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The booking officer looks our way. I give him a smile, hoping itwill somehow persuade him. As if seeing perky, harmless me at Sam’s side will tip the scales in her favor.
“I’m saying she shouldn’t have been charged in the first place,” Jeff says. “If you knew what she’s been through, you’d understand why she acted that way.”
The cop’s face is a blank. “Then tell me what happened to her.”
Jeff whispers something to him that I can’t fully make out. I catch only random words. One of them is “Nightlight.” Another is “murders.” The booking officer turns to look at Sam again. This time, his eyes contain a potent mix of curiosity and pity. I’ve seen that look a thousand times before. It’s the look of someone realizing he’s facing a Final Girl.
He whispers something to Jeff. Jeff whispers back. This continues a few more seconds until they shake hands and Jeff walks briskly toward us.
“Grab your things,” he tells Sam. “You’re free to go.”
Outside, the three of us idle in the courtyard just beyond the precinct’s glass front wall, the Irish desk sergeant watching us from his post. A chilly breeze courses through the park, nipping at my ears and nose. I was in too much of a hurry when we left to think of bringing a sweater and now hug myself for warmth.
Sam zips her leather jacket all the way to her chin, the collar popped. The knapsack is strapped to her back. Its weight makes her list sideways as she says, “Thank you for helping me in there. After the shit I said tonight, I wouldn’t have blamed you for letting me rot in a holding cell.”
“You’re welcome,” Jeff says. “I’m not such a bad guy now, am I?”
He gives us a pleased-with-himself grin. I turn away. Although I know I should be grateful, a rash of annoyance creeps across my skin. Sam, though,isgrateful. She thrusts out her hand, herSURVIVORtattoo peeking from her sleeve. Jeff looks to me as he shakes it, sensing something is wrong. I refuse to meet his eye.
Instead of a handshake, Sam gives me a quick hug. “Quincy, it was good to finally meet you.”
“Wait—you’re leaving?”
“I think I’ve caused enough trouble,” she says. “I only wanted to see how you were doing. Now I have my answer. You’re doing great. I’m happy for you, babe.”
“But where will you go?”
“Here and there,” Sam says. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
She starts to walk away. Or maybe she only pretends to, knowing I’ll stop her. It’s hard to tell, with the knapsack giving her a slow, uneven gait. Still, I know I can’t let her slip away again. Not like this.
“Sam, wait,” I say. “I know you don’t have a place to stay.”
Wind whips hair across her face as she turns around. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll be okay.”
“You will,” I tell her. “Because you’re coming home with us.”
10.
The minute we get home, Jeff and I confer in the bedroom, the door closed, our voices emerging in exhausted half whispers so Sam can’t hear us from the living room.
“She can stay one night,” Jeff says.
“The night’s almost over,” I say, still mad at him for reasons I can’t articulate. “Two nights. At least.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“Why are you so against this?”
“Why are you so gung-ho about it?” Jeff says. “She’s a stranger, Quinn. She didn’t even bother to tell you her real name.”
“Iknowher name. It’s Samantha Boyd. And she’s not a stranger. She’s a person who went through the same things I did, who now needs a place to stay.”
“We’re in Manhattan,” Jeff says. “There are thousands of places she can go. Hotels.”
“I’m pretty sure she can’t afford a hotel.”
Jeff sighs, sits on the bed, kicks off his shoes. “That alone should give you pause. Who travels from God knows where to New York without any money? Or any plan, for that matter?”