Chapter Text
“Motives for murder are sometimes very trivial, Madame.” -Agatha Christie, Death on the Nile
1.
There’s a man in bed beside her.
Sam sifts through her memories but his name is lost among them, somewhere around the sure I can’t buy you a real drink and the fact that there was another, decidedly different man in her bed only a few days before and she can’t remember which name belongs to which of her late night visitors.
Not that it really matters.
Sam has no intention of ever seeing him again.
Maybe his name is Bobby. Grady? Something with a y at the end, she thinks, because he’d said his name with a sort of goofy, boyish smile like he was embarrassed by still being called Robby when he should be introducing himself as Robert the way he did in job interviews.
Normally Sam doesn’t go for the boyish smiles. The goofy jokes. The sweet faces.
They remind her too much of Richie.
Clearly she’d been off her game the night before.
Carefully, Sam shifts backward, trying not to jostle the mattress too much. She likes to do this on her terms, meaning with clothes on and standing, so the guy who’d fallen asleep next to her knows that she means business. When she glances at her phone on the bedside table, she winces. Crap. Normally she doesn’t sleep this late. It’s closer to six than she likes and the idea of Tara discovering that there’s been a strange guy in their apartment all night well…
The preemptive shame makes Sam speed up her process a little bit. She grabs her sweats with one hand and a hair tie with the other, doing a half-assed job of pulling the pants on and putting her hair into a ponytail. But she manages, finishing by yanking a shirt over her head. Actually, this might not be her shirt but she’ll have to deal with that later.
“Hey. Hey.” Sam pushes the guy on the shoulder, gentle at first but then with a little more impatient roughness when he doesn’t respond. “Hey. You’ve got to get up.”
She gets a grumble in response, a hand moving to absently push her away.
Sam pokes him in the side. “You’ve got to go.”
Her voice is firm enough this time that the guy lifts his head, blinking at her sleepily. He looks almost cute, here in his half-awake, confused state, and the crooked smile he gives her almost makes Sam grab a pillow and cover his face with it. “Hey-”
“No, no,” Sam says quickly, waving her hand to stop him. “Nope. You’ve got to leave.”
The sleepy, bemused expression disappears somewhat, the guy’s face hardening just a bit. “Wait, what’s-”
Sam resists the urge to grab him and haul him out of bed but only barely. “You. Leaving. Now.” She points toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Grumbling, the guy slides out of bed, reaching for his boxers. “I thought we were going to do breakfast.”
Sam definitely does not remember that being part of the plan. “No. No breakfast. Just…” She points toward the bedroom door. “You’ve got to go.”
The guy looks hurt, which she gets on occasion. Sometimes there are the ones who don’t seem to care, or who even seem grateful that Sam is kicking them out so they don’t have to come up with some kind of excuse. But Sam doesn’t have time for this routine, for some guy who thinks he’s found true love at a bar when he picked up a girl who only drank Cokes and asked with a bit of impatience want to go back to my place? when it was getting close to last call.
No judgment on other girls who do something like that. Sam is really just judging herself.
Sam bites the inside of her cheek, barely managing to keep from tapping her foot as she watches the guy get dressed. After a bit of searching, he gives her a sort of amused grimace and points. “I think that’s my-”
Sam exhales, tugging the shirt over her head and throwing it at him before snatching up the first thing on top of her laundry pile (Tara’s Defend the Den, Panthers shirt from some football game that she went to when Sam was off somewhere else, being a shitty sister) and pulls it on.
“You have to be quiet,” Sam says sharply, her hand on the door knob. “If you wake up my sister, I’ll kill you.”
The guy smiles, mimicking locking his lips and throwing away the keys. Sam gives him a look that makes his smile falter, just enough, before she opens the door.
Thankfully, the guy takes her seriously enough not to make a sound as they walk the short distance through the apartment. He doesn’t bump into anything, doesn’t even trip over the bag tossed carelessly beside the couch, which endears Sam to him, just a little bit.
