“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t remember you at all.”

“I definitely remember you,” Jonah says. “A lot of times you’d say hi to me when taking your seat before class started.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You were very friendly. I remember how happy you always seemed.”

Happy. I honestly can’t remember the last time someone used that word to describe me.

“You sat with another girl,” Jonah continues. “She came in late a lot.”

He’s talking about Janelle, who would sneak into class after it started, often hungover. On several occasions she fell asleep, head on my shoulder. After class, I’d let her copy my notes.

“You were friends,” he says. “I think. Maybe I’m wrong. I remember a lot of bickering going on.”

“We didn’t bicker,” I say.

“You totally did. There was some passive-aggressive thing going on between you two. Like you pretended to be best friends but actually couldn’t stand each other.”

I don’t remember any of this, which doesn’t mean it’s not the truth. Apparently it happened with enough frequency to make Jonah remember.

“We were best friends,” I say quietly.

“Oh, God,” Jonah says, doing a shitty job of pretending to piece it together just now. Surely he already knew. Two girls that sat in class in front of him, neither of them coming back after one October weekend. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

No, he shouldn’t have, and I would lecture him about it if my head wasn’t hurting and I wasn’t so eager to change the subject.

“Now that we’ve established how I have a poor memory, it’s time for you to tell me why I’m here,” I say. “Your minute starts now.”

Jonah dives right in, a salesman making his elevator pitch. I suspect he’s practiced this routine. It has the smoothness of multiple rehearsals.

“You’ve made it very clear you don’t want to talk about what happened to you. I understand that and I accept it. This isn’t about your situation, Quincy, although you know I’m here if you ever do want to discuss it. This is about Samantha Boyd and her situation.”

“You said she was lying to me. About what?”

“I’ll get to that,” he says. “What I want to know is how much you know about her.”

“Why are you so interested in Sam?”

“It’s not just me, Quincy. You should have seen the interest that article about the two of you generated. The internet traffic was insane.”

“If you mention that article again, I’m leaving.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonah says, the base of his neck slightly reddening. It makes me happy to see that he’s at least a little embarrassed by his actions. “Back to Sam.”

“You want me to spill some dirt on her,” I say.

“No,” he says, the too-high pitch of his protest telling me I’m right. “I simply want you to share what you know. Think of it as a profile of her.”

“Would this be off the record or on?”

“I’d prefer it to be on,” Jonah says.

“Too bad.” I’m getting irritated. It makes my headache pulse just a little more and sends restlessness coursing through my legs. “Let’s walk.”

We start to stroll away from the library toward Avenue of the Americas. More people have crowded into the park, filling the slate walkways and angling for the coveted chairs that line them. Jonah and I find ourselves pushed tightly together, moving shoulder to shoulder.

“People want to know about her,” Jonah says. “What she’s like. Where she’s been hiding all this time.”

“She hasn’t been hiding.” For some reason, I still feel the need to defend her. As if she’ll know if I don’t. “She was just laying low.”

“Where?”

I wait a split second before telling him, wondering if I should. But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Even though I keep telling myself it’s not.

“Bangor, Maine.”

“Why did she suddenly stop laying low?”

“She wanted to meet me after Lisa Milner’s suicide,” I say, quickly realizing my mistake. “Murder, I mean.”

“And you’ve gotten to know her?”

I think of Sam painting my nails. We’re friends, right?

“Yes,” I say.

It’s such a simple word. Three little letters. But there’s so much more to it than that. Yes, I’ve gotten to know Sam, just as she’s gotten to know me. I also know I don’t trust her. And I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about me.

“And you’re positive you’re not going to share what you know about her?” Jonah asks.

We’ve come to Bryant Park’s ping-pong tables—one of those only-in-New York things. Both tables are occupied, one of them by an elderly Asian couple and the other by two office drones, their ties loosened as they smack the ball back and forth. I spend a moment watching them as I try to form a suitable answer to Jonah’s question.

“It’s not that simple,” I say.

“I know something that might change your mind,” Jonah tells me.