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“And you swear you’d tell me if you weren’t?”
“Yes. Now, please stop asking me that.”
“I just want to make sure you’ll be okay when I’m gone,” Jeff says.
“Of course I will. I have Sam.”
Jeff rolls away from me. “That’s what worries me.”
•••
I wait an hour for sleep to arrive, flat on my back, breathing evenly, telling myself that at any moment I’ll sink into slumber. But my thoughts are an unruly bunch, always on the move, in no hurry to settle down. I picture them as part of the dream sequence fromVertigo—bright spirals that are forever spinning. Each one has its own color. Red for thoughts about Lisa’s murder. Green for Jeff and his concern. Blue for Jonah Thompson’s assurance that Sam is lying to me.
Sam’s spiral is black, barely visible as it rotates through the sleepless gloom of my brain.
When one a.m. comes and goes, I get out of bed and pad down the hallway. The door to the guest room is closed. No light peeks out from under it. Maybe Sam has returned. Maybe she hasn’t. Even her presence has become uncertain.
In the kitchen, I fire up my laptop. Since I’m awake, I might as well do some much-needed work on the website. Yet instead ofQuincy’s Sweets, my fingers lead me to my email. Dozens of new messages from reporters have poured into my inbox, some from as far away as France, England, even Greece. I scroll past them, their addresses a monotonous blur, stopping only when I spot an address not from a reporter.
Lmilner75
I open the email, even though I’ve committed its contents to memory. Neon pink, if I were to use theVertigothought-color scale.
Quincy,I need to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Please, please don’t ignore this.
“What happened to you, Lisa?” I whisper. “What was so important?”
I open a new browser window, heading straight to Google. I type in Sam’s name and am greeted with the predictable jumble of items about the Nightlight Inn, Lisa’s death, and the Final Girls. Despite a smattering of articles about Sam’s disappearance, I see nothing that hints at where she might have been.
Next, I search for Tina Stone, which yields an avalanche of informationabout the many, many women who bear that name. There are Facebook profiles and obituaries and LinkedIn updates. Finding anything about a specific Tina Stone seems impossible. It makes me wonder if Sam understood this when she chose the name. That she, like I’m doing now, saw the pool of Tina Stones in the world and decided to dive in, knowing she wouldn’t resurface.
I click away from Google, going back to Lisa’s email.
Quincy,I need to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Please, please don’t ignore this.
As I read it, Jonah Thompson’s words seem to sneak into the text, transforming it into something else.
It’s about Samantha Boyd. She’s lying to you.
I’m about to do another Google search when I hear something behind me. It’s a muted cough. Or maybe the slightest creak of the floor. Then suddenly someone is there, right at my back. I slam the laptop shut and spin around to see Sam, silent and still in the dark kitchen. Her arms are at her sides. Her face is an inscrutable blank.
“You startled me,” I say. “When did you get home?”
Sam shrugs.
“How long have you been there?”
Another shrug. She could have been there the entire time or merely for a second. I’ll never know.
“Can’t sleep?”
“No,” Sam says. “You?”
I shrug. Two can play this game.
The corners of Sam’s lips twitch slightly, resisting a smile. “I’ve got something that might help.”
Five minutes later, I’m sitting on Sam’s bed, Wild Turkey in my lap, trying to keep my hands from shaking as Sam paints my fingernails. The polish is black and shiny—a miniature oil slick atop each finger. It pairs well with the scabs on my knuckles, now the same shade as rust.