{"product_id":"final-girls-isbn-9781101985380","title":"Final Girls","description":"\u003cb\u003eTHE NATIONAL AND INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “If you liked \u003ci\u003eGone Girl\u003c\/i\u003e, you’ll like this.”—Stephen King\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Ten years ago, six friends went on vacation. One made it out alive….\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In that instant, college student Quincy Carpenter became a member of a very exclusive club—a group of survivors the press dubbed “The Final Girls”: Lisa, who lost nine sorority sisters to a college dropout's knife; Sam, who endured the Sack Man during her shift at the Nightlight Inn; and now Quincy, who ran bleeding through the woods to escape the massacre at Pine Cottage. Despite the media's attempts, the three girls have never met.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Now, Quincy is doing well—maybe even great, thanks to her Xanax prescription. She has a caring almost-fiancé; a popular baking blog; a beautiful apartment; and a therapeutic presence in Coop, the police officer who saved her life. Her mind won’t let her recall the events of that night; the past is in the past…until the first Final Girl is found dead in her bathtub and the second Final Girl appears on Quincy's doorstep. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Blowing through Quincy's life like a hurricane, Sam seems intent on making her relive the trauma of her ordeal. When disturbing details about Lisa's death emerge, Quincy desperately tries to unravel Sam's truths from her lies while evading both the police and bloodthirsty reporters. Quincy knows that in order to survive she \u003ci\u003ehas to\u003c\/i\u003e remember what really happened at Pine Cottage. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Because the only thing worse than being a Final Girl is being a dead one.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eWINNER OF THE 2018 INTERNATIONAL THRILLER WRITERS AWARD FOR BEST HARDCOVER NOVEL\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eFinal Girls\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Deliciously scary.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A terrific read!”—Karin Slaughter, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003eand international bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sager does an excellent job throughout of keeping the audience guessing until the final twist. A fresh voice in psychological suspense.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sager cleverly plays on horror movie themes from \u003ci\u003eScream \u003c\/i\u003eto \u003ci\u003eSingle White Female\u003c\/i\u003e, creating an homage without camp. Despite comparisons to \u003ci\u003eGone Girl\u003c\/i\u003e, this debut’s strong character development and themes of rebirth and redemption align more closely with Flynn’s \u003ci\u003eDark Places\u003c\/i\u003e.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review), “The Year's Best Crime Novels”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The tale builds to a fantastic conclusion that will have readers thinking of Gillian Flynn’s \u003ci\u003eGone Girl\u003c\/i\u003e and Paula Hawkins’s \u003ci\u003eThe Girl on the Train\u003c\/i\u003e....This brilliant horror\/psychological thriller will fly off the shelves.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You know the cold dread that washes over you while you’re watching a slasher flick? That’s how you’ll feel reading this blood-spattered mystery.”\u003ci\u003e—Entertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Part thriller, part horror story, \u003ci\u003eFinal Girls\u003c\/i\u003e borrows riffs from \u003ci\u003eFriday the 13th\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHalloween,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eSingle White Female\u003c\/i\u003e, but remains its own sophisticated creature....Taut and bloody, this chilling mystery invites Gillian Flynn comparisons. Readers should prepare to sleep with the lights on.”—ShelfAwareness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Stephen King dubbed this page-turner about three women with a seriously grim bond the ‘first great thriller of 2017.’ So yeah, it’s good.”—\u003ci\u003eCosmopolitan\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A twisty thriller that keeps you guessing whodunit.”—\u003ci\u003eFamily Circle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In horror movies, the 'final girl' is the one young woman who makes it out of a slasher film alive. But in Sager's story, Quincy, who survived a mass murder, refuses to play into the 'final girl' trope. Instead, she creates a fulfilling life in NYC. Then, a woman like her dies of an apparent suicide, and Quincy's well-crafted facade gradually begins to unravel. This one will keep you guessing until the very last page.”—\u003ci\u003ePureWow\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eFinal Girls\u003c\/i\u003e is a twisty horror novel that will keep you perched, terrified, at the edge of your seat until the very last page.”—\u003ci\u003eBustle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sager quickly ratchets up the mystery and the psychological suspense in classic slasher-movie fashion...[and] takes time to delve into the head of the main character, creating an emotionally charged experience readers won’t soon forget.”—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The tone of this book is absolutely spot on—more \u003ci\u003eDark Places\u003c\/i\u003e than \u003ci\u003eGone Girl\u003c\/i\u003e—but it’s creepy as hell and it evokes the best qualities of ’80s slasher movies.”—\u003ci\u003eBook Riot\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Far and away the best thriller that came out this year.”