The Good Girls (13 page)

“Tell me what Nolan did to Parker, Julie.”

Julie sighed. She'd repeated this story to the police so many times already, and it never got any easier to tell. “The night her dad . . . attacked her, she was at a party at Nolan's house. She called me, and she was slurring and sounded really messed up. But she also sounded freaked-out, like she was out of control.”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘I think he slipped me some Oxy.'” Julie paused. “She was talking about Nolan—they were really good friends. The thing was, Nolan knew that her dad was . . . nasty. Parker's dad beat her all the time—nothing she ever did was good enough. Drugs were the things that made him the angriest. He threatened to kill her if he ever caught her on them.” Julie took a breath. “Parker thought Nolan did it on purpose, like he thought it would be funny if her dad beat her up.” She clenched her hands into fists. “I told her I'd come get her and take her home. She was so messed up when I got to Nolan's. She begged me to let her come to my house so her dad wouldn't see her like that, but, well . . . I hadn't told her about my . . . situation. I was afraid to let her come over. Parker and I were best friends, but she was
so
popular. I was afraid she'd drop me if she knew.” Tears suddenly spilled down her cheeks as she relived the memory. Parker had begged and begged, and she'd made up a lame excuse about how her mom was throwing a party and didn't want guests. “It'll be fine,”
she'd told Parker, as she drove Parker home despite Parker's drugged-out protests.
God,
Julie was an asshole.

“So you took her back to her house instead,” Dr. Rose finished for her.

Julie nodded. She took a breath and found the strength to finish the story. “That was the night her dad . . .” She faltered and shut her eyes, wishing she could push away the memories that flooded her: of the months Parker had spent in the hospital, stitches crisscrossing her face, neck, and arms; of Parker's broken bones and swollen limbs; of Parker learning to walk again. Julie could have prevented all that if she had just been brave enough.

“She's my best friend, and I let it happen to her.” Julie shook her head and pounded her fists into her thighs. “It was because of me,” she whispered, her voice filled with rage and self-loathing. “I was so selfish. All I cared about was my reputation.”

“You didn't know what would happen, Julie. What Parker's father did to her—that is on him. Not you.”

“That's nice of you to say,” Julie said. “But is it really true? It's amazing that Parker forgave me. She should hate me.” She felt her face crumple. These were things she'd never said out loud—not to another therapist, and not to Parker.
Maybe you shouldn't have forgiven me. I'm worthless, after all. I did this to you. It's my fault.

The doctor was silent for a moment, but her gaze was
on Julie's face. She looked like she was thinking hard about something. “So you feel Parker has forgiven you, Julie?”

Julie shot her an astonished look. “Well, sure. I mean, why else would she still be my friend? And I'll never let anything bad happen to her again. I would
die
first.”

“I understand.” Dr. Rose gave Julie a warm smile, like she really did understand. Then she sat back. “So did you or did you not kill Lucas Granger?”

Julie flinched, surprised at the swift turn in the conversation. “Of course not.”

“And Nolan? You hated him, but that wasn't you either?”

“No way.” Julie picked at a loose thread on her sweatpants. “I'm not capable of murder.”

Dr. Rose nodded. “No, I don't think you are. But what about your friends?”

Julie blinked. “What
about
them?”

“Do you think
they
are capable?”

Julie stared, trying to gauge what Dr. Rose was getting at. Did she think one of the others had? Ava?
Parker?
Julie couldn't bear the idea of Parker being questioned. “Of course not,” she said hoarsely. “None of them.” But the way Dr. Rose was looking at her, she started to wonder. Was there something she and the police knew that Julie didn't? She tried to remember everything about the night Granger died. Just because she hadn't gone back to Granger's house
didn't mean the others hadn't. But that was crazy, right? She couldn't start distrusting them now.

“Okay.” Dr. Rose stood. “Well, this has been very helpful. I may have further questions for you, so please keep your phone close by.” She stood up and opened the door, holding out her arm to let Julie know she was free to go. “Thank you for your time, Julie.”

Julie stood up slowly, totally nonplussed. She grabbed her purse and stepped past the doctor. “Bye.”

