“But I was curious. God help me, I was. I thought the military would shake it out of me. That killing for my country would make me not want to do it. But it didn’t work. All the messed-up things I saw over there only made it worse. And not long after I got back home I found myself back in these woods, in a car, getting sucked off by some whore trying to hitchhike her way to New York. That time I wasn’t afraid. War had beat all the fear out of me. That time I actually did it.”
I keep my expression blank, willing myself not to show the fear and disgust churning inside me. I don’t want him to know what I’m thinking. I don’t want to make him mad.
“I swore I’d only do it that one time,” Coop says. “That I got it out of my system. But I kept coming back to these woods. Usually with a knife. And when I saw those two campers, I knew the sickness hadn’t left me.”
“What about now?”
“I’m trying, Quincy. I’m trying real hard.”
“You weren’t trying that night,” I say, trembling with desire to glare at him, to show him how much I hate him. There’s nothing left of my heart. It’s been reduced to knife-like shards.
“I was testing myself,” Coops says. “Going to this cabin. That’s how I’d do it. I’d park down the road and walk up here, peeking in windows, both hoping and dreading I’d see something that would bring the sickness back. Nothing ever did. Until I saw you.”
I think I might pass out. I pray that I do.
“I was supposed to be looking for the kid that escaped from the psych hospital,” he says. “Instead, I started circling this place, ready for another test. That’s when I found you in the woods. With the knife. You walked right past me. So close I could have reached out and touched you. But you were too angry to see me. You were so angry, Quincy. And so fiercely sad. It was beautiful.”
“I wasn’t going to do what you think I was,” I say, hoping he believes me. Hoping that one day I’ll believe it, too. “I dropped that knife.”
“I know. I watched you do it once he showed up. Then you left. And he left. But the knife stayed. So I picked it up.”
Coop takes another step closer. So close I can smell him. A mix of sweat and aftershave. I’m hit with flashes of last night. Him on top of me. Inside me. His scent now is exactly the same as then.
“I never meant for all of that to happen, Quincy. You’ve got to believe me. I just wanted to see where you were headed with that knife. I wanted to know what made someone as perfect as you so angry. So I went to the rock and saw them, and I knew that’s what upset you. The two of them screwing like filthy animals. That’s what they looked like, you know. Two grunting, dirty animals that needed to be put down.”
Coop lightly swings the hand that holds the gun, his elbow bending and unbending, as if he’s not quite willing to point it at me.
“But then your friend ran,” he says. “Craig. That was his name, right? And I couldn’t let him get away, Quincy. I just couldn’t. And there you were. And your friends. And I knew I had to get rid of all of you.”
“Why didn’t you kill me?” I’m crying more now. Tears of shame and sorrow and confusion soak my face. “You killed the others. Why not me?”
“Because I could tell you were special,” Coop says slowly, as if he’s still amazed by me all these years later. “And I was right. You should have seen yourself running through those woods, Quincy. Strong even then. Even more, you were running toward me, wanting me to help you.”
He gives me a bright-eyed look of admiration. Of awe.
“I had no right to snuff that out.”
“Even though there was a chance I could suddenly remember it was you?”
“Yes,” Coop says. “Even then. Because I knew what was happening. I had created another Lisa Milner. Another Samantha Boyd.”
“You knew who they were,” I say.
“I’m a cop. Of course I knew,” Coops says. “The Final Girls. Such strong, willful women. And I had made one. Me. In my mind, it made up for all the other bad things I’d done. And I swore I’d never let anything bad happen to you. I made sure you’d always need me. Even when it looked like you were drifting away from me.”
At first, I don’t know what he means. But then realization settles onto my shoulders, weighing me down. I slump further against the floor.
“The letter,” I say weakly. “You wrote that threatening letter.”
“I had to,” Coop says. “You were straying too far from me.”
It’s true. I was. Getting the website off the ground, moving in with Jeff, finally becoming the woman I’d always wanted to be. So Coop mailed a threat, knowing it would make me run back to him in a heartbeat. And I did.
A question unfolds in my mind, curling open like a flower. I’m afraid to ask it, but I must. “What else have you done? After that night? Were there more bad things?”
“I’ve been good,” Coop says. “Mostly.”
I shudder at the word. So much horror resides in those two tiny syllables.
“It’s been hard, Quincy. There were times I came so close to slipping. But then I’d think of you and manage to stop myself. I couldn’t risk losing you. You’ve made me behave myself.”
“And Lisa?” I say. “What about her?”
Coop hangs his head, looking truly regretful. “That was out of necessity.”
Because she suspected something. Probably after Tina arrived seeking answers about Pine Cottage. Lisa looked into because that’s the kind of person she was—big on details. And she kept looking after Tina left. Lisa found those articles about the murders in the woods, wrote a few emails, pieced it together that Joe likely wasn’t physically capable of killing everyone at Pine Cottage. Not someone as big as Rodney or as athletic as Craig. Coop was the only person there that night strong enough to overtake them.
That’s why Lisa emailed me right before she was killed. She wanted to warn me about Coop.
“You knew her, didn’t you?” I ask. “That’s why she invited you in, gave you wine, trusted you.”
“She didn’t trust me,” Coop says. “Not that night. She was trying to get me to confess.”
“But she trusted you once.”
Coop offers the slightest of nods. “Years ago.”
“Were you lovers?”
Another nod. Almost imperceptible.
I’m not surprised. I think again of the photo in Lisa’s room. The way Coop’s arm had been so casually thrown over her shoulders suggested ease and intimacy.
“When?” I say.
“Not long after what happened here. I asked Nancy to put us in touch. Once I realized I had created a Final Girl, I wanted to meet the others. I wanted to see if they were as strong as you.”
Coop puts a matter-of-fact spin on it, as if the whole twisted idea makes perfect sense. As if I, of all people, should understand the urge to compare and contrast us.
“Lisa was impressive, I’ll give her that,” he says. “All she wanted was to help you. I can’t count the number of times she asked me how you were coping, if you needed help. I feel bad about what happened to her. Her concern for you was admirable, Quincy. Noble. Not like Samantha.”
I try not to show my shock. I don’t want to give Coop the satisfaction. But he sees it anyway and gives a half-smile, proud of himself.
“Yes, I met Samantha Boyd,” he says. “The real one. Not this cheap imitator.”
He dips his chin in the direction of Tina’s body and purses his lips. For a sickening moment, I think he’s going to spit on her. I close my eyes to avoid seeing it if he does.
“You knew all along she wasn’t Sam?”
“I knew,” Coop says. “I knew it the second I saw that picture of you two in the newspaper. There’s a bit of a resemblance, sure. But I knew she couldn’t be the real Samantha Boyd. What I didn’t know is what to do about it.”
My mind flashes back to last night, when I came home and found the two of them together. I recall the way Coop’s hand was on her neck. It looked like a caress. It could have been a clench. He had planned on killing Tina, too. Perhaps right there in the guest room.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t,” Coop says. “Not without making it known that Samantha Boyd was dead.”
I groan, my pain and sorrow finally too much to keep hidden. I keep on groaning, getting louder, trying to block Coop’s confession. But I’ve heard too much already. I now know that Coop also killed Samantha Boyd. She didn’t drop off the grid. He had erased her from it.