by Riley Sager
“Smile,” Quincy ordered.
Betz frowned. “I’ll smile when this hike is over.”
Quincy took her picture anyway before moving on to Amy and Rodney, walking as one, their hips all but connected. Since they were never not together, everyone else had taken to calling them Ramdy.
Amy wore one of Rodney’s flannel shirts, the too-long sleeves hanging past her fingertips. Beside her, Rodney resembled a grizzly bear, with his stoner scruff and thatch of chest hair peeking over the collar of his V-neck. Seeing Quincy, they squeezed tightly together, mugging.
“That’s it,” Quincy said. “Make love to the camera.”
“You guys keeping up back there?” Craig called to them as they all began to scale a slight incline. Downed leaves made the ground slick, and Janelle and Quincy held hands, alternately hauling each other up the hill.
“Seriously, you don’t want to fall behind,” Janelle said with the authority of a tour guide. “These woods are haunted.”
“Bullshit,” Rodney replied.
“It’s true. An Indian tribe used to live here hundreds of years ago. Then the white man came and wiped them out. Their blood is on our hands, guys.”
“I don’t see anything,” Rodney said, turning his hands in mock examination.
“Be nice,” Amy chided.
“Anyhow,” Janelle said, “they say the spirits of these Indians haunt the woods, ready to kill any white man they see. So watch your back, Rodney.”
“Why me?”
“Because Craig is too strong to be defeated by a ghost, Indian or otherwise,” Quincy said.
“What about you?”
“I said the white man killed them,” Janelle said. “We’re women. They’ve got no beef with us.”
“People really did die out here.”
Betz is the one who said it. Quiet, observant Betz. She looked at them all with her too-large, slightly spooky eyes.
“A guy in my world lit class told me about it,” she said. “A pair of campers were killed in the woods last year. A boyfriend and girlfriend. The police found them stabbed to death in their tent.”
“Did they ever catch who did it?” Amy asked, sinking deeper against Rodney.
Betz shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
No one spoke as they climbed the rest of the hill. Even the crunch of their feet on the leaf-strewn ground seemed to quiet down, letting them subconsciously listen for the sound of someone else in the woods. In that soft, new silence, Quincy sensed they weren’t alone. She knew she was being foolish. That it was simply the by-product of what Betz had told them. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was in the woods with them. Not very far at all. Watching.
A twig snapped nearby. Fewer than ten yards away. Hearing it made Quincy chirp out a half shriek. It set off a chain reaction of yelps, rising almost simultaneously from Janelle, Betz, and Amy.
Rodney, on the other hand, laughed. “God,” he said. “Nervous much?”
He pointed to the source of the noise—a mere squirrel, its tail a white flag waving above the underbrush. The rest of them began to laugh too. Even Quincy, who instantly forgot how strangely jittery she had felt mere moments before.
At the crest of the hill, they found a large, flat-topped rock as wide as a king bed. Dozens of names had been carved into the surface—remnants of similar kids who’d made the same trek. Rodney picked up a sharp stone and began to add his name to the list. Beer cans and cigarette butts were scattered around the rock’s perimeter, and an unrolled condom drooped from the spindly branch of a nearby sapling, prompting disgusted squeals from Janelle and Quincy.
“Maybe you and Craig can do it up here,” Janelle whispered. “At least protection is provided.”
“If we do it,” Quincy said, “it certainly won’t be on a rock that, from the looks of it, is an STD waiting to happen.”
“Wait— You haven’t decided yet?”
“I’ve decided not to decide,” Quincy said, when in fact she already had. Agreeing to sleep in the same bed with Craig sealed that particular deal. “It’ll happen when it happens.”
“It better happen fast,” Janelle said. “Craig is prime beef, Quinn. I’m sure lots of girls are dying for a taste.”
“Interesting metaphor,” Quincy replied dryly.
“All I’m saying is you don’t want to wait so long that he loses interest.”
Quincy looked to Craig, who had scrambled atop the rock and was studying the horizon. He was interested in more than just sex. Quincy was certain of that. They had been friends first—meeting on their official first day of college and spending all of freshman year engaged in a slow, budding flirtation. The dating part didn’t happen until late August, when both returned to campus realizing how much they had missed each other over the summer. And if Quincy had started to sense some impatience about sex on Craig’s part, she chalked it up to desire and not the kind of pent-up frustration Janelle was implying.
Now perched on the rock, Craig caught Quincy looking. She raised her camera and said, “Smile.”
He did more than smile. He stood with his fists on his hips and his chest puffed out like Superman’s. Quincy laughed. The camera’s shutter clicked.
“How’s the view?” she asked.
“Pretty swell.”
Craig reached down and helped her climb onto the rock beside him. They were higher than Quincy expected, able to see how the rest of the forest sloped sharply downward for another mile before ending in a shadow-filled valley. The others joined them, with Janelle ordering another picture.
“Group shot,” she said. “Everyone in. Even you, Quincy.”
The six of them squeezed together and Quincy stretched out her arm until everyone had edged into the frame. Once the picture was taken, Quincy studied its frenzied composition. That’s when she noticed something behind them in the far distance. A mammoth building, it sat in the middle of the valley, its gray walls barely visible among the trees.
