by Riley Sager
“When we all spoke on the phone, you said there weren’t any suspects. Has that changed?”
“Nope,” Nancy says.
“What about a motive?”
“Still nothing.”
“You sound like you don’t think they’ll ever catch who did it.”
“Because I don’t,” Nancy says with a sigh. “By the time those idiots realized what really happened, it was too late. The scene was already compromised. Me with those boxes. Some of Lisa’s friends and cousins. All of us clomping in here and dragging in God knows what.”
She leans forward, looks to the table.
“The whole time, that circle of wine sat right here. From the glass no one knew was missing. Whoever killed Lisa took it with them. It’s probably smashed on the side of the road somewhere. Tossed out a car window.”
My hands are resting on the table’s surface, palms flat. I quickly pull them away.
“They already dusted for prints,” Nancy says. “Couldn’t find any. Same with the bathroom, the knife, and Lisa’s phone. All wiped clean.”
“And none of her friends know anything?” I ask.
“They’re asking around. But it’s been hard. Lisa liked to be around people. She was very social.”
Nancy’s disapproval is obvious. She spits the word out as if it might leave a bad taste in her mouth.
“You don’t think she should have been,” I say.
“I thought she was too trusting. Because of what she went through, she was always willing to help people in need. Girls, mostly. Troubled ones.”
“Troubled how?”
“Girls who were at risk. Having trouble with their parents. Or maybe running away from a boyfriend who liked smacking them around. Lisa took them in, looked out for them, helped them get back on their feet. I saw it as her trying to fill the void in her life caused by that night at the sorority house.”
“Void?” I say.
“Lisa didn’t date very much,” Nancy says. “She didn’t trust too many men, with good reason. Like most girls, she probably once had dreams of getting married, having kids, being a mom. That day at the sorority house took all that away from her.”
“So she never dated?”
“A little,” Nancy replies. “Nothing that ever got very serious. Most guys split once they found out what happened to her.”
“Did she mention any of them to you? Maybe about one of them harassing her? Or did she ever talk about having problems with one of the girls she befriended?”
Sam. That’s who I really mean. Did Lisa ever mention Samantha Boyd?
“Not to me.” Nancy drains her teacup. She looks at mine, clearly hoping I’ll do the same and take my leave. “How long are you in town for, Quincy?”
I check my watch. It’s a quarter past one. I need to be on the road by two thirty if I want to make it back to Chicago without arousing Jeff’s suspicions.
“Another hour.” I look around the half-packed room, then the empty boxes leaning flat against the wall. “Need some help?”
29.
I offer to work in Lisa’s bedroom while Nancy continues in the living room. She agrees, although she bites the inside of her mouth before consenting, as if she’s unsure I can be trusted. But then she hands me two boxes.
“Don’t worry about trying to sort stuff,” she says, pointing me down the hallway. “Her family will do that. We just need to empty the place.”
Finally out of her sight, I linger in the hall, looking into each of the three rooms located there.
The first one is a guest room, sparsely furnished and immaculately clean. I step inside and roam its perimeter, my index finger running along the dresser, the bed, the nightstand. There’s no trace of Sam, even though I can picture her smoking by the open window, just like she’s probably doing in my apartment at this very moment.
I move back to the hall, pausing at the bathroom. This room I refuse to enter. Doing so would feel like invading a crypt. Besides, I have a good enough view from the hall. From sink to tub to toilet, the bathroom is a sea of light blue, still smudged in spots by traces of the aluminum powder used to dust for prints. I stare at the tub, unnerved.
Lisa died right there.
I think of her lying in that tub, surrounded by cloudy pink water. I then think of Sam standing in the doorway just like I’m doing. Watching. Making sure the job is complete.
When I can’t look at that tub a second longer, I head to Lisa’s bedroom, trying hard to shake off the chill that’s suddenly come over me. The bedroom is all cream and pink. Cream carpet, pink curtains, rose-colored comforter over the bed. A treadmill stands in the corner, covered with dust and draped with clothes.
I wonder if Lisa ever spent one of our phone conversations in here, doling out advice while walking on the treadmill, or maybe sprawled across the bed. The memory of her phone voice returns.
You can’t change what’s happened. The only thing you can control is how you deal with it.
I go to Lisa’s dresser, the top of which is littered with hair accessories, plastic bins overflowing with makeup, and an old-school jewelry box. When I lift its lid, a porcelain ballerina in a tiny tulle skirt pops up and begins to spin.
On the other side of the dresser are several snapshots stuck into plastic frames meant to resemble wood. There’s Lisa at the beach with Nancy, both of them squinting into the sun. Lisa with whom I can only assume are her parents, standing before a Christmas tree. Lisa at the Grand Canyon, at a bar with neon behind her and a hand on her shoulder bearing a red ring, at a birthday party with cake smeared on her face.
I empty the dresser one drawer at a time, grabbing bunches of Lisa’s bras, socks, and granny panties. I remove the clothes quickly, trying to ignore the guilt-inducing fact that I’m snooping. It feels like a violation of sorts. As if I’ve broken into her home and started to ransack the place.