—PopSugar\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A cleverly devised, expertly written psychological thriller.”—Fresh Fiction\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eFinal Girls \u003c\/i\u003eis the reason they came up with the term ‘page-turner.’ ”—PopHorror\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Riley Sager’s loving ode to the slasher film, \u003ci\u003eFinal Girls\u003c\/i\u003e, was 2017’s perfect summer read.”—CrimeReads\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Readers won’t want to put this intense thriller down on the beach blanket—though that blanket may come in handy for hiding under during some of the book’s scarier moments.” —\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eDeseret News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The \u003ci\u003eFinal Girls\u003c\/i\u003e need you. You must sit down with this book, you must read. You must start flipping pages, faster, faster, faster. The \u003ci\u003eFinal Girls\u003c\/i\u003e are tough, everything survivors should be. But the new threat is clever, ominous, even closer than you suspect. You are about to gasp. You might drop the book. You may have to look over your shoulder. But you must keep reading. This is the best book of 2017, the \u003ci\u003eFinal Girls\u003c\/i\u003e need you.”—Lisa Gardner, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eFind Her\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Final Girls\u003c\/i\u003e is a compulsive read, with characters who are at once unreliable and sympathetic. Just when you think you've figured out the plot, the story pivots in a startling new direction....A taut and original mystery that will keep you up late trying to figure out a final twist that you won't see coming.”—Carla Norton, bestselling author of\u003ci\u003e The Edge of Normal\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWhat Doesn't Kill Her\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Part psychological thriller, part homage to slasher flicks and film noir, \u003ci\u003eFinal Girls\u003c\/i\u003e has a little bit of everything: a suspicious death, a damaged heroine, an unwelcome guest who trades in secrets, and not a single character you can trust. Plenty of nail-biting fun!”—Hester Young, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Gates of Evangeline\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There are uncommon books and films that crack the ‘safe place,’ that have us forgetting it’s only a story. Nobody knows exactly how this is done, but when it’s done, we know it. \u003ci\u003eFinal Girls \u003c\/i\u003eis operating on that plane; you will check your own arm for a wound a character suffers, you will look across the room when a character hears someone coming, and you will wonder if you yourself have the mettle to endure being a Final Girl.”—Josh Malerman, author of \u003ci\u003eBird Box\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Smart and provocative, with plenty of twists and turns, \u003ci\u003eFinal Girls\u003c\/i\u003e will have the reader racing breathlessly toward its shocking conclusion.”—Sophie Littlefield, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eThe Guilty One\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Missing Place\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Phenomenally drawn characters and an intriguing premise make this one of my favorite books I've read this year. An outstanding novel.”—Hollie Overton, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBaby Doll\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Captivating and compelling, with a refreshingly brilliant premise, Riley Sager is one to watch.”—Lisa Hall, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBetween You and Me\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eTell Me No Lies\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An intriguing, original idea. We’ve all shuddered at bloodbath stories—but how \u003ci\u003edoes\u003c\/i\u003e the survivor cope? It made me think outside the psychological box. Fresh voice, great characterization, and unexpected surprises. This stayed in my mind because it was different.”—Jane Corry, \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eSunday Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eMy Husband's Wife\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eRiley Sager\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of six novels, most recently \u003ci\u003eHome Before Dark\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eSurvive the Night\u003c\/i\u003e. A native of Pennsylvania, he now lives in Princeton, New Jersey.1.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My hands are covered in frosting when Jeff calls. Despite my best      efforts, the French buttercream has oozed onto my knuckles and      into the hammocks between my fingers, sticking there like paste.      Only one pinkie finger remains unscathed, and I use it to tap the      speakerphone button.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Carpenter and Richards, private investigators,\" I say, imitating      the breathy voice of a film noir secretary. \"How may I direct your      call?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jeff plays along, his tough-guy tone pitched somewhere between      Robert Mitchum and Dana Andrews. \"Put Miss Carpenter on the horn.      I need to talk to her pronto.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Miss Carpenter is busy with an important case. May I take a      message?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yeah,\" Jeff says. \"Tell her my flight from Chi-Town has been      delayed.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My faade drops. \"Oh, Jeff. Really?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sorry, hon. The perils of flying out of the Windy City.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How long is the delay?