“What’s that?” Quincy asked, pointing it out.
Janelle shrugged. “Beats me.”
Betz the wise owl knew. Of course.
“It’s an insane asylum,” she said.
“Jesus,” Amy replied. “Are you purposely trying to freak us out?”
“I’m just telling you. It’s a hospital for crazy people.”
Quincy stared at the asylum. A low-lying breeze in the valley rustled the trees around it, giving the place a shifting, restless air. Almost as if the building itself were alive. There was a definite sadness to the asylum. Quincy felt it emanating from the valley all the way up to their lookout atop the rock. She imagined a storm cloud permanently hovering over the place, unseen but keenly felt.
She was about to take a picture of it but stopped herself. Something about keeping its image in her camera disturbed her.
Standing next to Quincy, Craig studied the sky. The sun had slipped below the tree line and become a fiery glow that warmed the woods. Trees sliced the brightness, their long shadows gridlike across the forest floor.
“We need to head back,” he said. “We don’t want to be out here when it gets dark.”
“Because, you know, Indian ghosts,” Janelle added.
Quincy joined in. “And crazy people.”
Their departure was delayed by Rodney, who insisted on finishing his defacement of the rock. He added Amy’s name beneath his own, connecting them with a plus sign and surrounding it all with a hastily scratched heart. Then they were off, heading back the way they had come. It took them no time at all to reach the flat expanse that led to the cabin, the incline having made their journey feel longer than it actually was. All told, the distance between the flat rock and Pine Cottage was less than half of a mile.
Still, the sun had fully set by the time they emerged from the woods, giving the cabin a pinki
sh, autumnal glow. Shadows crept from the tree line and brushed its fieldstone foundation. Craig, still in front, stopped suddenly. When Quincy bumped into him, he shoved her backward.
“What the—”
“Shush,” he hissed, squinting at the half shadows gathering on the back deck.
At last, Quincy saw what he had. The others did too. Someone was on the deck. A stranger with hands cupped to the window in the back door, peering inside.
“Hey!” Craig called, stepping forward with his walking stick wielded like a weapon.
The stranger at the door—a man, Quincy now saw—spun around, startled.
He looked to be about their age. Maybe a couple of years older. It was hard to tell because of his glasses, which reflected the dying light, obscuring his eyes. He was thin, almost gangly, with his long arms pressed stiffly against the sides of his beige cable-knit sweater. A dime-size hole sat at the shoulder, the white T-shirt beneath it peeking through. His pants were green corduroy, scuffed at the knees and so loose around the waist that he had to crook an index finger through a belt loop to keep them from sagging.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you.” Hesitation streaked each word, as if he didn’t quite know how to talk. He spoke English the way a foreigner did, halting and formal. Quincy listened for a trace of an accent, not finding one. “I was looking to see if someone was here.”
“That would be us,” Craig said, taking another step forward, his bravery impressing Quincy, which just might have been his plan.
“Hello,” the stranger said, waving with the hand not hooked to his waist.
“Are you lost?” Janelle said, more curious than afraid.
“Sort of. My car broke down a few miles away. I’ve been walking all afternoon. Then I finally saw the driveway to this place and hoped someone here would be able to help me.”
Janelle broke away from the rest of them, emerging from the woods and crossing to the deck in three assured strides. The stranger flinched. For a moment, Quincy thought he was going to bolt, springing like a startled deer into the woods. But he stayed, keeping completely still as Janelle studied his shock of dark hair, his slightly crooked nose, the faintly sexy curve of his lips.
“All afternoon, huh?” she said.
“Most of it.”
“You must be tired.”
“A little.”
“You should come in and party with us.” Janelle shook his free hand as the index finger of his other one twisted around his belt loop. “I’m Janelle. These are my friends. It’s my birthday.”
“Happy birthday.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Joe.” The stranger gave her a nod, followed by a cautious smile. “Joe Hannen.”
11.
It’s past ten when I wake up. Jeff’s side of the bed has long been empty, the sheets there cool under my palm. In the hallway, I pause by the guest room. Although the door is open, I know Sam is still around. Her knapsack remains in the corner and the Wild Turkey still sits on the nightstand, only an inch of amber liquid remaining.
Noise bursts from the kitchen—drawers closing, pans banging. I find Sam there, a white apron tossed over a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a pair of black jeans.
My head hurts, less the product of Wild Turkey than the surreal circumstances in which it was consumed. Although the events of last night are hazy, I have no trouble recalling Sam’s repeated attempts to get me to say His name. I’m annoyed at both her and the memory.
Sam knows this. I can tell from the apologetic way she smiles when she sees me. From the mug filled with coffee she all but shoves into my hands. From the blueberry-scented warmth that drifts from the oven.
“You’re baking?”
Sam nods. “Lemon-blueberry muffins. I found the recipe on your blog.”
“Should I be impressed?”
“Probably not,” Sam says. “Although I was hoping you’d be.”
Secretly, I am. No one has baked anything for me since my father died. Not even Jeff. Yet here’s Sam, eyeing the oven timer as it counts down to zero. I’m reluctantly touched.