It’s the same thing when I go to the closet and begin clearing it of dresses, pantsuits, and sad floral skirts that went out of style years ago. But then I find what I was hoping for. There’s a gray lockbox in a back corner of the closet, partially obscured by a hamper. It’s small, boasting a single drawer. I notice a tiny keyhole in that lone drawer, similar to the one located in my secret drawer at home. And just like on my drawer, the keyhole is circled by a pattern of scratch marks made when the lock was picked.
Now I know for certain that Sam was here. Those scratch marks were her handiwork. They had to be.
My hand drifts to the necklace that holds the key to my drawer. I still wear it, despite being so far from home. It gives me a sense of normalcy when, in truth, everything about my life has been upended by Sam.
I give the drawer a tug and it slides open. Three neatly stacked file folders sit inside it.
The top one is blue and unlabeled. Opening it, I see a scrapbook of sorts. Page after photocopied page of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, stories printed off the Internet. All of them are about the sorority-house massacre. Some of the articles have sentences underlined in blue pen. Question marks and sad faces crowd the margins.
The other two folders are red and white. One is about Sam. The other concerns me. I know that even without opening them. The math is simple: Three Final Girls, three folders.
Sam’s folder is the red one. Inside are articles about the Nightlight Inn, including the one from Time magazine that traumatized me as a child. Lisa made notes in those too. Words, phrases, and whole sentences have been scribbled in the margins.
In the back of the folder are two newspaper clippings, both of them missing dates.
HEMLOCK CREEK, Pa.—Authorities are continuing to investigate the deaths of two campers found stabbed to death last month. Police discovered the bodies of Tommy Curran, 24, and Suzy Pavkovic, 23, inside a tent in a heavily wooded area two miles outside of town. Both victims had been stabbed multiple ti
mes. Although there were signs of a struggle at their campsite, authorities say nothing appeared to be taken from the scene, leading them to conclude robbery was not a factor in their deaths.
The grisly crime has left many in this quiet town on edge. It comes barely a year after the body of a 20-year-old woman was found along Valley Road, a little-traveled access road used by employees of Blackthorn Psychiatric Hospital. The woman, whom authorities could never identify, was strangled to death. Police think she was killed elsewhere and later dumped in the woods.
Police say the two crimes are unrelated.
HAZLETON, Pa.—A man was found stabbed to death yesterday inside the home he shared with his wife and stepdaughter. Responding to emergency calls, Hazleton police found Earl Potash, 46, dead in the kitchen of his Maple Street duplex, the victim of multiple stab wounds to the chest and stomach. Authorities have ruled the incident a homicide. The investigation is continuing.
I press a hand to my forehead. My skin is hot to the touch. That’s because of the reference to Blackthorn in the first article. The name always makes me break into a nervous sweat. Although I can’t remember how, I know I’ve heard about those murders in the woods. They took place a year or so before Pine Cottage, in the very same forest. Why Lisa kept this news clipping in a folder devoted to Sam is beyond my comprehension.
A second read doesn’t make things any clearer, so I tuck the clippings back into the folder and put it away. Now it’s time for the white folder.
My folder.
The first thing I see upon opening it is a single sheet of paper. My name is on it. So is my phone number. Now it starts to make more sense. Now I know how Sam got my phone number to call me the night she was arrested.
Next are articles about Pine Cottage, fastened together with a pink paper clip. I flip the stack over without looking at it, fearing I’ll see another picture of Him. Beneath the articles is a letter.
The letter.
The bad one that made even Coop nervous.
YØU SHØULDN’T BE ALIVE.
YØU SHØULD HAVE DIED IN THAT CABIN.
IT WAS YØUR DESTINY TØ BE SACRIFICED.
Shock blasts through me. I start to gasp but stop myself, afraid Nancy will be able to hear it. Instead, I stare at the letter, not blinking, those out-of-place zeroes like several sets of eyes staring back.
A single question stabs into my thoughts. The obvious one.
How the fuck did Lisa get a copy?
Another, more pressing question follows.
Why did she have it?
Behind the letter, also paper-clipped, is the transcript of a police interview. At the top is my name and a date. One week after Pine Cottage. Neatly typed below that are the names of two people I haven’t thought of in years—Detective Cole and Detective Freemont.
Nancy’s voice rings out from the end of the hall, on the move, getting closer.
“Quincy?”
I shut the folder with a snap. I lift the back of my shirt, press the folder flat against my spine, and shove it down the seat of my pants far enough so that it won’t flop out when I walk. I then tuck in my blouse, hoping Nancy won’t notice how it was untucked when I arrived.
The other two folders are dropped back into the filing cabinet. The drawer is shoved shut just as Nancy sweeps into the room. She eyes the boxes first, then me, rising from my crouch in front of Lisa’s closet.
“Your time’s about up,” she says.
She’s back to looking at the boxes. Both are only partially filled. One of them has a pair of Lisa’s jeans flopped over the side.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get more done,” I say. “Packing up Lisa’s stuff is harder than I thought it would be. It means she’s really gone.”