He ruins it when he stops in the doorway, turning to smile at her. “Can I get your-”
She shuts the door before he can finish.
When Sam turns around, she jumps, knocking her elbow against the door and biting her tongue in an effort to keep from screaming.
Mindy lifts her eyebrows from her spot sitting at the kitchen island, giving her a wave with the hand currently holding a spoon. “Sup.”
“Shit.” Sam presses a hand to her chest, letting her head fall back against the door. “Mindy. Jesus. What are you doing?”
Mindy points her spoon at the bowl in front of her. “Breakfast.” A grin slides across her face. “What are you doing?”
Sam decides to side-step that particular question. Instead, she says, “It’s five thirty in the morning.”
“I’ve been working on a paper.” Mindy eats a mouthful of cereal, somehow managing a shit-eating grin around the spoon. “What’ve you been working on?”
Sam rolls her eyes. “Nothing. Just…nothing.”
Mindy considers her for a moment before nudging the box of cereal toward Sam. Obviously going back to sleep is out of the question and while she’s not exactly interested in the Mindy Inquisition, it beats going back to her room and stripping the sheets so she can wash out the stranger smell. So Sam takes a bowl out of the cabinet, shaking the remainder of the cereal inside before grabbing a spoon.
“So.” Mindy says after they eat for a few minutes in silence, looking entirely too amused for Sam’s taste.
Sam grimaces. “Can you just…not tell Tara. Please?”
Mindy raises an eyebrow. “This is starting to sound suspiciously like all those times you bribed me not to tell my moms when Chad jumped off the top of the stairs.”
“And it always worked, didn’t it?”
“Well…that depends. Got any more Fruit Roll-ups?”
Sam manages a smile, shaking her head. “I thought your price would’ve gone up by now.”
Mindy scoffs. “Sam. Please. Fruit Roll-ups are timeless.”
Sam lets her head fall into her hands, groaning. “I just…I have no idea what got into me.” The words are muffled by her palms, and by the lie that has wrapped around them.
Or, well, not entirely a lie.
She has no idea what’s gotten into her.
Sam just figures it’s a little disingenuous to make it seem like this is the first time she’s done it.
But she doesn’t mind letting Mindy think that.
“No judgment from me. Sometimes you just need a random hookup. We’ve all been there.” Mindy pauses, as though considering her words. “Except men. Ugh. No thank you.”
Sam lifts her head, chancing a look at Mindy’s face. Her nose is slightly scrunched, the way it always used to be when she was younger and watching the predictable endings of every animated kids movie that Sam put on to keep her and Chad quiet. “Thanks. For not…you know…telling Tara.”
Mindy stands up, taking her cereal bowl to the sink. “Do you really think she would care?”
Sam chews the inside of her cheek, imagining what might have happened if Tara had been the one sitting in the kitchen instead of Mindy. The shame of just imagining such an encounter makes Sam nearly turn to ash right on the spot. Not just because she wants her sister to think of her as someone pulled together and capable, but because she can imagine the flicker of betrayal on Tara’s face when she realizes that there’s been a stranger in their apartment.
Because that’s where they differ, she and her sister. While Tara can’t stand the idea of a stranger, it’s all Sam can stomach. Someone she doesn’t know. Someone who doesn’t know her. Someone who will be gone in a few hours and not worm their way into her heart only to try and cut it out later.
It really is the best insurance policy when you think about it.
“I just…” Sam exhales, the rest of her cereal looking entirely too unappealing. “I’m pretty sure you guys are supposed to be the ones with the random hook-ups and I’m supposed to have it all figured out.”
Mindy laughs, shaking her head. “Oh, Sam, Sam, Sam. No one thinks that you have it figured out.”
Sam stares at her, not sure if she’s supposed to be laughing or not. “Uh…thanks?”
Mindy shrugs. “Just to, you know, relieve some of that pressure.”