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Anywhere from two hours to maybe-I'll-be-home-by-next-week,\" Jeff      says. \"I'm at least hoping it's long enough for me to miss the      start of Baking Season.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No such luck, pal.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How's it going, by the way?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I look down at my hands. \"Messy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Baking Season is Jeff's name for the exhausting stretch between      early October and late December, when all those dessert-heavy      holidays arrive without reprieve. He likes to say it ominously,      raising his hands and wiggling his fingers like spider legs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ironically, it's a spider that's caused my hands to be coated in      buttercream. Made of double-dark chocolate frosting, its stomach      teeters on the edge of a cupcake while black legs stretch across      the top and down the sides. When I'm finished, the cupcakes will      be posed, photographed, and displayed on my website's roster of      Halloween baking ideas. This year's theme is \"Revenge of the      Yummy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How's the airport?\" I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Crowded. But I think I'll survive by hitting the terminal bar.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Call me if the delay gets any worse,\" I say. \"I'll be here,      covered in icing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bake like the wind,\" Jeff replies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Call over, it's back to the buttercream spider and the      chocolate-cherry cupcake it partly covers. If I've done it right,      the red center should ooze out at first bite. That test will come      later. Right now, my chief concern is the outside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Decorating cupcakes is harder than it seems. Especially when the      results will be posted online for thousands to see. Smudges and      smears aren't allowed. In a high-def world, flaws loom large.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Details matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That's one of the Ten Commandments on my website, squeezed between      Measuring Cups Are Your Friends and Don't Be Afraid to Fail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I finish the first cupcake and am working on the second when my      phone rings again. This time there's not even a clean pinkie      finger at my disposal, and I'm forced to ignore it. The phone      continues to buzz while shimmying across the countertop. It then      goes silent, pausing a moment before emitting a telltale beep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A text.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Curious, I drop the icing bag, wipe my hands, and check the phone.      It's from Coop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We need to talk. Face 2 face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My fingers pause above the screen. Although it takes Coop three      hours to drive into Manhattan, it's a trip he's willingly made      many times in the past. When it's important.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I text back. When?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His reply arrives in seconds. Now. Usual place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A spot of worry presses the base of my spine. Coop is already      here. Which means only one thing-something is wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Before leaving, I rush through my usual preparations for a meeting      with Coop. Teeth brushed. Lips glossed. Tiny Xanax popped. I wash      the little blue pill down with some grape soda drunk straight from      the bottle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the elevator, it occurs to me that I should have changed      clothes. I'm still in my baking wear: black jeans, one of Jeff's      old button-downs, and red flats. All bear flecks of flour and      faded splotches of food coloring. I notice a scrape of dried      frosting on the back of my hand, skin peeking through the      blue-black smear. It resembles a bruise. I lick it off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Outside on Eighty-Second Street, I make a right onto Columbus,      already packed with pedestrians. My body tightens at the sight of      so many strangers. I stop and shove stiff fingers into my purse,      searching for the can of pepper spray always kept there. There's      safety in numbers, yes, but also uncertainty. It's only after      finding the pepper spray that I start walking again, my face      puckered into a don't-bother-me scowl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Although the sun is out, a tangible chill stings the air. Typical      for early October in New York, when the weather seems to randomly      veer between hot and cold. Yet fall is definitely making its swift      approach. When Theodore Roosevelt Park comes into view, the leaves      there are poised between green and gold.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Through the foliage, I can see the back of the American Museum of      Natural History, which on this morning is swarmed with school      kids. Their voices flit like birds among the trees. When one of      them shrieks, the rest go silent. Just for a second. I freeze on      the sidewalk, unnerved not by the shriek but by the silence that      follows. But then the children's voices start up again and I calm      down. I resume walking, heading to a cafe two blocks south of the      museum.