Page 69 of Final Girls

I merely hold my cigarette while she smokes the remainder of hers, always on the lookout, our eyes never leaving the dark horizon of the park.

“How are you feeling?” Sam asks. “About Lisa.”

“Mad.”

“Good.”

“What happened to her is so wrong. I think it was easier—”

I can’t say the rest of what I’m thinking. That it was easier to deal with when we thought Lisa had killed herself. It’s not something you want to articulate, even if it’s true.

“Do you really think someone’s out to get us?” Sam says.

“It’s a possibility,” I say. “We’re famous, in our way.”

Rather, we’re infamous. Notable for going through unthinkable situations with our lives intact. And some people—like the sicko who drove to Quincy, Illinois, to send me that letter—might see it as a challenge. To finish off what others couldn’t complete.

Sam sucks in the last dregs of smoke from her cigarette. She then puffs it out, talking as she does it. “Were you ever going to tell me about that email from Lisa?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I wanted to.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I didn’t know what it meant.”

“Now it means we might be in danger,” Sam says.

Yet here we are, sitting in Central Park at an ungodly hour, just asking for trouble. Hoping for it, in fact. But I see nothing in the clear night. Only our streetlamp-enabled shadows stretching across the path in front of us, dotted with the smoldering butts of our two cigarettes.

“What happens if we don’t see anyone?” I say.

Sam jerks her head toward the purse still looped over my forearm. “That’s why we brought that.”

“When can we use it?”

She lifts one drawn-on brow and smiles in spite of herself. “Now, if you want.”

Quickly, we form a plan. Because I’m smaller and therefore an easier target, I’ll stroll through the park alone, the purse a tease dangling from my arm. Sam will follow at a discreet distance, staying off the path, where it’s less likely she’ll be noticed. If and when someone strikes, we’ll be ready to strike back.

It’s a solid plan. Only mildly reckless.

“I’m ready,” I say.

Sam points the way down the tree-shrouded path. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

•••

At first, I walk too fast, the purse swinging as I tear down the path in a hurried gait that would give even the most experienced muggers second thoughts. I move so quickly that Sam has trouble keeping up. Looking over my shoulder, I glimpse her far in the distance, skirting around trees and hurrying over the grass.

After that, I slow down, reminding myself the aim is to look vulnerable and easy to catch. Also, I don’t want Sam to fall so far behind that she can’t rescue me if the need arises. Eventually I settle into a nice, even pace and head south along the path that hugs the shore of Central Park Lake. I see no one. I hear nothing but the occasional car on Central Park West and the scuffing of my soles against the ground. To my right is a sliver of empty park, bordered by high stone walls. On my left sits the lake, its placid surface reflecting a smattering of lights from buildings along the Upper West Side.

I’ve lost track of Sam, who’s still somewhere behind me, creeping through the darkness. I am alone, which doesn’t unnerve me as much as it should. I’ve been alone in the woods before. In situations more dangerous than this.

It takes me fifteen minutes to make a loop back to my starting point. I stand right where I began, my skin slimy with perspirationand two damp patches under my arms. Now is a rational time to find Sam and head back to the apartment, to bed, to Jeff.

But I’m not feeling rational. Not after the day I’ve had. A hollow ache has formed like hunger in my gut. My single pass through the park isn’t enough to make it go away. So I set off on a second one, again walking beside the lake. This time, fewer lights reflect off the water’s surface. The city around me is winking to sleep one window at a time. When I reach Bow Bridge at the lake’s southern end, everything is darker. The night has swept me into its arms, wrapping me in shadows.

With that dark embrace comes something else. A man. Drifting through the park on a separate path fifty yards to my right. Immediately, I can tell he’s not one of the prowling men looking for sex. His walk is different, less confident. Head down and hands thrust into the pockets of his black jacket, his progress is more amble than walk. He’s trying hard to look inconspicuous and nonthreatening.

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