Page 93 of Final Girls

“Tina Stone,” I say.

“Who’s that?”

“Samantha Boyd’s name. She had it legally changed years ago, to avoid people like you. That’s how she was able to keep a low profile all those years. Samantha Boyd technically no longer exists.”

“Thank you, Quincy,” Jonah says. “I think I’ll do some digging into the life of Tina Stone.”

“You’ll tell me what you find out.”

It’s not a question. Jonah acknowledges that with a terse nod.

“Of course.”

“Now it’s your turn,” I say. “Tell me what you know.”

“It concerns that article I swore I’d never mention again. Specifically the photos that ran with it.”

“What about them?”

Jonah takes a deep breath and raises his hands, proclaiming his innocence before saying a word.

“Remember, I’m just the messenger,” he finally says. “Please don’t kill me.”

25.

Sam’s in the kitchen, apron on, pretending to be Betty Fucking Crocker. Pretending to be anything other than a devious bitch. When I enter, she’s hovering over a mixing bowl, whisking eggs into a snowy pile of sugar and flour.

“We need to talk,” I say.

Her eyes never leave the bowl. “Just give me a minute.”

I rush to her. In a flash, the bowl is off the counter and slamming against the floor. A line of cake batter traces its descent, trailing from the countertop, down the cupboard beneath it, and across the floor to the bowl itself.

“What the fuck, Quinn?” Sam says.

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking, Sam. What the fuck?”

She leans against the counter and looks at me warily. And then she understands. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“How much did he tell you?”

“Everything.”

I know it all. How she went to Jonah’s newsroom the day after news of Lisa’s death broke. How she told him who she was and that she was in New York to see me. How she asked if he wanted the photo op of a lifetime.

“You knew he was still there when you introduced yourself,” I say. “You planned it that way. Youwantedus to be on the front page.”

Sam doesn’t move, her boots planted on the kitchen floor, a slow sludge of cake batter pooling around one of them.

“Yeah,” she says. “So?”

I grab a nearby spatula and fling it across the room. It hits the wall next to the window, a blotch of cake batter sticking to the paint after it falls. It doesn’t make me feel better.

“Do you realize how stupid that was? People saw those pictures, Sam. Lots of them. Strangers now know who we are. They know where Ilive.”

“I did it for you,” Sam says.

I slam my hand against the counter. I don’t want to hear any of it. “Shut up.”

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