She scurried down the hall and into the lobby, expecting to find Parker waiting for her, but she wasn't there. Frustrated, she stepped into the late afternoon sunlight. Parker was nowhere to be seen. Julie pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed Parker's number. Straight to voice mail. For a brief, paranoid second, Julie was afraid Parker had heard everything she'd said about her to Dr. Rose, including how much Julie blamed herself, and suddenly decided that
she
blamed Julie, too—and took off.

She rubbed her eyes, then headed over to her car. For a moment she sat in the seat, not sure what to do. There was no way she could go home. She didn't want to talk to anyone, either. So she turned the ignition, pulled out of the parking space, and just . . . drove, around little neighborhoods, through downtown Beacon, even by the water. She really, really needed to decompress.

But the drive wasn't proving to be very therapeutic, and
after circumnavigating Beacon, she was still jittery and anxious. When she glanced at the phone lying on the passenger seat, she noticed that the screen was lit up with Instagram alerts—dozens of them. She tapped on the app, and when
@ashleyferg has tagged you in a photo
popped up, her stomach swooped.

Slowly, she tapped on Instagram. It was another photo of Julie's house, but this time, a Department of Health Services van sat out front. So did a vehicle with the words
BEACON ANIMAL RESCUE
printed on the sides. The shot showed officials and workers standing on the porch or hauling cat carriers out of the house. Julie's mother stood in the yard, her mouth an angry triangle, her hair askew, her face more insane-looking than ever.

Julie gawked. When had this happened?
Today?
Then she looked at the caption.

Julie Redding, queen of the felines no longer! #nofilter
.

Julie dropped onto the bench behind her. “Oh my god,” she whispered. Ashley had called Animal Control on them. This was going to be a nightmare. Those cats were all her mom cared about . . . and now they were going to be taken away. It meant Mrs. Redding would focus all her attention on Julie. All her wrath.

Just when she thought her life couldn't get any worse. That
bitch.

For some reason, the word echoed in her mind. She
suddenly heard Parker saying it yesterday:
That bitch is going down,
with that horrible look on her face. She looked again at the Instagram post. Ashley had put it up almost an hour ago. Had Parker seen it yet?
That bitch is going down. I am going to get her.
And even when Julie said they couldn't do that, Parker had said,
I wish we could. I wish, just once, we could.

Oh, god. Suddenly Julie wondered if she knew exactly where Parker was right then. Was she getting
revenge
?

Julie tapped at her phone, pulling up Ashley's number. No one picked up. She quickly logged on to the Beacon High student site and found Ashley's home address. She ran to her car and sped out of the parking lot, only forcing herself to slow down so she wouldn't get pulled over. She dialed Parker again and again. Still no answer. “Parker, where
are
you?” she cried. “Look, I hope you're not freaking out over that Instagram. Because I'm not. I'm fine. Okay?”

She took a right, then a left, then another left. A steady monologue drummed in her head.
Parker probably isn't with Ashley. That doesn't even make any sense—she's not the same girl as before, the girl who got in people's faces and shook things up. You're being crazy.

Julie slammed her car door shut and ran up Ashley's driveway. The front door was wide open. As she dashed through it, Julie heard a scream.

Adrenaline pumping through her body, she followed the sound upstairs, down the hall, and into a bedroom. Ashley's room had the exact same bedspread that Julie's had, but in the queen version—Julie didn't even stop to think of how Ashley had figured
that
out. She stepped farther into the room and saw steam billowing from the open bathroom door, where the shower was running full blast. She burst into the bathroom and took in the scene. There was a bottle of Aveda rosemary-mint shampoo—the same brand Julie used—lying on the tile. A toothbrush and a cup lay on the floor, too, as well as what looked to be a broken ceramic cow figurine. Had someone knocked them there? The shower curtain had been torn from the rod, but the shower water was still flowing at full blast. Then, Julie looked
into
the tub. And that was when she saw it.

Ashley.

Julie was pretty sure she screamed. Despite being in the tub, Ashley wore a fuzzy pink bathrobe, and she was soaked. Her wet hair dripped halfway down the drain. Her fingers were pruney. Her eyes were closed. There were scratches on her arms, and a bruise forming on her temple.