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Our usual place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Coop is waiting for me at a table by the window, looking the same      as always. That sharp, craggy face that appears pensive in times      of repose, such as now. A body that's both long and thick. Large      hands, one of which bears a ruby class ring instead of a wedding      band. The only change is his hair, which he keeps trimmed close to      the scalp. Each meeting always brings a few more flecks of gray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His presence in the cafe is noticed by all the nannies and      caffeinated hipsters who crowd the place. Nothing like a cop in      full uniform to put people on edge. Even without it, Coop cuts an      intimidating figure. He's a big man, consisting of rolling hills      of muscle. The starched blue shirt and black trousers with the      knife-edge creases only amplify his size. He lifts his head as I      enter, and I notice the exhaustion in his eyes. He must have      driven here directly from working the third shift.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two mugs are already on the table. Earl Grey with milk and extra      sugar for me. Coffee for Coop. Black. Unsweetened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Quincy,\" he says, nodding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There's always a nod. It's Coop's version of a handshake. We never      hug. Not since the desperate one I gave him the night we first      met. No matter how many times I see him, that moment is always      there, playing on a loop until I push it away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They're dead, I had choked out while clutching him, the words      gurgling thickly in the back of my throat. They're all dead. And      he's still out here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ten seconds later, he saved my life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This is certainly a surprise,\" I say as I take a seat. There's a      tremor in my voice that I try to tamp down. I don't know why      Coop's called me, but if it's bad news, I want to be calm when I      hear it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're looking well,\" Coop says while giving me the quick,      concerned once-over I'm now accustomed to. \"But you've lost some      weight.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There's worry in his voice too. He's thinking about six months      after Pine Cottage, when my appetite had left me so completely      that I ended up back in the hospital, force-fed through a tube. I      remember waking to find Coop standing by my bed, staring at the      plastic hose slithered up my nostril.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Don't disappoint me, Quincy, he said then. You didn't survive that      night just to die like this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's nothing,\" I say. \"I've finally learned I don't have to eat      everything I bake.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"And how's that going? The baking thing?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Great, actually. I gained five thousand followers last quarter      and got another corporate advertiser.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's great,\" Coop says. \"Glad everything is going well. One of      these days, you should actually bake something for me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Like the nod, this is another of Coop's constants. He always says      it, never means it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How's Jefferson?\" he asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He's good. The Public Defender's Office just made him the lead      attorney on a big, juicy case.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I leave out how the case involves a man accused of killing a      narcotics detective in a bust gone wrong. Coop already looks down      on Jeff's job. There's no need to toss more fuel onto that      particular fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Good for him,\" he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He's been gone the past two days. Had to fly to Chicago to get      statements from family members. Says it'll make a jury more      sympathetic.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hmm,\" Coop replies, not quite listening. \"I guess he hasn't      proposed yet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shake my head. I told Coop I thought Jeff was going to propose      on our August vacation to the Outer Banks, but no ring so far.      That's the real reason I've recently lost weight. I've become the      kind of girlfriend who takes up jogging just to fit into a      hypothetical wedding dress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Still waiting,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It'll happen.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"And what about you?\" I ask, only half teasing. \"Have you finally      found a girlfriend?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Nope.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I arch a brow. \"A boyfriend?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This visit is about you, Quincy,\" Coop says, not even cracking a      smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Of course. You ask. I answer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That's how things go between us when we meet once, twice, maybe      three times a year.