Sam frowns and Mindy just gives her a thumbs-up. “Gonna go keep working on that paper,” Mindy says, stretching her arms over her head as she heads toward the back two bedrooms, crammed in between the bathroom she and Tara share. “Whoever thought of a nine AM deadline was seriously disturbed.”
Sam nods, even though Mindy’s back is to her, and she watches the girl go for a moment before calling out, “Hey, Mindy?”
Mindy turns and Sam clears her throat. “I wouldn’t…you know…put you guys in danger or anything. By…” She gestures toward the door.
There’s a flicker of hesitation, the aloof facade disappearing from Mindy’s features for a second too long, just enough that Sam notices the drop in the first place. But then Mindy nods. “Yeah. No. It’s cool.” After a pause, she adds with more sincerity, “I know you wouldn’t.”
Mindy has said before that her last real memory of what happened in Stu Macher’s house prior to being wheeled out on a stretcher was of Sam, holding her hands to the gash on Mindy’s shoulder, offering reassurances that she couldn’t back-up. Despite Sam’s assurances to the contrary, she knows that Mindy still holds her responsible for her survival that night, both because she’d interrupted Richie and because she’d been there, briefly, in that moment before everything else went to hell.
There’s no point, Sam knows, in mentioning how terrified she’d been in that moment and how certain she was that Mindy was going to die, right there, with Sam useless to do a single thing to stop it. That, if the rest of them got out alive, she was going to have to look at Martha and tell her that her children were dead.
Sam swallows, nodding, the memories of both that night and the one from a few hours before -the bar, the guy, the bedroom door closing behind them- coating her throat with an acrid sharpness that makes her want to throw up in her cereal bowl. “It won’t happen again.”
Mindy heads off to finish her paper without realizing the lie.
The first thing Tara sees when she opens her eyes is her own face, smiling back at her. The photo is from a few months before, not long after graduation, when she and Sam had embarked on a sisterly road trip, one that had been designed to get Tara familiarized with the city that would soon become home, but really had just seemed like a reward for surviving senior year of high school. The Tara in the picture looks almost deliriously happy, Sam’s arms around her, a sliver of brilliant blue sky behind their heads. She remembers that exact moment, smooshing herself closer to Sam so that her sister could snap the selfie, feeling full to the bursting because she’d felt so certain in that moment that everything was going to be just fine. That she was going to leave Woodsboro and become a brand new person.
It’s hard to feel like a brand new person this early in the morning. Especially when all she wants to do is pull the covers back over her head and chase after the sleep that seems like it’s been eluding her recently. But Brand New Tara has class in an hour and Brand New Tara doesn’t skip school for nightmares and memories or dread approaching dates on a calendar.
Instead, Tara throws back the blankets, forcing herself out of the cocoon of warmth and onto her feet. She and Mindy had spent an afternoon measuring the bedrooms in the new apartment not long after they’d gotten the keys, giggling as they’d walked the length of the room with their heels pressed to toes, drunk on the excitement of being away from home for the first time. They’d determined, quite scientifically of course, that Tara’s corner room had been the smallest, something that had suited her just fine, even though she’d gamely agreed to engage in a round of rock-paper-scissors with Mindy to see who would get the bigger of the two rooms.
Tara hardly minds that the space seems suited only for her bed and dresser, plus the shoebox sized closet on the opposite wall. It’s safe. Secure. Snug. The bedroom equivalent of the blanket cocoon she’d left only moments before. The only thing that makes it feel more cluttered than snug is the bookshelf she’d insisted wouldn’t take up too much space (it does) because she’d needed it (she does). She’d brought only a few things with her from Woodsboro and most of them had been books. Everything else had been too fraught, too charged with potential. And Brand New Tara didn’t need any pitfalls waiting every time she entered her bedroom.
By the time Tara makes it out of the shower and into the living room -hair still damp, leaving droplets on the fabric of her shirt- she finds the apartment buzzing with noise. Mindy has the TV on, as well as a podcast playing on her phone, and Tara can hear the sounds of Sam moving around in her own bedroom, the rattle of noise that seems to accompany everything her sister does.