Julie's mind went into warp speed. She squatted down next to her and pressed her fingers against Ashley's throat, searching for a pulse . . . but there was nothing. She held a hand in front of Ashley's mouth and nose. No breath—not even the faintest rustle.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Julie said, looking around. Had Ashley slipped? But the more she took in the scene, the more it seemed there had been a struggle—there were fingernail marks in the wallpaper, magazines were strewn all over the floor, and, of course, there was the fact that Ashley was lying
in
the tub instead of on the bathmat.

Had Parker done this?

Don't think like that,
she told herself, but all Julie could think of was Parker's determined face the other day.
Just say the word,
she'd said. Only, Julie
hadn't
said the word . . . had she? Her thoughts felt muddled suddenly. All she could think of was that crazy dream she'd had, the one where she'd cried out for Parker's help. She'd been holding her phone when she woke up—had she called Parker while sleeping? Then she thought of Ashley's Instagram again. What if Parker had seen it and just . . . snapped? What if Parker had done this for her—killed for her?

And then, with a flash, Julie was back in film studies that day in class. Parker had smiled at the group and said,
Or Ashley Ferguson. I'd like to see her slip and crack her head open while she's in the shower washing her copycat hair.

No.
It couldn't be.

Julie snapped back into the present. If Parker had done this, then her fingerprints were probably all over the room—and now so were Julie's. She couldn't call the police, because she could never do that to Parker. She knew what
she needed to do, and she felt a surge of strength from deep within her that was going to let her do it.

Julie took a few steadying breaths, then got up on her knees and scooted forward. She folded Ashley's heavy arms across her chest and straightened out her legs. Then she looked around the room for the tools she'd need. Julie was going to get rid of all the evidence—every drop, every fingerprint. Even the body.

That was what you did for best friends.

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, MAC PULLED
into the school parking lot and grabbed her phone. She'd been thinking about a certain song the whole drive here—a remix of Rossini and Rihanna, her favorite composer and her favorite guilty pleasure music—and she wanted to watch the YouTube clip again. But when she finally found the email that contained the link, she realized why she might have been thinking about that particular song: Blake had sent it a few weeks before, when they were sort of seeing each other.
Thought you'd like this,
he'd written, punctuating the email with an
XO
.

“Stop!” she said to herself aloud, slamming her hands onto the steering wheel for good measure. She had made up her mind that she wouldn't give Blake another chance, and she had to stick to that. Why was it so freaking hard?

But maybe there were other reasons she was feeling a little shaky this morning. She'd met with Dr. Rose, the psychological profiler, late yesterday afternoon. Twice Mackenzie had to sit on her hands to keep them from shaking, and three times she'd caught herself humming a Dvořák piece, something she did when she was nervous. Dr. Rose had asked a bunch of benign-sounding questions about Mac's self-esteem, her involvement with Nolan (which she'd totally downplayed), whether she'd liked Granger's film studies class, and why she'd felt the need to follow her friends into his house the night he was killed. Mac couldn't even remember what she'd said, she'd been so nervous.

And then, strangely, Dr. Rose had asked her about the other girls. Ava seemed very tightly wound, the doctor commented—did she seem traumatized about her mother's death? Same with Caitlin—she lost her brother, that sort of thing had to make her angry, right? And Julie had her troubled homelife, and Parker, well . . . “Sounds like you're involved with some friends who have some serious baggage,” the doctor had concluded. “And you know, people who have . . .
issues
, well, they can act out in other ways.”

Mac had stared at her. “You mean by killing people?” she'd asked.

The doctor just blinked. “Of course not,” she said. “Unless that's what
you
think.”

Mac didn't know what to think.
Should
she suspect the others? In some ways, it made sense: They'd all been right there for that conversation in film studies. And if one of them killed Nolan, of course she would kill Granger to shut him up—and involve the other girls as unwitting accomplices. Caitlin hated Nolan more than any of the rest of them. Or what about Ava? Nolan had started those awful rumors about her, and Granger had
hit
on her. Maybe she had a secret violent side.

