Page 132 of Final Girls

“You like that, don’t you?” he groaned. “Like the way Matty Boy makes you feel?”

Tina nodded, although in truth his touch made her want to puke. But she endured it. She knew it wouldn’t last long.

“How many girls did you do this to?” she said. “Back at Blackthorn?”

“I dunno.” He was practically panting, his voice rough in her ears. “Ten or eleven or twelve.”

Tina’s body went rigid. “This is for them.”

She shoved an elbow into his stomach, which made him double over and back away, taking his cold, slimy hand with him. She then whirled around and punched him. Repeatedly. Quick, sharp jabs rightto his nose. Soon he was on his knees, holding his hands to his nose to try to halt the blood spurting out of it.

Tina kicked him. In the stomach. In his ribs. In his groin.

Once he was flat on his back and rolling in pain, Tina shoved a dishrag from the kitchen into his mouth. She yanked off his jeans and underwear. She tore at his shirt, ripping the seams until it was nothing but shreds stuck to his shoulders. Then she tied rope she had found under the kitchen sink around his wrists and ankles. Once he was good and secure, Tina whipped out the black dry-erase marker swiped from the whiteboard that listed the daily drink specials. Cap between her teeth, she jerked the marker open and scrawled three words across Matt Cromley’s naked torso.

MOLESTER.PERVERT.SCUM.

She took his clothes with her when she left.

NINE YEARS AFTER PINE COTTAGE

It was October, which meant she was thinking about Joe. It always happened when fall rolled around. Even nine years later that crisp chill in the air took her mind back to him in his sand-colored sweater, sneaking down the hall.Wait for me!she had whispered frantically at the back door, trying to catch up to him.

Each year, she thought it would be different, that the memories would fade. But now, though, she suspected they were a permanent part of her. Just like the tattoo on her wrist.

During her smoke break behind the diner, Tina rubbed her thumb across the tattoo, feeling the dark smoothness of the letters.

SURVIVOR

It had been six years since she got it. Long before she’d found her way north to Bangor. She got it in a fit of inspiration after writing all over Matt Cromley’s pink and pudgy body. She didn’t regret it one bit. It made her feel strong, even though she later worried that some customers would be put off by it and tip her less. Instead, most folks gave her more. The pity tippers. Thanks to them, she had been able to buy a car. It was nothing but a thirdhand Ford Escort, but she didn’t care. Wheels were wheels.

Inside the diner, the lunch crowd was starting to trickle in. Tina recognized the majority of the customers. She’d been around long enough to know who they were and what they wanted. Only one customer was a stranger—a goth kid draped in black. The way he kept staring at her creeped her out. When she went to take his order, she said, “Do I know you?”

The kid looked up at her. “No, but I know you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re that girl,” he said, eyes locked on her tattoo. “That girl who almost got herself killed at that hotel all those years back.”

Tina snapped her gum. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” The kid lowered his voice to a whisper. “I won’t tell anyone you’re Samantha Boyd.”

When her shift was through, Tina went straight to the library and its bank of outdated computers. Sitting among the elderly and Internet-deprived, she Googled the name Samantha Boyd.

They didn’t look so alike that they could be mistaken for twins. She was a bit thinner than Samantha, and their eyes weren’t quite the same. But the resemblance was there. It could be even stronger if Tina made her hair as dark as that goth kid’s.

She thought of Joe again. It couldn’t be helped. A search of his name brought up the same picture that had been printed everywhere after the Pine Cottage murders. And wherever Joe’s picture appeared, one of that girl always followed.

Quincy Carpenter. The survivor.

Tina stared at Quincy’s picture. Then at Joe’s. Then back to Samantha Boyd, her dark-haired doppelgänger.

In the back of her brain, something clicked. A plan.

NINE YEARS AND ELEVEN MONTHS AFTER PINE COTTAGE

Tina hauled her knapsack from the trunk of her Escort, assuring herself that she could actually pull this off. She’d planned this for almost a year now. She’d done her homework. She’d memorized her lines.

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