“It’s hard to explain over the phone,” Jonah says. “You need to see it in person.”
I sigh. “Bethesda Fountain. Twenty minutes. Bring coffee.”
Pine Cottage, 11:49 p.m.
The moon had slipped behind some clouds, leaving the woods darker than before. Quincy had trouble staying on the path, the ground beneath her feet a dim muddle of leaves and underbrush. But she had reached the incline. She could feel the weight of extra effort tight in her calves.
She had no plan. Not really. She just wanted to confront them. She wanted to go to that rock, stand before their panting, moon-streaked bodies and tell them how much she hurt.
The knife would make them believe it. It would make them scared.
Soon Quincy was halfway up the incline. Heart pumping hot blood. Breath escaping in ragged puffs. As she marched upward, she was struck with the sensation that she was being watched. It was nothing more than a tickle on the back of her neck, telling her she wasn’t alone. She stopped, looked around. Although she saw nothing, she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her body. It made her think of the Indian ghosts rumored to roam the forest. She welcomed them, those vengeful spirits, eager to have them join her cause.
A sound entered the woods. Quick footsteps shush-shushing through the fallen leaves. For a moment, Quincy thought there really were ghosts in the forest, a herd of them coming toward her. She glanced behind her, expecting to see them swooping through the trees.
But this ghost was all too human. Quincy heard gasps of exertion, heavier than her own. Soon the sound was right behind her, making her spin.
Joe appeared, awake now and hastily dressed. His sweater was on backwards. The tag scraped his Adam’s apple as he stared at Quincy.
“Go away,” she said.
His breath was still heavy, gasping out words. “Don’t do this.”
Quincy turned away. Just looking at him made her queasy. She still felt him inside her. The burning between her legs both shamed and excited her.
“You don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“I do,” he said. “And it’s not worth it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve done it. And I felt the same way then that you do now.”
“Leave me alone.”
“I know you want to hurt them,” he said.
The thick darkness that had enveloped Quincy suddenly vanished, leaving her dizzy and disoriented. She saw the knife in her hand and sucked in air. She couldn’t remember why she had picked it up. Had she honestly intended to use it on them? On herself?
Shame burned through her. She shook her head back and forth. The dark forest blurred.
“It’s not what you think,” she said.
“Isn’t it?”
“I wasn’t—”
She stopped talking, knowing that whatever she said wouldn’t make sense. Words had failed her.
“You should go back,” he said. “It’s not right to be out here like this.”
“They hurt me,” Quincy said, suddenly crying again. “It’s not fair.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why you should go back now.”
Quincy wiped her eyes. She hated herself for crying in front of him. Hated how she had enjoyed being with him. Hated the fact that, out of everyone in that cabin, he was the only one who saw the real Quincy.
“I will,” she said. “Where are you going?”
He stared forward, as if seeking out a location in the far distance, somewhere beyond the trees.
“Home,” he said. “You should go home, too.”
Quincy nodded.
She dropped the knife.
It landed on its side, cushioned by leaves.
The she ran back the way she came, passing him, trying to ignore the way the moonlight clouded his glasses, turning the lenses opaque. Like a fog.
CHAPTER 36
Twenty-five minutes after hanging up with Jonah, I’m in Central Park, rushing through the Baroque tunnel that leads to Bethesda Terrace. I spot him through the ornate arches at the tunnel’s end, seated at the fountain’s edge. Pink shirt, blue pants, gray sport coat. Towering above him is the Angel of the Waters, a flock of pigeons resting on her outstretched wings.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, sitting beside him.
Jonah sniffs. “Whoa,” he says.
I, too, can smell myself. I wanted to take a shower in the hotel but there was no hot water left. I had to make do with a few well-placed splashes from the sink before putting on the clothes I’ve been wearing since the day before.
While dressing, I thought about how many miles these clothes have traveled in the past twenty-four hours. From Chicago to Muncie and back again. From Chicago to New York to that Spartan closet of shame. Now they’ve made their way into Central Park, stinking and sweat-stained. After today, I think I’ll burn them.
“Walk of shame?” Jonah asks.
“Save it,” I say. “Where’s my coffee?”
Two cups sit by his feet. Beside them is a messenger bag, filled with what I hope is enough information about Sam to force her out of my life. If not, I’d settle for getting her out of my apartment.
“Pick your poison,” Jonah says, raising the cups. “Black or cream and sugar?”
“Cream and sugar. Preferably intravenously.”
He hands me a cup marked with an X. I gulp down half of its contents before coming up for air.
“Thank you,” I say. “No matter how many good deeds you perform today, nothing will top this.”
“You’ll be rethinking that in a minute,” Jonah says as he reaches for the messenger bag.
“What did you find?”
He unzips the bag and pulls out a beige folder. “A bombshell.”
Inside the folder are dozens of loose pages. Jonah rifles through them, fingers nimble, allowing me only brief glimpses of photocopied news articles and files printed from the Internet.
“A search of Samantha Boyd turns up all the usual information about The Nightlight Inn,” he says. “She’s the lone survivor. A Final Girl. Went off the grid eight years ago and was never seen or heard from again until a few days ago.”
“I already know that,” I say.
“Tina Stone is a different story.” Jonah finally stops flipping through the folder, landing on a news clipping. He hands it to me. “This is from the Hazleton Eagle. Twelve years ago.”
My heart thumps loud in my chest when I look at the clipping. I recognize it. The same one was at Lisa’s house.
HAZLETON, Pa. — A man was found stabbed to death yesterday inside the home he shared with his wife and stepdaughter. Responding to emergency calls, Hazleton police found Earl Potash, 46, dead in the kitchen of his Pine Street duplex, the victim of multiple stab wounds to the chest and stomach. Authorities have ruled the incident a homicide. The investigation is continuing.
“How did you find this?”
“Through a Lexus Nexus search on Tina Stone,” Jonah says.
“But what does this have to do with her?”
“According to the newspaper, Earl Potash’s stepdaughter confessed to killing him, citing years of sexual abuse. Because she was a minor, and because sexual assault was a factor, her name is shielded in court records.”
Now I know why Lisa had the article.
“It was her,” I say. “Tina Stone. She killed her stepfather.”
Jonah gives a firm nod. “Afraid so.”
I gulp down more coffee, hoping it will chase away the headache that’s again blooming in my skull. At that moment, I would likely kill for a Xanax.
“I still don’t understand,” I say. “Why would Sam change her name to be the same as a woman who murdered her stepdad?”
“That’s the strange thing,” Jonah says. “I’m not sure she actually did.”
Out of the folder come several pages of medical records. At the top is the name Tina Stone.
“Aren’t medical records also supposed to be classified?” I ask.
“Clearly you’ve underestimated my powers,” Jonah says. “Bribes are a great motivator.”