We each carry a box to the living room, me letting Nancy lead the way. When we say our good-byes at the door, I worry she’ll attempt a hug. I stiffen at the prospect of her bony arms sliding over the folder jutting at my back. But apparently she’s like Coop when it comes to hugs. She doesn’t even shake my hand. She simply purses her lips, the wrinkles around them bunching.
“Take care of yourself, hon,” she says.
ONE WEEK AFTER PINE COTTAGE
Good Cop and Bad Cop stared at Quincy, expecting something she couldn’t provide. Detective Freemont, that old bulldog, looked rough around the edges, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Quincy noticed he wore the same jacket from their first interview, its glaring mustard stain still intact. Detective Cole, on the other hand, remained a handsome devil, in spite of the bristle on his upper lip that wanted to be a mustache. Its edges flared when he smiled at her.
“You’re probably nervous,” he said. “Don’t be.”
Yet Quincy was very nervous. Only two days out of the hospital and she was in a police station, pushed there in a wheelchair by her exasperated mother because it still hurt to walk.
What a hassle, her mother said on the drive there. Don’t they see how much of an inconvenience this is?
Her mother had been cleaning the upstairs bathroom when the call came, answering the phone with hands encased in flopping rubber gloves. Hassle or not, she nonetheless changed into a floral print dress before leaving for the station. Quincy remained in pajamas and a bathrobe, much to her mother’s abject horror.
“Is something wrong?” Quincy asked as she stared at the two detectives from her wheelchair, wondering why she had been summoned there.
“We just have a few more questions,” Cole said.
“I’ve already told you everything I know,” Quincy said.
Freemont gave a sorry shake of his head. “Which is a whole lot of nothing.”
“Listen, we don’t want you to think we’re harassing you,” Cole said. “We just need to make sure we know everything that happened out at that cabin. For the families. Surely you can understand that.”
Quincy didn’t want to think about all those grieving parents and siblings and friends. Janelle’s mother had visited her in the hospital. Red-eyed and trembling, she begged Quincy to tell her that Janelle hadn’t suffered, that her daughter had felt no pain when she died. She didn’t feel a thing, Quincy lied. I’m sure of it.
“I understand,” she told Cole. “I want to help. I really do.”
The detective reached into a briefcase at his feet and pulled out a file folder, which he placed on the table. Next came a metallic rectangle—a tape recorder, now set atop the folder.
“We’re going to ask you a few questions,” he said. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to record the conversation.”
Anxiety flickered through Quincy as she stared at the tape recorder. “Sure,” she said, the word emerging in an uneasy wobble.
Cole pressed the Record button before saying, “Now, tell us, Quincy, to the best of your ability, what you remember about that night.”
“The whole night? Or when Janelle started screaming? Because I don’t remember much after that.”
“The whole night.”
“Well—” Quincy paused, shifting slightly to peer out the window set into the upper half of the door. The door itself had been closed once her mother was asked to wait outside. The window’s square pane revealed only a bit of ivory-colored wall and the corner of a poster warning about the dangers of drunk driving. Quincy couldn’t see her mother. She couldn’t see anyone.
“We know there was drinking,” Freemont said. “And marijuana use.”
“There was,” Quincy admitted. “I didn’t do either.”
“A good girl, eh?” Freemont said.
“Yes.”
“But it was a party,” Cole said.
“Yes.”
“And Joe Hannen was there?”
Quincy flinched at the sound of His name. Her three stab wounds, still stitched tight, began to throb.
“Yes.”
“Did something happen during
the party?” Freemont asked. “Something that made him angry? Did anyone tease him? Abuse him? Maybe hurt him in a way that would make him want to lash out?”
“No,” Quincy said.
“Did anything happen that made you angry?”
“No,” Quincy said again, stressing the word, hoping it would make the lie somehow ring true.
“We looked at the results of your sexual-assault forensic exam,” Freemont said.
He was referring to the rape kit Quincy endured once her wounds had been stitched up. She didn’t remember much. Only staring at the ceiling and trying to hold back sobs as the nurse calmly talked her through each step.
“It says you had engaged in sexual intercourse that night. Is that true?”
Shame scorched Quincy’s cheeks as she gave a single nod.
“Was it consensual?” Freemont said.
Quincy nodded again, the hot flush spreading to her forehead, her neck.
“Are you sure? It’s okay to tell us if it wasn’t.”
“It was,” Quincy replied. “Consensual, I mean. I wasn’t raped.”
Detective Cole cleared his throat, as eager as Quincy to change the subject. “Let’s move on. Let’s talk about what happened after your friend Janelle came out of the woods and you were stabbed in the shoulder. Are you certain you can’t remember anything that happened after that?”
“Yes.”
“Try,” Cole suggested. “Just for a few minutes.”
Quincy closed her eyes, trying for what felt like the hundredth time that week to conjure even the faintest memory of that missing hour. She took deep breaths, each one straining her stitches. Her head began to hurt. Another headache ballooning in her skull. All she saw was blackness.
