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“You should go back,” he said. “It’s not right to be out here like this.”
“They hurt me,” Quincy said, suddenly crying again.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why you should go back now.”
Quincy wiped her eyes. She hated herself for crying in front of him. Hated how she had enjoyed being with him. Hated the fact that, out of everyone in that cabin, he was the only one who saw the real Quincy.
“I will,” she said. “Where are you going?”
He stared forward, as if seeking out a location in the far distance, somewhere beyond the trees.
“Home,” he said. “You should go home too.”
Quincy nodded.
She dropped the knife.
It landed on its side, cushioned by leaves.
Then she ran back the way she came, passing him, trying to ignore the way the moonlight clouded his glasses, turning the lenses opaque. Like a fog.
36.
Twenty-five minutes after hanging up with Jonah, I’m in Central Park, rushing through the Baroque tunnel that leads to Bethesda Terrace. I spot him through the ornate arches at the tunnel’s end, seated at the fountain’s edge. Pink shirt, blue pants, gray sport coat. Towering above him is the Angel of the Waters, a flock of pigeons resting on her outstretched wings.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, sitting beside him.
Jonah sniffs. “Whoa,” he says.
I too can smell myself. I’d wanted to take a shower in the hotel, but there was no hot water left. I had to make do with a few well-placed splashes from the sink before putting on the clothes I’ve been wearing since the day before.
While dressing, I thought about how many miles these clothes have traveled in the past twenty-four hours. From Chicago to Muncie and back again. From Chicago to New York to that Spartan closet of shame. Now they’ve made their way into Central Park, stinking and sweat-stained. After today, I think I’ll burn them.
“Walk of shame?” Jonah asks.
“Save it,” I say. “Where’s my coffee?”
Two cups sit by his feet. Beside them is a messenger bag, filled with what I hope is enough information about Sam to force her out of my life. If not, I’d settle for getting her out of my apartment.
“Pick your poison,” Jonah says, raising the cups. “Black or cream and sugar?”
“Cream and sugar. Preferably intravenously.”
He hands me a cup marked with anX. I gulp down half of its contents before coming up for air.
“Thank you,” I say. “No matter how many good deeds you perform today, nothing will top this.”
“You’ll be rethinking that in a minute,” Jonah says as he reaches for the messenger bag.
“What did you find?”
He unzips the bag and pulls out a beige folder. “A bombshell.”
Inside the folder are dozens of loose pages. Jonah riffles through them, fingers nimble, allowing me only brief glimpses of photocopied news articles and files printed from the Internet.
“A search of Samantha Boyd turns up all the usual information about the Nightlight Inn,” he says. “She’s the lone survivor. A Final Girl. Went off the grid eight years ago and was never seen or heard from again until a few days ago.”
“I already know that,” I say.