But then Mac shook off the thought. These were her
friends
. They weren't killers. Her only hope was that they could get through the interviews without raising more suspicions and questions about their involvement. The last thing she wanted was for Juilliard to find out she was being questioned or for her parents to worry any more than they had to.

Sighing, she got out of the car and started across the parking lot and looked at the other texts on her phone. There was one from Oliver, a simple
Are you okay?
She winced, not knowing how to respond, and decided not to respond at all.

As she made her way toward her locker, Mac noticed small clusters of kids gathering in the hall. They were whispering to one another, then breaking apart to form new groups and whisper some more. The air was filled with an electric charge. What was going on? Then Mac noticed
Alex Cohen at his locker, his head down. Maybe
that
was the reason for all the murmuring—Alex had been accused of murder and spent this week in prison, and now he was back. Even though Mac believed Alex wasn't guilty and was glad, for Ava's sake, that he'd been cleared, she still felt wary of him. He
had
called the cops on them.

She opened her locker and began sorting through her books. Nyssa Frankel opened her locker a few feet away as she exchanged rapid-fire sentences with Hannah Broughton. “She's just gone,” Mac heard her whispering. “That's what her mom told the police.”

Mac's ears perked up.
Who
was gone? Julie? Mac knew Nyssa and Julie were friends. What if Julie was overwhelmed from talking to Dr. Rose yesterday and just . . .
took off
?

Hannah placed her hands on her hips. “Do you think she was
kidnapped
? I heard her room was, like, totally spotless. Which was really weird—apparently she's a total slob.”

Mac set her mouth in a line. Julie definitely wasn't a slob. . . .

Nyssa shut her locker with a loud click. “Do you think she ran away?”

Hanna shook her head firmly. “If Ashley was running away, wouldn't she have at least taken her phone? You know she can't live without it.”

Mac's eyes widened.
Ashley
?

She turned away from the girls, pulled out her phone, and called up the local news site. Sure enough, the top story was
Local Teen Missing from Home.
The story explained how Ashley Ferguson's parents had found her missing when they came home from work. Her car was in the driveway and her phone in her room, charging. They'd waited a few hours, thinking she'd just gone for a run, before finally calling the police around 10
PM
.

A creeping sense of horror flooded through Mac until her hair practically stood on end. Ashley had been on the list.

Slamming her locker shut, she turned down the hall and saw Caitlin and Ava talking in a huddle in the corner. Mac broke into their circle. “Okay, what the
hell
?” she whispered.

“I guess you heard?” Ava asked, her gaze darting back and forth.

Mac nodded. As she brought her hand to her face, she realized her fingers were shaking. “We shouldn't talk about this here,” she said, looking around the busy hall. “There are so many people—”

“But, you guys,” Caitlin interrupted, her voice shrill. “What's going
on
?”

Mac picked at a loose string on her sweatshirt cuff. “We shouldn't assume the worst,” she said in a low voice. “It could be completely unrelated, okay? Or Ashley could have run away. I mean, we said she'd . . .
you know
. . . in
the shower, right? And that isn't what happened. She's just disappeared.”

But as they looked at one another, it seemed clear that wasn't what anyone thought. Caitlin started to shake. “This is our fault,” she whispered. “
We
said those names. And now everyone's dying.”

“Stop.” Ava caught her arm. “We really,
really
can't talk about this here.”

“Maybe we should just turn ourselves in,” Caitlin said frantically, her voice rising. It was clear she had to talk about this right then—there was no waiting. “Before anyone else is killed. Before anything else happens. What do you think?”

“And what good would that do?” Ava hissed. “You really think whoever's doing this will stop once we're in prison?”

“Maybe!” Caitlin cried, her voice turning a few heads.

“
Shh
,” Mac warned her, hoping that the passing students assumed they were talking about an upcoming history exam. She leaned closer to the girls. “Do you hear yourself?” she said to Caitlin. “You want to throw your life away for some stupid
conversation
we had? Like we're the first people ever who talk about people we want dead. Come
on
, Caitlin.”

