“Quincy, it’s your mother,” her message begins, as if she doesn’t trust me to recognize her nasal monotone. “I was just woken up by a reporter calling to see if I had a comment about what happened to that Lisa Milner girl you were friends with. I told him he should talk to you. Thought you’d like to know.”

I see no point in calling her back. That’s the last thing my mother wants. It’s been that way ever since I returned to college after Pine Cottage. As a new widow, she wanted me to commute from home. When I didn’t, she said I was abandoning her.

Ultimately, though, it was me who got abandoned. By the time I finally graduated, she had remarried a retired dentist named Fred who came with three adult children from a previous marriage. Three happy, bland, toothy children. Not a Final Girl in the bunch. They became her family. I became a barely tolerated remnant of her past. A blemish on her otherwise spotless new life.

I listen again to my mother’s message, searching for the slightest hint of interest or concern in her voice. Finding none, I delete the voicemail and move on to that morning’s copy of the Times.

To my surprise, an article about Lisa’s death rests at the bottom of the front page. I read it in one distasteful gulp.

MUNCIE, IND. — Lisa Milner, a prominent child psychologist who was the lone survivor of a sorority house massacre that shocked campuses nationwide, died at her home here, authorities confirmed yesterday. She was 42.

Most of the article focuses on the horrors Lisa witnessed that long-ago night. As if no other moments from her life mattered. Reading it gives me a glimpse of what my own obituary will be like. My stomach churns.

Yet one sentence gives me pause. It’s near the bottom; almost like an afterthought.

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 to do—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 the Times, 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 and texted. 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 sightlines. 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 and run.

But this 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 sent me that email. Was she sad? Desperate? Was the knife already gripped in her trembling hands?