Sam picks up a crumbling muffin, puts it down, checks her fingernails for crumbs. “You really want to know?”

“If you’re going to continue to stay here, I need to know.”

“Right. Truth-telling time. No bullshit.” Sam takes a deep breath, sucking in air like a kid about to slip underwater. “I came because I wanted to see if you’re as angry as I am.”

“Angry about what Lisa did?”

“No,” Sam says. “Angry about being a Final Girl.”

“I’m not.”

“Angry or a Final Girl?”

“Both,” I say.

“Maybe you should be.”

“I’ve moved past it.”

“That’s not what you told Jeff last night.”

So she had heard the two of us arguing in our bedroom. Maybe some of it. Probably all of it. Definitely enough to send her fleeing into the night.

“I know you’re not past it,” she says. “Just like I’m not. And we’ll never get past it unless we pull a Lisa Milner. We got stuck with a raw deal, babe. Life swallowed us whole and shit us out and everyone else just wants us to get over it and act like it didn’t happen.”

“At least we survived.”

Sam lifts her wrist, flashing the tattoo there. “Sure. And your life has been perfect ever since, right?”

“I’m fine,” I say, cringing because I sound just like my mother. She uses the word like a dagger, fending off all emotion. I’m fine, she told everyone at my father’s funeral. Quincy and I are both fine. As if our lives hadn’t been completely shattered in the span of a year.

“Obviously,” Sam says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She digs into the front pocket of her jeans, pulling out an iPhone that’s slapped on the counter in front of me. The motion startles its screen to life, revealing the unmistakable image of a man’s penis.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that’s not Jeff,” Sam says. “Just like this isn’t your phone.”

I look to the other side of the kitchen, the coffee and muffin suddenly sour in my stomach. The locked drawer—my drawer—is open. Dark scratches form a starburst pattern around the keyhole.

“You picked the lock?”

Sam lifts her chin in a pleased-with-herself nod. “One of my few skills.”

I rush to the open drawer, making sure my secret stash is still there. I grab the silver compact and check my reflection in its mirror. I’m startled by how tired I look.

“I told you to leave it alone,” I say, more embarrassed than angry.

“Relax. I’m not going to tell anyone,” Sam says. “Honestly, it’s a relief knowing there’s something dark underneath all that happy homemaker bullshit.”

Shame heats my cheeks. I turn away and lean against the counter, my palms flat against it, sliding through muffin crumbs. “It’s not what you think.”

“I’m not judging you. You think I haven’t stolen anything? You name it, I’ve probably taken it. Food. Clothes. Cigarettes. When you’re as poor as I’ve been, you get over the guilt real fast.” Sam dips a hand into the drawer, pulling out a stolen tube of lipstick. She gives it a twist and, mouth forming a perfect circle, swipes the cherry red tip over her lips. “What do you think? Is this a good color on me?”

“That has nothing to do with what happened at Pine Cottage,” I say.

“Right,” Sam replies, lip smacking. “You’re completely normal.”

“Fuck you.”

She smiles. A ruby-lipped grin that flashes like neon.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about! Show some emotion, Quinn. That’s why I wanted you to say his name. That’s why I broke into your secret goodie drawer. I want to see you get angry. You’ve earned that rage. Don’t try to hide it behind your website with your cakes and muffins and bread. You’re messed up. So am I. It’s okay to admit it. We’re damaged goods, babe.”

I peer into the drawer again, looking at each item as if for the first time, and realize Sam is right. Only a seriously damaged woman would steal spoons and iPhones and gold-plated compacts.

Humiliation grips my body, squeezing ever so slightly. I push past Sam and move woodenly to the cupboard where my Xanax is stored. I shake a pill into my palm, prompting Sam to say, “Do you have enough to share with the whole class?”

I stare at her dumbly, my mind elsewhere, neurons focused solely on getting that light blue pill into my body.

“The Xanax,” Sam says. “Give me one.”

She plucks the pill from my hand. Instead of swallowing it, she crunches it between her teeth like a Flinstones vitamin. I take mine the usual way—chased down with grape soda.

“Interesting method,” Sam says as she runs her tongue along her teeth, catching stray granules.

I take another gulp of soda. “A spoonful of sugar. The song doesn’t lie.”

“Whatever gets the job done, I guess.” Sam holds out her hand. “Give me another.”

I tap a second pill into her palm. It stays there, cradled like a tiny robin’s egg, as she gives me a curious look.

“You’re not having seconds?”