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Police are continuing their investigation.
Investigation of what? Lisa slit her wrists, which seems pretty straightforward to me. Then I remember what Coop said about the toxicology tests. To see if Lisa was on something at the time.
Tossing the newspaper aside, I reach for my laptop. Online, I skip the news sites and head straight for the true-crime blogs, an alarming number of which are solely devoted to Final Girls. The guys who run them—and they are all men, by the way; women have better things todo—still occasionally contact me through my website, trying to sweet-talk me into giving an interview. I never reply. The closest we’ve come to corresponding was after I received that threatening letter and Coop wrote them all asking if one of them had sent it. They all said no.
Normally I avoid these sites, fearful of what I might see written about me. Today, however, calls for an exception, and I find myself clicking through website after website. Nearly all of them have mentions of Lisa’s suicide. Like the article in theTimes, there’s little to no new information. Most of them stress the irony of a world-famous survivor being responsible for her own death. One even has the gall to suggest other Final Girls could follow suit.
Disgusted, I close the browser window and slam the laptop shut. I then stand, trying to shake away some of the angry adrenaline scooting through my body. All that Xanax, caffeine, and misguided web surfing have left me antsy and aggravated. So much so that I change into workout clothes and lace up my running shoes. When I get like this, which is often, the only cure is to jog until it passes.
In the elevator, it dawns on me that there could be reporters outside. If they know my phone number and email address, there’s every reason to think they also know where I live. I make a plan to start running as soon as I hit the street, instead of taking my customary stroll to Central Park. I begin while still inside the building, busting out of the elevator at a light jog.
Once outside, though, I see there’s no need. Instead of a crush of reporters out front, I’m confronted by exactly one. He looks young, eager, and handsome in a nerdy way. Buddy Holly glasses. Great hair. More Clark Kent than Jimmy Olsen. He rushes toward me as I trot from the building, the pages of his notebook fluttering.
“Miss Carpenter.”
He tells me his name—Jonah Thompson. I recognize it. He’s one of the reporters who called, emailed,andtexted. The nuisance trifecta. He then tells me the name of the paper he works for. One of the major daily tabloids. Judging by his age, it means he’s either very good at his job or else incredibly unscrupulous. I suspect it’s both.
“No comment,” I say, breaking into a full run.
He makes an attempt to keep up, the flat soles of his Oxfords clapping against the sidewalk. “I just have a few questions about Lisa Milner.”
“No comment,” I say again. “If you’re still here when I get back, I’m calling the police.”
Jonah Thompson falls back while I keep moving. I feel him watch my retreat, his gaze a sunburn on the back of my neck. I increase my pace, quickly navigating the cross-blocks to Central Park. Before entering, I glance over my shoulder, just in case he somehow managed to follow me there.
Not likely.
Not in those shoes.
•••
In the park, I head north toward the reservoir. My preferred jogging spot. It’s flatter than other areas of the park, with better sight lines. No curving paths with God-knows-what waiting just around the bend. No pockets of trees thick with shadows. Just long stretches of gravel where I can clench my jaw, straighten my back, andrun.
But on this crisp morning it’s hard to focus on running. My thoughts are elsewhere. I think about fresh-faced Jonah Thompson and his annoying tenacity. I think about the article on Lisa’s death and its refusal to acknowledge how what she went through messed her up so much she decided to sink a knife into both her wrists. Mostly, though, I dwell on Lisa herself and what possibly could have been going through her mind when she sent me that email. Was she sad? Desperate? Was the knife already gripped in her trembling hands?
It’s suddenly all too much, and the adrenaline drains from my limbs as quickly as it filled them. Other joggers continually pass me, the gravelly crunch of their footsteps warning of their approach. Giving up, I slow to a stroll, move to the path’s edge, and walk the rest of the way home.
Back at my building, I’m relieved to see that Jonah Thompson has departed. In his place, though, is another reporter, idling on the other side of the street. On second glance, I decide she’s not a traditional reporter. She looks too edgy for mainstream media, reminding me of those aging Riot Grrrls who roamed Williamsburg before the hipsterstook over. A woman who doesn’t give a shit she’s dressed like someone half her age. Leather jacket sitting over a hip-hugging black dress. Fishnet stockings rising out of scuffed combat boots. Her raven hair is a parted curtain that provides only a partial view of eyes ringed with liner. She wears red lipstick as bright as blood. A blogger, I surmise. One with a far different readership from me.
Yet there’s something familiar about her. I’ve seen her before. Maybe. My stomach flips with the sensation of not recognizing someone even when I know I should.
She recognizes me, though. Her raccoon eyes assess me through the dark drapes of her hair. I watch her watch me. She doesn’t even blink. She merely slouches against the building across the street, making no attempt to blend in with her surroundings. A cigarette juts from her ruby lips, smoke swirling. I’m about to head inside when she calls to me.
“Quincy.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Hey, Quincy Carpenter.”
I stop, do a half turn, frown in her direction. “No comment.”
She scowls—a storm cloud darkening the landscape of her face. “I don’t want a comment.”
“Then whatdoyou want?” I say, facing her head-on, attempting to stare her down.
“I just want to talk.”
“About Lisa Milner?”
“Yeah,” she says. “And other stuff.”
“Which makes you a reporter. And I have no comment.”