Page 115 of Final Girls

In the soft half-light, I can make out Sam on the edge of the bed. At least I think it’s her. She looks so unlike her normal self that recognition is slow to arrive. She wears a dress far different from the grungy black one she first showed up in. This one is red, with capped sleeves, an A-line skirt, a scooped neck that gives a tantalizing peek of cleavage. Matching heels are on her feet. Her hair is pulled up, exposing her pale neck.

She’s not alone.

A man sits beside her in a crisp black polo shirt and khakis. I have no trouble recognizing him.

Coop.

His hand is on Sam’s neck, caressing the pale skin just beneath her chin. Sam is touching him too, her index finger riding the swell of his left biceps. They lean into each other, faces turned, on the verge of a kiss.

“What—”

What the fuck is going on?

That’s what I mean to say, but only the first word comes out. Sam drops her hand from his arm. Coop’s hand remains at her neck, his whole body stilled by surprise. I haven’t seen him so shocked since our first meeting outside Pine Cottage. He wears the same expression hedid that night. It’s not as extreme, not as horrified. But it’s there. A slightly smudged copy of the original.

“Quincy,” he says. “I’m so—”

“Get out.”

He manages to stand and steps toward me. “I can explain.”

“Get out,” I say again, growling the words.

“But—”

“Get out!”

Suddenly I’m upon him, scratching at him with one hand while unleashing a series of slaps with the other. My hands soon turn to fists, flying at him, not caring what part of him I hit as long as I hit something. And I do, landing blow after blow as Coop merely stands there and takes it. But then Sam swoops in, a flash of red, all but tackling me against the wall.

“Go!” she hisses to Coop.

He pauses at the door, watching me wail and thrash and pound my head against the wall, each thump harder than the last.

“Get the fuck out!” Sam yells.

This time, Coop obeys and slips out of the room. I slide down the wall, weeping. Pain makes me double over, arms folded across my stomach. It feels like a sharpened blade is pushing into my gut, stabbing me again and again and again.

PINE COTTAGE

10:56 P.M.

Quincy, drained of tears, left the room in search of Janelle. She needed that combination of abrasiveness and pity only Janelle could provide. She was like human sandpaper in that regard. Rough and soothing in equal measure.

In the great room, she found Ramdy stuffed into one of the armchairs. Amy sat on Rodney’s lap, one lithe arm around his neck as they made out. They reminded Quincy of swimmers, mouths open, gasping.

“Where’s Janelle?”

The female half of Ramdy surfaced, catching her breath, annoyed to be so disturbed. “What?”

“Janelle. Have you seen her?”

Amy shook her head before diving back under.

Quincy then headed outside, creaking across the deck. It was a clear night, the full moon coloring the trees pale gray. She paused on the deck steps, listening for signs of Janelle. Footsteps on the grass, for instance. Or the throaty laugh that was so familiar she could pick it out in a crowd. She heard nothing but the last of the season’s creepers in the trees and the distant, forlorn hoot of an owl.

Rather than go back inside, Quincy kept walking, drawn into the woods. She found herself following the same path they had trod earlier, the leaves still tamped down. It was only when the forest floor began to rise that Quincy thought about turning back. By then it was too late. She needed to push on, even though she wasn’t sure why. Callit a hunch. An instinct. A certainty, even, surging with the blood inside her veins.

The large rock peeked into view as she neared the top of the incline. Its sheer size created a break in the canopy of tree branches overhead. It was like a hole in an umbrella, silver moonlight pouring through it, raining down on two people atop the rock.

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