never fucked Coop.”
A snort from Sam, nostrils streaming smoke. “Like that matters. You’re still using him. For years, you’ve used him. Texting him at all hours. Beckoning him into the city at a moment’s notice. Flirting with him every now and then to keep him interested.”
“That’s not how it is,” I say. “I would never do that to him.”
“You do it all the time, Quinn. I’ve seen you do it.”
“Not on purpose.”
“Really?” Sam says. “You mean to tell me this weird, creepy thing between you two has nothing to do with what happened at Pine Cottage? That you’ve never noticed, not even the tiniest bit, that you have him wrapped around your finger?”
“I don’t,” I say.
Sam stubs out her cigarette. Lights another. “Lies, lies, lies.”
“Let’s talk about lies,” I say, pushing away from the wall, strengthened by anger. “You lied when you told me you never met Lisa. You did. You stayed at her house.”
Sam stops inhaling on the cigarette, her cheeks slightly sucked in, smoke gathering in her mouth. When she parts her lips, a grayish cloud rolls out like a fog bank.
“You’re crazy.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say. “At least admit you were there.”
“Fine. I was there.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago,” she says. “But you already knew that.”
“Why did you go? Did Lisa invite you?”
Sam shakes her head.
“So you just showed up like you did with me?”
“Yup,” Sam says. “Unlike you, she actually said hello when she realized who I was.”
“How long were you there?”
“About a week,” Sam says.
“So she liked having you there?”
It’s a wasted question. Of course Lisa liked having Sam there. It’s what she lived for—taking troubled young women under her wing and helping them. Sam was likely the most troubled of them all.
“She did,” Sam says. “At first. But by the end of the week, Lisa couldn’t deal with me anymore.”
I infer the rest. Sam showed up out of the blue, knapsack bulging with Wild Turkey and expressions of sisterhood. Lisa gladly let her crash in the guest room. But that wasn’t enough. Not for Sam. She needed to pry, to needle. She probably tried to shake Lisa out of her complacency. To make her get angry, to make her a survivor.
Lisa didn’t let her. I did. Both of us paid a very different price.
“So why did you lie about it?”
“Because I knew you’d become a drama queen if I told you. That you’d start getting suspicious.”
“Why?” I say. “Do you have something to hide? Did you kill Lisa, Sam?”
There it is. The question that’s been itching at the back of my brain for days, now spoken, made real. Sam shakes her head, as if she pities me.
“Poor, sad Quincy. You’re more messed in the head than I thought.”
“Tell me you had nothing to do with her death,” I say.
Sam drops the cigarette, making a show of grinding it out on the hardwood floor with the toe of her boot. “No matter what I say, you’re not going to believe me.”
“You’ve given me no reason so far,” I reply. “Why start now?”
“I didn’t kill Lisa,” Sam says. “Believe me or not. I don’t give a fuck.”
A beep rises from deep within my pocket. My phone.
“That’s probably your boyfriend,” Sam says with pronounced disgust. “One of them, at least.”
I check the phone. Sure enough, there’s a text from Coop.
we need to talk
At the window, Sam asks, “Which one is it?”
I don’t answer, which is an answer in itself. I stare at the screen, my heart seizing up at the prospect of seeing Coop again. Not just tonight. But ever again.
Sam jams another cigarette between her lips and says, “Run to your little cop, Quincy Carpenter. But remember, watch what you say. My secrets are your secrets. And Officer Cooper might not like yours.”
“Go to hell,” I say.
Sam lights up and smiles. “Already been there, babe.”
Pine Cottage, 11:12 p.m.
Quincy was out of breath by the time she reached the cabin. Her lungs burned, scraped by both exertion and the night air. Despite the chill, a thin coating of sweat covered her skin, cold and sticky.
Inside, it was quietly chaotic, all dirty dishes and liquor bottles with only dregs remaining. The great room was abandoned. Even the fire had gone out, a trace of wood-smoke heat the only reminder it ever existed.
Sleep. That was all Quincy wanted. To fall asleep and wake up having forgotten everything she had seen. It was possible, she knew. Already her brain was telling her that she was mixed up, saw something she didn’t really see. Maybe Janelle had been with someone else. Joe, perhaps. Or maybe Quincy only thought she saw Craig lying on his back, face contorted, pushing into her.
But her heart knew otherwise.
Wiping away tears, Quincy crept down the hall, passing Janelle’s empty room. Across the hall, Betz had gone to bed, the closed door shutting out the view of those sad bunk beds. The door to Ramdy’s room was also closed, not quite blocking out the violent sloshing sound of the waterbed. Occasional grunts from Rodney rose with the tide.
Quincy turned into Craig’s room.
Fuck Craig.
It was her room now.
But it wasn’t empty. Someone was on the bed, a vague outline in the moonlit gloom. He lay with his hands behind his head. Quincy faintly saw his wide-open eyes behind his dirty glasses.
“I didn’t know where to sleep,” he said.
Quincy stared at him, jealous of how comfortable he looked, how oblivious he was. She sniffed. She caught a tear before it could streak down her face.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“You need to go,” Quincy said.
He sat up, concern flickering in his half-obscured eyes. “You’re not okay.”
“No shit,” Quincy said, sitting on the bed. Another tear fell. This time she wasn’t able to stop it.
“I saw them leave together,” he said. “They walked into the woods.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
He touched her shoulder, the suddenness of the gesture making Quincy recoil.
“Please go,” she said.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” he said.
When he touched her shoulder a second time, Quincy allowed it. Emboldened, his hand slipped down Quincy’s arm to her midriff. Again, she let him do it.
“You’re better than him,” he whispered. “Better than both of them. So pretty.”
“Thank you,” Quincy said.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Quincy turned to him, grateful for his presence. He seemed so sincere. So inexperienced. The opposite of Craig.
She leaned in and kissed him. His lips were hot against hers, kissing back. His tongue slid into her mouth. Tentative. Exploring. It made Quincy almost forget what she had seen in the woods. How Janelle was on top of Craig, riding him, her body radiating lust and pain.
But that wasn’t enough. Quincy wanted to forget completely.
Without a word, she climbed on top of him, surprised at how solid he felt beneath her. Like a downed tree. Sturdy oak. Quincy pulled off his sweater, which smelled vaguely of industrial-strength cleaner. The odor stung her nose as she tossed it to the floor and tugged his
T-shirt over his head.
She began to suck on his narrow chest, running her hands over the milky skin. So pale. So cold. Like a ghost.