“We're the first people whose people we want dead actually
end up dead
!” Caitlin whispered, the blood pumping at her temples.

“Let's think about this logically,” Mac said, her voice low. “Maybe we can figure this out ourselves. We should question some of the girls Granger was fooling around with. I mean, they had motive to kill Granger, right?”

Ava nodded. “Alex said he saw a girl go into Granger's house some time that night, after we left. It could have been one of them.”

“That covers Granger,” Caitlin agreed. “But what about Ashley? Parker's dad? It doesn't make
sense
.”

“Is there someone who
does
make sense?” Ava snapped.

Mac couldn't help it—her eyes darted toward Ava suspiciously. She thought about her own conversation with Dr. Rose. It was hard not to have some hypotheses. She barely knew these girls.

Ava stiffened. “
I
didn't hurt Granger,” she said defensively, as if reading Mac's mind. “And I didn't do anything to Ashley.”

“Neither did I!” Caitlin said quickly. She looked at Mac with sudden mistrust. “Where were
you
yesterday?”

Mac's mouth dropped open. “Why would
I
hurt Ashley?” she asked, astonished. “I don't even know her!”

Ava shrugged. “Why would any of us? Maybe you knew that Ashley overheard our conversation in film studies. Maybe you had to stop her before she broke the news, the same way she spread that rumor about Julie. You have a lot
to lose, Mackenzie. You just got into Juilliard. You need to protect your future, don't you?”

“Are you insane?” Mac cried. It was one thing for her to suspect the others, but how could they suspect
her
? She pointed at Ava. “I could just as easily say the same thing about you. And what about your boyfriend? He's got a history of violence!”

Ava's eyes flashed. “There's more to that story than you know. Alex beat up that guy because he
raped
someone.”

“Yeah, but Granger hit on you,” Caitlin pointed out, barely hearing Ava's explanation. “You make the most sense to want him dead.”

“I'm sorry, have we forgotten that Nolan drove your brother to suicide?” Ava hissed, her lips curling. “You make the most sense for
that.
Got any cyanide on you, Caitlin?”

Caitlin's mouth dropped open. “How dare you!” She was about to lunge at Ava, but Mac caught her arm.

“Just hold on a minute!” Mac felt herself snap into a more rational frame of mind. “Everybody take a breath, okay? It's clear that all the stuff the cops said to us is messing with our heads. But does it actually make sense?” Then she looked around. Ava and Caitlin were frowning.
They didn't do it,
she told herself. She wanted so badly to believe that.

“What about Julie?” Caitlin said softly. “Does anyone know where she is?”

“I tried to call her this morning, when I heard the news about Ashley.” Ava's throat bobbed. “She didn't answer. And I'm sure she's not in school after what Ashley did yesterday.”

Mac pulled her bottom lip into her mouth. “Maybe we should ask her where
she
was yesterday, after our meeting at the police station. That's about the time Ashley . . . you know.”

Ava widened her eyes. “You're not saying—”

“Of course not,” Mac interrupted. “Or . . . I don't know. Ashley
was
ruining her life.”

“And did you see that Instagram?” Caitlin whispered. “Ashley called Animal Control on Julie's mom. They took away all the cats. It was on the news.”

Ava put her hands on her hips. “You two are awfully quick to point fingers.”

“So are
you
,” Caitlin snapped.

The bell rang, and they all flinched. Ava slung her Chanel bag over her shoulder. “We'll talk later,” she said tightly to Caitlin.

“Unless we're in jail,” Caitlin mumbled under her breath.

The two of them didn't even look at Mac, which gave her a pang of regret. She'd screwed up. She shouldn't have let on that she was even considering either of them as a suspect—it had only pulled them apart. They needed to stick together right now, not be fighting in the hallways.

She pushed her glasses up her nose and started down the hall, still fuming. As she turned into the orchestra room, she caught sight of Claire lingering by the bulletin board, reading an announcement about rehearsals. A horrible realization stopped her in her tracks as the film studies conversation rushed back into her mind. First Nolan, then Parker's dad, then Ashley . . .

And then . . . Claire?