“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 firm 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.
CHAPTER 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 onto 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 miniscule 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 secondhand. 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 stationary. 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 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-sized 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 from 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. Maybe forever. 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 trashcan 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 trashcan 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.
He’s really fucking gone.
I’d always assumed this day would come at some point. Hell, it had almost already happened, back 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 you 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?”