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e More often than not, the visits resemble therapy sessions, with me      never getting a chance to ask Coop questions of my own. I'm only      privy to the basics of his life. He's forty-one, spent time in the      Marines before becoming a cop, and had barely shed his rookie      status before finding me screaming among the trees. And while I      know he still patrols the same town where all those horrible      things happened, I have no idea if he's happy. Or satisfied. Or      lonely. I never hear from him on holidays. Never once got a      Christmas card. Nine years earlier, at my father's funeral, he sat      in the back row and slipped out of the church before I could even      thank him for coming. The closest he gets to showing affection is      on my birthday, when he sends the same text: Another year you      almost didn't get. Live it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Jeff will come around,\" Coop says, again bending the conversation      to his will. \"It'll happen at Christmas, I bet. Guys like to      propose then.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He takes a gulp of coffee. I sip my tea and blink, keeping my eyes      shut an extra beat, hoping the darkness will allow me to feel the      Xanax taking hold. Instead, I'm more anxious than when I walked      in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I open my eyes to see a well-dressed woman entering the cafe with      a chubby, equally well-dressed toddler. An au pair, probably. Most      women under thirty in this neighborhood are. On warm, sunny days      they jam the sidewalks-a parade of interchangeable girls fresh out      of college, armed with lit degrees and student loans. The only      reason this one catches my attention is because we look alike.      Fresh-faced and well scrubbed. Blond hair reined in by a ponytail.      Neither too thin nor too plump. The product of hearty, milk-fed      Midwestern stock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That could have been me in a different life. One without Pine      Cottage and blood and a dress that changed colors like in some      horrible dream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That's something else I think about every time Coop and I meet-he      thought my dress was red. He'd whispered it to the dispatcher when      he called for backup. It's on both the police transcript, which      I've read multiple times, and the dispatch recording, which I      managed to listen to only once.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Someone's running through the trees. Caucasian female. Young.      She's wearing a red dress. And she's screaming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was running through the trees. Galloping, really. Kicking up      leaves, numb to the pain coursing through my entire body. And      although all I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears, I was      indeed screaming. The only thing Coop got wrong was the color of      my dress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It had, until an hour earlier, been white.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Some of the blood was mine. The rest belonged to the others.      Janelle, mostly, from when I held her moments before I got hurt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'll never forget the look on Coop's face when he realized his      mistake. That slight widening of the eyes. The oblong shape of his      mouth as he tried to keep it from dropping open. The startled      huffing sound he made. Two parts shock, one part pity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's one of the few things I actually can remember.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My experience at Pine Cottage is broken into two distinct halves.      There's the beginning, fraught with fear and confusion, in which      Janelle lurched out of the woods, not yet dead but well on her      way. Then there's the end, in which Coop found me in my      red-not-red dress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Everything between those two points remains a blank in my memory.      An hour, more or less, entirely wiped clean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Dissociative amnesia\" is the official diagnosis. More commonly      known as repressed memory syndrome. Basically, what I witnessed      was too horrific for my fragile mind to hold on to. So I mentally      cut it out. A self-performed lobotomy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That didn't stop people from begging me to remember what happened.      Well-meaning family. Misguided friends. Psychiatrists with visions      of published case studies dancing in their heads. Think, they all      told me. Really think about what happened. As if that would make      any difference. As if my being able to recall every blood-specked      detail could somehow bring the rest of my friends back to life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Still, I tried. Therapy. Hypnosis. Even a ridiculous sense-memory      game in which a frizzy-haired specialist held scented paper strips      to my blindfolded face, asking how each one made me feel. Nothing      worked. In my mind, that hour is a blackboard completely erased.      There's nothing left but dust.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I understand that urge for more information, that longing for      details. But in this case, I'm fine without them. I know what      happened at Pine Cottage. I don't need to remember exactly how it      happened. Because here's the thing about details-they can also be      a distraction. Add too many and it obscures the brutal truth about      a situation. They become the gaudy necklace that hides the      tracheotomy scar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I make no attempts to disguise my scars. I just pretend they don't      exist.","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300603416805,"sku":"NP9781101985380","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101985380.jpg?v=1767726870","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/final-girls-isbn-9781101985380","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}