“What’s a professional way to say ‘thanks for reading my essay, now fuck off?’” Mindy asks without looking up from the laptop open on her knees.
Tara smirks. “You could try ‘in closing, the evidence speaks for itself.’” She suggests, the best she can offer without having skimmed through the aforementioned essay. Something she assumes won’t be far off, depending on how close Mindy is to her deadline.
Mindy nods, tapping her finger to her pursed lips. “Right. Good.” She types, furrowing her brow. “As you can see,” she murmurs, reading along with her typing fingers, “Ernest Hemingway was a giant cunt.”
“Not sure that’s what the professor wants to hear,” Tara offers around her attempts to swallow a burst of laughter.
“Well, the evidence speaks for itself.” Mindy looks up finally, grinning. “Does that offend you, Miss Future Writer?”
Tara holds up her hands, a quick gesture of surrender. “Hey, I’ve got more important things to do than go around defending dead white guys. Besides, I hardly think I’m any kind of writer.”
“That’s what you have me for. To cheer you on. Okay,” Mindy continues before Tara can protest. “Submit. Great. Done.” She snaps the laptop closed and tosses it to the other end of the couch. “No editing here, we die like men. Or, you know, women.”
There are plenty of things that Tara admires about Mindy. Envies, even. But, she’s not entirely sure if her laissez-faire attitude toward college assignments is to be envied or feared. Though sometimes Tara wishes she could do something similar, wishes she could dial down the need to constantly skim her words, to go through it again and again until everything is perfect, right down to every piece of punctuation.
“You know, I think Professor Davison might be a Hemingway defender, though,” Tara points out as she retrieves a cereal bowl from the cabinet. “I wonder what he’s going to think of your Hemingway is a cunt theory.”
Mindy shrugs. “He should be so lucky as to let me blow his mind.”
Tara grins, shaking her head. “Pretty sure he’s not ready for the Mindy Meeks-Martin experience.”
“You’re damn right.”
Tara’s grin falters somewhat as she scrutinizes the empty top of the fridge. “Do you know where the cereal is?”
“Pretty sure your sister ate it this morning,” Mindy remarks, finally taking pity on them all by turning off the podcast on her phone. “When she was up at five thirty.”
Tara frowns, cereal momentarily forgotten. “Why was she up at five thirty?”
Mindy shrugs. “Do I look like the Sam Whisperer?” She’s still studying her phone, gaze conspicuously focused on something else, which piques Tara’s attention. Mindy has had the same tells since they were little kids. “You’ll have to ask her.”
Tara glances at the clock, only half-focused on the digital glow. “Fifteen minutes.”
Mindy nods, waving her away. “Yeah, yeah fifteen minutes, Miss Punctuality.”
Plenty of time, Tara thinks, to check in with her sister before they go their separate ways for the day.
Sam calls out a quick come-in as soon as Tara knocks on the door and when Tara steps into the room, she’s surprised to see that Sam is in the process of assembling a pile of laundry, her bed striped of sheets. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Why?” Sam blows a twist of hair away from her face, turning to study her sister. “Everything okay with you?”
“Just…surprised you’re already doing laundry at eight in the morning. Isn’t today your day off?”
Sam shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. I’m feeling a burst of energy so I figured I might as well channel it. Who knows,” Sam grins, “you might come back to find this place spotless.”
Tara raises her eyebrows. “That would be a change,” she teases, only because she can tell that Sam is expecting her to. She sits down on the edge of the bed, trying not to make it too obvious that she’s trying to read every minute expression on her sister’s face. Sam had perfected that art a year ago, after the murders back in Woodsboro, and it had been extremely annoying.
Tara doesn’t mind so much now that she’s not the one on the receiving end.
“I’m fine. Seriously.” Sam drops on onto the mattress beside her, giving Tara a nudge. “Promise.”
