Page 45 of Final Girls

“Whatever cranks your chain, babe.”

“You’re really not pissed off about this?”

“Sure, I’m pissed.”

“Then we should do something about it.”

“It won’t make any difference,” Sam says. “We’ll still be on the front page.”

More heads turn. I scowl at those who meet my gaze. Then I scowl at Sam, frustrated by her lack of anger. I want the Sam from an hour ago, urging me to embrace my rage, but she’s been replaced by someone made mellow by the same Xanax that itches within me.

“I’m still going,” I say.

“Don’t,” Sam says.

I start walking again, anger pushing me forward. I call to Sam over my shoulder, my words stretching into a taunt. “I’mgo-ing.”

“Quinn, wait.”

But it’s too late for that. I’ve reached the other end of the block and am crossing the street against the light. I think I hear Sam still calling after me, her voice blending into the din of the city. I keep going, newspaper in my fist, refusing to stop until I’m face-to-face with Jonah Thompson.

•••

There’s no getting past the security desk. It sits just inside the lobby, mere feet from the busy bank of elevators. I could make a run for the constantly opening and closing doors, but the guard on duty is a full foot taller than I. He’d be able to cross that lobby in a flash, blocking my path.

So I march right up to him, rolled newspaper in hand, and announce, “I’m here to see Jonah Thompson.”

“Name?”

“Quincy Carpenter.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“No,” I say. “But I know he’ll want to see me.”

The guard checks a directory, makes a call, and tells me to wait by the mural positioned opposite the elevators. It’s a massive Art Deco thing. A Manhattan skyline, painted in muted tones. I’m still looking at it when a voice sounds at my back.

“Quincy,” Jonah Thompson says. “You change your mind about talking?”

I whirl around, the sight of him boiling my blood. He’s wearing a checked shirt and skinny tie, trendy and smug. A bulging file folder is tucked under one arm. Probably dirt on his next victim.

“I’m here to get an apology, you son of a bitch.”

“You’ve seen the paper.”

“And now the whole goddamn city can see where I live,” I say, waving said paper in his face.

He blinks behind his thick-framed glasses, more amused thanalarmed. “Neither the article nor the photo captions mention where you live. I made sure of that. I didn’t even name the street.”

“No, but you showed us. You identified who we are. Now the whole world can Google our names and see what Samantha Boyd and I look like. Which means any psycho can show up and stalk us.”

This he hasn’t thought of. The slight whitening of his face makes that abundantly clear.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t. You were just thinking about how many papers you’d sell. What kind of raise you’d get. How much the inevitable offer fromTMZwould be.”

“That’s not the reason—”

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