“Stop pretending to be someone you’re not!” Sam also decides to throw things. There’s another bowl on the counter, which she slaps onto the floor. It rolls into a corner, spinning on its rim. “You act like this perfect girl with this perfect life making perfect cakes. But that’s not you, Quinn, and you know it.”

She pushes me against the dishwasher, its handle poking into the base of my spine. I shove back and send her sliding through the muck of eggs and flour.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say.

Sam comes at me again, this time slamming me against the counter.

“I’m the only one who knows you. You’re a fighter. One who’ll do anything to survive. Just like me.”

I squirm against her, trapped. “I’m nothing like you.”

“You’re a fucking Final Girl,” Sam says. “That’s why I went to Jonah Thompson. So you couldn’t hide anymore. So you could finally live up to the name you’ve earned.”

Her face is so close to mine that I stop breathing. Her presence is like a fire sucking all the oxygen from the room. I shove her away, clearing enough space to turn around in. Sam latches onto my hand, trying to drag me toward her. My other hand fumbles along the countertop, reaching for anything I can find. Measuring cups bump against my knuckles. A spoon slips from my grip and hits the floor. My fingers finally close around something and I whirl toward her, brandishing it, thrusting it outward.

Sam cries out, scrambling backward. She drops to the floor and presses herself against a cupboard door.

I stalk across the kitchen, vaguely aware that she’s saying my name on repeat. The sound watery and distant, as if shouted from the depths of a well.

“Quinn!”

That one is loud enough to rattle the cupboards. Loud enough to pierce the furious haze surrounding me.

“Quincy,” Sam says, now merely whispering. “Please.”

I look down.

There’s a knife in my hand.

It’s tilted, the flat of the blade facing the ceiling, reflecting the overhead kitchen light in a starburst glint.

I drop it, hand tingling. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Sam stays on the floor, curled into a ball, knees touching apron straps. She can’t stop shaking. It’s like a seizure.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” I say, tears at the back of my throat. “I swear.”

Sam’s hair hangs across her face. I see her ruby lips, a pebble of a nose, one eye peeking from between the strands, bright and terrified.

“Quincy,” she says. “Who are you?”

I shake my head. I honestly don’t know.

CHAPTER 26

A buzz at the front door breaks the silence that’s fallen over the kitchen. It’s the building’s intercom system. Someone’s outside. When I press the intercom button by the door, a woman’s voice crackles at me from the street.

“Miss Carpenter?”

“Yes?”

“Hi, Quincy,” the voice says. “It’s Carmen Hernandez. Sorry to just show up like this, but I’m going to need a moment of your time.”

Soon Detective Hernandez is in the dining room, smartly dressed in a gray blazer and red blouse. The bracelet wrapped around her right wrist clicks as she takes a seat. A dozen circular charms dangle from the sterling silver. An anniversary present from her husband, maybe. Or perhaps a treat she purchased herself after getting tired of waiting for him to do it. Either way, it’s lovely. A bolder version of me would try to steal it. I imagine looking into the charms and seeing a dozen different versions of myself.

“Is this a good time?” she says, knowing it’s not. The kitchen is visible to anyone passing through the foyer on the way to the dining room. It’s a gloppy mess of batter and egg yolks. Even if she somehow missed it, there’s Sam and me, two shambles sitting across from her.

“No,” I say. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure? You look flustered.”

“It’s been one of those days.” I flash a peppy smile. All teeth and gums. My mother would be proud. “You know how crazy it can get in a kitchen.”

“My husband does the cooking,” Hernandez says.

“Lucky you.”

“Why are you here, detective?” asks Sam, speaking for the first time since the intercom buzzer sounded. She’s tucked her hair behind her ears, giving the detective a full view of her hard stare.

“I’ve got just a few follow-up questions about the Rocky Ruiz assault. Nothing serious. Just doing my due diligence.”

“We’ve already told you everything.” I try not to sound worried. I really do. Yet an anxious squeak hides inside every word. “There’s really nothing else to add.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

The charms of the detective’s bracelet clatter again as she plucks a notebook from inside her blazer and flips through it. “Well, I’ve got two witnesses who say otherwise.”

“Oh?” I say.

Sam says nothing at all.

Hernandez jots something down in her notebook.

“One of them is a hustler who works the Ramble,” she says. “His name’s Mario. A plainclothes officer brought him in last night. Not a big surprise to anyone. He’s got a list of solicitation charges a mile long. When the cop asked Mario if he saw anything the night of Rocky’s assault, he said no. But he did mention seeing something unusual the night before. Two women sitting in the park. Around one in the morning. One of them was smoking. He said she gave him a cigarette.”