She removes the muffins from the oven, not giving them nearly enough time to cool before flipping the pan. Muffins drop onto the counter in a spray of crumbs and blueberry sludge.
“How’d I do, Coach?” Sam asks, giving me a hopeful look.
I take a judgmental nibble. They’re slightly dry, which tells me she skimped on the butter. There’s also a severe lack of sugar, which suppresses the fruit. Rather than either lemon or blueberry, the muffin is the flavor of paste. I take a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. The bitter taste on my tongue bleeds into my words.
“We need to talk about last night—”
“I was a bitch,” Sam says. “You’re being all nice and I—”
“I don’t talk about Pine Cottage, Sam. It’s off limits, okay? I’m focused on the future. You should be too.”
“Got it,” Sam says. “And I’d like to make it up to you somehow. If you let me stay longer, of course.”
She takes a deep breath, waiting for me to give her an answer. It might be an act. Part of me thinks she’s certain I’ll tell her she can stay. Just like she was certain I wouldn’t let her trudge away with her knapsack last night. Only, I’m not certain about anything.
“It’ll only be for another day or two,” she says after I say nothing.
I take another sip of coffee, more for the caffeine than the taste. “Why are you really here?”
“Isn’t wanting to meet you enough?”
“It should be,” I say. “But it’s not your only reason. All these questions. All this prodding.”
Sam picks up a lumpy muffin, puts it down, checks her fingernails for crumbs. “You really want to know?”
“If you’re going to continue to stay here, I need to know.”
“Right. Truth-telling time. No bullshit.” Sam takes a deep breath, sucking in air like a kid about to slip underwater. “I came because I wanted to see if you’re as angry as I am.”
“Angry about what Lisa did?”
“No,” Sam says. “Angry about being a Final Girl.”
“I’m not.”
“Angry, or a Final Girl?”
“Both,” I say.
“Maybe you should be.”
“I’ve moved past it.”
“That’s not what you told Jeff last night.”
So she had heard the two of us arguing in our bedroom. Maybe some of it. Probably all of it. Definitely enough to send her fleeing into the night.
“I know you’re not past it,” she says. “Just like I’m not. And we’ll never get past it unless we pull a Lisa Milner. We got stuck with a raw deal, babe. Life swallowed us whole and shit us out and everyone else just wants us to get over it and act like it didn’t happen.”
“At least we survived.”
Sam lifts her wrist, flashing the tattoo there. “Sure. And your life has been perfect ever since, right?”
“I’m fine,” I say, cringing because I sound just like my mother. She uses the word like a dagger, fending off all emotion. I’m fine, she told everyone at my father’s funeral. Quincy and I are both fine. As if our lives hadn’t been completely shattered in the span of a year.
“Obviously,” Sam says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She digs into the front pocket of her jeans, pulling out an iPhone that she slaps on the counter in front of me. The motion startles its screen to life, revealing the unmistakable image of a man’s penis.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that’s not Jeff,” Sam says. “Just like this isn’t your phone.”
I look to the other side of the kitchen, the coffee and muffin suddenly sour in my stomach. The locked drawer—my drawer—is open. Dark scratches form a starburst pattern around the key
hole.
“You picked the lock?”
Sam lifts her chin in a pleased-with-herself nod. “One of my few skills.”
I rush to the open drawer, making sure my secret stash is still there. I grab the silver compact and check my reflection in its mirror. I’m startled by how tired I look.
“I told you to leave it alone,” I say, more embarrassed than angry.
“Relax. I’m not going to tell anyone,” Sam says. “Honestly, it’s a relief knowing there’s something dark underneath all that happy-homemaker bullshit.”
Shame heats my cheeks. I turn away and lean against the counter, my palms flat against it, sliding through muffin crumbs. “It’s not what you think.”
“I’m not judging you. You think I haven’t stolen anything? You name it, I’ve probably taken it. Food. Clothes. Cigarettes. When you’re as poor as I’ve been, you get over the guilt real fast.” Sam dips a hand into the drawer, pulling out a stolen tube of lipstick. She gives it a twist and, mouth forming a perfect circle, swipes the cherry-red tip over her lips. “What do you think? Is this a good color on me?”
“That has nothing to do with what happened at Pine Cottage,” I say.
“Right,” Sam replies, lips smacking. “You’re completely normal.”
“Fuck you.”
She smiles. A cherry-lipped grin that flashes like neon.
“Now, that’s what I’m talking about! Show some emotion, Quinn. That’s why I wanted you to say his name. That’s why I broke into your secret goodie drawer. I want to see you get angry. You’ve earned that rage. Don’t try to hide it behind your website with your cakes and muffins and breads. You’re messed up. So am I. It’s okay to admit it. We’re damaged goods, babe.”
I peer into the drawer again, looking at each item as if for the first time, and realize Sam is right. Only a seriously damaged woman would steal spoons and iPhones and silver-plated compacts. Humiliation grips my body, squeezing ever so slightly. I push past Sam and move woodenly to the cupboard where my Xanax is stored. I shake a pill into my palm.
