Page 33 of Final Girls

“Someone who’s really upset about what happened to Lisa Milner and now wants to do something about it.”

“She’s not our responsibility, Quinn.”

“She came here to see me,” I say. “That makes her our responsibility.Myresponsibility.”

“And I got those charges dropped. I think that’s enough charity for someone we don’t know.”

Jeff shucks off his shirt, slides out of his pants, and crawls into bed, ready to put the whole night behind him. I remain by the door, arms crossed, sending out waves of unspoken anger.

“Yeah. You did a swell job.”

Jeff sits up, blinking at me. “Wait. You’re actually mad at me for that?”

“I’m mad that you were so quick to play the victim card. All it took was one mention of the Nightlight Inn.”

“Sam didn’t mind.”

“Only because she didn’t hear you. I’m sure things would be different if she had.”

“I’m not going to apologize for keeping her out of jail.”

“Nor should you,” I say. “But you can at least acknowledge that there might have been a better way to do it. You should have seen the way that cop looked at Sam. Like she was a wounded dog or something. That’s why she changed her name, Jeff. So people would stop pitying her.”

But I’m angry at him for reasons that go beyond Sam. When he whispered to that cop, I caught a glimpse of Jefferson Richards at work. The lawyer. The guy willing to say anything to help his client, even if it meant reducing her to an object of pity. I didn’t like what I saw.

“Listen,” Jeff says, reaching out for me. “I’m sorry I did that. But at the time it seemed like the quickest way to resolve the whole thing.”

I tighten my arms across my chest. “If the roles were reversed and it was me who had been arrested, would you have done the same thing?”

“Of course not.”

I detect a streak of falsehood in his voice. There’s a thinness to his words that brings the annoyed prickle back to my skin. I scratch my neck, trying to make it go away.

“But that’s what I am, right?” I say. “A victim? Just like Sam?”

A frustrated sigh from Jeff. “You know you’re more than that.”

“So is Sam. And while she’s staying with us, you need to treat her that way.”

Jeff tries to utter another apology, but I cut him off by whirling around and throwing open the bedroom door. When I leave, I slam it shut so hard the walls shake.

•••

The guest room is small, tidy, stuffy. The red shade of the nightstand lamp throws a rosy glow over the walls. Because of the hour, everything feels shimmering and dreamlike. I know I should try to sleep, but I don’t want to. Not with Sam seemingly wide-awake, pulsing with heat and energy and life. So we huddle on the queen bed, shoes discarded on the floor, our feet shoved beneath the comforter for warmth.

Sam retreats to the knapsack she dropped in the corner and removes a bottle of Wild Turkey.

“A little pick-me-up,” she says, climbing back into bed. “I think we need it.”

The Wild Turkey is passed back and forth, both of us swigging directly from the bottle. Each swallow is a burning lump sliding down my throat. They ignite faint traces of memory. Me and Janelle on the first night in our dorm room. The two of us shoulder to shoulder, her drinking wine coolers she had flirted from a junior across the hall, me sipping a Diet Coke. We became best friends that night. I still think of her as that. My best friend. It doesn’t matter that she’s ten years in the grave and that I know our friendship wouldn’t have survived even if she had.

“This is just for tonight, you know,” Sam says. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“You can stay as long as you need.”

“And I only need one night.”

“You should have told me you were struggling,” I say. “I’m happy to help. I can loan you money. Or whatever.”

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