It’s a hangover, I realize. A guilt hangover. Haven’t had one of those in years.

Memories creep in at a steady pace, like the tick of a clock’s secondhand. Tick, tick, tick. Within a minute, it’s all come back to me. Every slutty, sordid detail.

Coop, obviously, is gone. He could have even been the source of the slamming door, although I suspect he slipped out quietly, preferring not to wake me. I can’t say I blame him.

At least he was gentlemanly enough to leave a note, hastily scrawled on hotel stationary. I saw it sitting next to the TV as I wobbled to the bathroom.

I’ll read it later. Once I’m able to pick myself off the floor.

My entire body is sore, but in that satisfied way that comes after getting what it wants. It’s the way I sometimes feel after jogging. Exhausted and sated and just a little bit worried that I might have overdone it.

This time, I have no doubt. I’ve overdone things in the most cataclysmic way.

I look at my hands. Most of the black polish Sam painted on has chipped away, leaving only flecks. There’s crud beneath the nails. More polish, most likely. Or maybe flakes of Coop’s skin from when I scratched at his back, begging him to fuck me harder. His scent remains on my hands. They smell of sweat, semen and, faintly, Old Spice.

I climb to my feet and go to the bowl-sized sink. I splash cold water on my face, careful not to look at myself in the mirror. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. Actually, I’m afraid I’ll see nothing at all.

Two steps later I’m at the bed again, sitting down. Coop’s note stares at me from its spot beside the TV remote.

I grab it and read it.

Dear Quincy, I’m ashamed of my behavior. As much as I wanted this to happen, I realize now that it never should have. I think it’s best if we don’t communicate for a long time. Maybe forever. I’m sorry.

And that’s that. Ten years of protection, friendship, and idol worship lost in a single night. Tossed away as easily as I toss the crumpled note at the plastic trashcan against the wall. When it misses and bounces onto the floor, I crawl over, pick it up, drop it in.

Then I pick up the trashcan and fling it across the room.

After it slams into the wall and drops straight down, I grab something else. The remote. This, too, goes flying, breaking apart against the bed’s headboard.

I lunge for the tangled sheets drooping onto the floor, tearing at them, twisting them around my balled fists, holding them to my mouth to muffle my sobs.

Coop’s gone.

He’s really fucking gone.

I’d always assumed this day would come at some point. Hell, it had almost already happened, back before that threatening letter pulled him back into my orbit. But I’m not prepared for a life in which Coop isn’t there when I need him. I’m not sure I can handle things on my own.

But now I have no choice. Now there’s no one left in my life but Jeff.

Jeff.

Fuck.

Knowing how much I’ve betrayed him sends a wave of nausea pushing into my gut, jabbing me. This will devastate him.

I decide on the spot to never, ever tell him what I’ve done. It’s my only option. I’ll find a way to forget about this musty room, these tangled sheets, the feeling of Coop’s chest against my breasts, his breath hot in my ear. Like Pine Cottage, I’ll block it all from my memory.

And when I face Jeff again, he won’t suspect a thing. He’ll see only the Quincy he thinks he knows. The normal Quincy.

Plan in place, I sit up, trying to ignore the guilt squeezing my insides. It’s a feeling I’ll need to get used to.

I check my phone and see three missed calls and one missed text from Jeff. I can’t listen to his messages. The sound of his voice will break me. But I read his text, every word of it weighted with worry.

why aren’t you answering you phone? everything ok??

I text him back.

sorry. fell asleep as soon as i got home. will call you later

I tack on an I love you but delete it, worried it might make him suspicious. Already, I’m starting to think like a cheater.

Besides Jeff, I’ve missed one other call. It’s from Jonah Thompson, received shortly after eight. Roughly an hour ago. When I call back, he answers after only one ring.

“Finally,” he says.

“Good morning to you, too,” I say.

Jonah ignores me. “I did a little digging on Samantha Boyd, aka Tina Stone. I think you’ll be very interested to see what I came up with.”

“What did you find?”

“It’s hard to explain over the phone,” Jonah says. “You need to see it in person.”

I sigh. “Bethesda Fountain. Twenty minutes. Bring coffee.”

Pine Cottage, 11:49 p.m.

The moon had slipped behind some clouds, leaving the woods darker than before. Quincy had trouble staying on the path, the ground beneath her feet a dim muddle of leaves and underbrush. But she had reached the incline. She could feel the weight of extra effort tight in her calves.

She had no plan. Not really. She just wanted to confront them. She wanted to go to that rock, stand before their panting, moon-streaked bodies and tell them how much she hurt.

The knife would make them believe it. It would make them scared.

Soon Quincy was halfway up the incline. Heart pumping hot blood. Breath escaping in ragged puffs. As she marched upward, she was struck with the sensation that she was being watched. It was nothing more than a tickle on the back of her neck, telling her she wasn’t alone. She stopped, looked around. Although she saw nothing, she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her body. It made her think of the Indian ghosts rumored to roam the forest. She welcomed them, those vengeful spirits, eager to have them join her cause.