“No,” I say.

“Yes,” Sam says.

Once we’re on Central Park West, I hail a cab and make sure the girl actually gets into it. Before closing the door, I shove a twenty into her palm, closing her fingers over the bill and saying, “Cab fare. Don’t ever walk through the park alone this late again.”

She nods, chastened. “You, too.”

CHAPTER 15

My face still hurts when I wake up—a dull residual pain that trails along my cheekbone to my nose. In the shower, I make the water as hot as I can endure and spend a good five minutes sniffing steam into my nose, huffing it out, dislodging the dried blood caked to the insides of my nostrils. I then lift my face to the spray, the hot water stinging my skin.

When I think about last night, a tremor grips my legs so violently that I have to lean against the shower wall for support. It’s hard to believe I was that foolish, that quick to leap into danger. The man in the park could have been armed. I could have been stabbed, shot, killed. All things considered, I’m lucky I got away with a mere backhand to the face.

Out of the shower, I swipe my hand over the bathroom mirror, making a clear streak across the fogged surface. The reflection staring back at me has the faintest of bruises on her cheek, barely noticeable. Yet it’s tender to the touch. A little pressure from my fingertips is enough to make we wince.

The new pain along my cheek has awakened older wounds. Although the stab wounds I received at Pine Cottage didn’t cause any lasting damage, they did leave scars. Today they’re throbbing—the first time I’ve felt them in years. I arch my back slightly until the scar on my stomach is framed in the mirror. A milk-white line against my steam-reddened skin. I then lean forward, looking close at the two scars sitting an inch apart just below my shoulder. One is a vertical line. The other’s slightly diagonal. Had the knife been bigger, the two would have intersected.

By the time I’m dried off and dressed, everything has subsided into a slight ache. Annoying, yes, but nothing I can’t handle.

In the kitchen, I take my pre-Coop Xanax and grape soda, waiting for Sam to emerge from her room. She does a few minutes later, looking like a completely different person. Her hair is swept behind her ears, giving full view of a face that’s been gently kissed with makeup. The eyeliner has been applied with a lighter hand, and instead of ruby red, her lips are touched with a peachy-pink gloss. Forgoing her usual black, she’s dressed in dark jeans, blue flats and the very same blouse she had taken from Saks the day before. The gold earrings I stole dangle from her ears.

“Wow,” I say.

“I clean up nicely, don’t I?”

“I’ll say.”

“I wanted to make a good impression.”

While walking to the cafe, we catch a few looks from passersby, although it’s impossible to know whether they’re because of Jonah Thompson’s article or Sam’s new look. Probably the latter. Few eyes, I notice, glance my way, and when they do it feels like they’re comparing me with Sam.

Even Coop does it when we arrive at the cafe and pass his usual spot by the window. Through the glass, I see a brief nod for me and an appraising look directed at Sam. A pinprick of irritation forms on the back of my neck.

Coop stands when we enter. Unlike our last meeting, he’s dressed to blend in with the cafe’s upper-class crowd. Today he wears khakis and a black polo shirt. It looks good on him, the short sleeves exposing his taut biceps, the veins popping just beneath his skin.

“You must be Samantha,” he says.

He’s slow with the handshake. Awkward. Uncertain. It’s up to Sam to complete the gesture, reaching across the table to grasp his open palm.

“And you’re Officer Cooper,” she says.

“Coop,” he says quickly. “Everyone calls me Coop.”

“And everyone calls me Sam.”

“Great,” I say, forcing a smile as we take our seats. “We’re all acquainted.”

Two mugs sit on the table in front of Coop. His coffee and my tea. Looking at them, he says, “I wanted to order something for you, Sam, but I didn’t know what you prefer.”

“Coffee,” Sam says. “And I can get it. You two catch up. Or whatever.”

She edges around tables to the counter in the back of the cafe. One of them is occupied by a bearded guy wearing a backwards baseball cap. A writer, judging from the laptop in front of him. Elsewhere on the table are a leather satchel, an iPhone, and a shiny Montblanc pen sitting atop a yellow legal pad. He looks at Sam as she passes, impressed. Sam smiles at him, wiggling her fingers in a flirtatious wave.

“So that’s Samantha Boyd,” Coop says.

“In the flesh.” I gaze at him over the table, watching him watch Sam on the other side of the cafe. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m just shocked is all,” he says. “I never expected her to show up like this. It’s kind of like seeing a ghost.”

“I was surprised, too.”

“She’s not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Someone rougher, I guess. She looked different in that yearbook photo, don’t you think?”

I could tell Coop that Sam is very different, that she’s smoothed down her rough edges to impress him for my sake. I stay silent.