“Okay. Okay.” Tara nods, absently rubbing at the scar along her palm. The last thing she wants to do is call more attention to it than necessary but the tick is impossible to rein in, despite all her best efforts. She feels better, which only makes it more annoying, soothed by the gentle movement of her thumb along the puckered pink skin. All the other scars are hidden beneath her clothes, kept away from prying eyes, but this one stares at her every time she puts a hand on her desk or picks up a pen, or reaches to grab a shirt from a hanger in her closet. As if she might forget everything without a constant reminder. “Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” Sam assures her, punctuating the words with another bump of her shoulder. “But you don’t need to worry about me. I’m the big sister, that’s my job.”
Tara rolls her eyes. “How ‘bout we just…stop worrying?” She rubs the scar again before she catches herself, putting her hands on either side of her thighs quickly. “Everything is fine. Right?”
It feels good to be out of Woodsboro. To be Brand New Tara. Brand New Tara doesn’t have anything to worry about. She has a full course load, an intent to major in English with an added focus on her writing, an apartment with her sister and her best friend. Brand New Tara smiles and laughs and is carefree even if she’s already perfected the art of turning down most social engagements and coffee invitations.
“Right.” Sam gives her an awkward hug, squeezing her shoulder. “Only worrying about school, and making it to class on time.” She gives Tara a pointed look. “Because don’t you have a nine o’clock?”
“I’m going,” Tara assures her, a smile turning up the corners of her lips. “I just wanted to…” Sam gives her a pointed look and the smile turns into a full grin as Tara corrects herself quickly, “say goodbye.” Not check on Sam. Not express her worry. Because everything is fine, fine, fine.
Sam has assured her that dozens of times. Hundreds. And it’s working, clearly, because Tara doesn’t have as many nightmares anymore. She doesn’t worry. She doesn’t think about Woodsboro.
Even if the nightmares are starting to come back.
Even if she is uncomfortably aware of each passing day.
Even if she doesn’t point either of these things out to Sam.
“Goodbye,” Sam says, giving her another squeeze and then shooing her off the bed. “Go. Make me proud.”
“Okay, Mom,” Tara teases, the eye roll purely for Sam’s benefit. “See you later.”
Sam nods, giving her a thumbs up. “Yup.”
This, Tara thinks, is the verbal equivalent of tracing the scar on her palm, a way to make it a little bit easier to breathe. This thing she can’t seem to stop herself from doing, no matter how hard she tries. The see you later that always sounds like a question, a desperate need for reassurance. And Sam, who has gotten good at making her yup sound an awful lot like I promise .
There’s just enough time left to blow-dry her hair, brushing it before throwing the newly dried strands into a ponytail. As she drops into the passenger seat of Mindy’s car, her stomach grumbles, the complaint loud enough that it causes Mindy to grin as she slips on her sunglasses. “Skipping breakfast, Carpenter. I’m disappointed in you. How are you going to have enough fuel to deal with Davison all day?”
“He’s not so bad,” Tara protests weakly, mostly because they’ve had a variation of this conversation for the past three weeks, pretty much since the start of the semester. “And it’s just two classes.”
Mindy lifts her eyebrows. “One is enough for me.”
“Because he likes Hemingway?” Tara is teasing. Mostly.
But still, Mindy grimaces. “Because have you seen his syllabus? Severely lacking in the creativity department.”
Tara shrugs. “He’s a pretty good writer.”
“If you say so.” Mindy hums, a noncommittal sound, and she turns her attention, instead, to fidgeting with the radio. “I’m sure you’re better.”
Tara rolls her eyes, leaning back in her seat. “Yeah, sure.”
“Confidence!” Mindy pokes her in the side, somehow managing a perfect jab at one of the scars hiding beneath the fabric. “Where’s the strong, confident badass girl I remember!”
Tara gives her a look rather than an answer. Mindy should already know. She died , Tara is half-tempted to respond. This is what you get in her place .
Sometimes, she’s pretty sure Brand New Tara isn’t so bad.
But sometimes, she can’t help but miss her old self, the one that slipped through her fingers as easy as blood.