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 of Quincy’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 the Vertigo thought-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 information about 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.

“This color looks good on you,” Sam says. “Mysterious.”

“What’s it called?”

“Black Death. I picked it up at Bloomingdale’s.”

I nod in understanding. She used the five-finger discount.

Several minutes pass in which we say nothing. Then Sam, out of nowhere, says, “We’re friends, right?”

It’s another of her nesting doll questions. To answer one is to answer them all.

“Of course,” I say.

“Good,” she says. “That’s good, Quinn. I mean, imagine what it would be like if we weren’t.”

I try to read the expression on her face. It’s a blank. A void.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I know so much about you now,” she says quietly. “The things you’re capable of. The things you’ve actually done. If we weren’t friends, there’s so much I could use against you.”

My hands tense within hers. I fight the urge to pull them away and run from the room, fingernails half-painted and streaked with black. Instead, I gaze at her sweetly, hoping she’ll think it’s sincere.

“That’ll never happen,” I say. “We’re friends for life.”

“Good,” Sam replies. “I’m glad.”

Once again, the room plunges into silence. It stays that way for another five minutes. That’s when Sam stuffs her black-polished brush back into its bottle, smiles tightly and says, “You’re finished.”

I leave the room before my nails are completely dry, forced to turn the doorknob awkwardly with my palms. I blow on my hands in the hallway, waiting for the polish to become a glistening shell. Then I head to the master bedroom and take a quick look at Jeff, making sure he’s sound asleep before I slip inside the bathroom.

I don’t bother turning on the light. It’s better without it. I lie on the floor, my spine flat, shoulder blades cold against the tile. Then I dial the phone, Coop’s number permanently fixed in my memory.

It takes several rings for him to answer. When he does, his voice is husky with sleep.

“Quincy?”

Just hearing him makes me feel better.

“Coop,” I say. “I think I’m in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I think I’ve gotten myself into something I can’t get out of.”

I hear the faint rustle of sheets as Coop sits up in bed. It crosses my mind that he might not be alone. It’s likely he has someone sleeping next to him most nights and I just don’t know it.