The Good Girls (17 page)

“CAITLIN? ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING
to me?”

The sound of Jeremy's voice through the Bluetooth snapped Caitlin back into reality. Her mind had been wandering—and so had her car, apparently. It was Thursday night, and she'd been driving around aimlessly for at least an hour, something she often did when she just needed some quiet time to sort out her thoughts. Squinting through her windshield, she realized that she had steered out of her own neighborhood and all the way to the outskirts of Beacon Heights.

“Sorry, I'm here.” She scrambled to catch up to what Jeremy had been saying over the phone. Something about a sci-fi movie marathon at a little art house in Seattle the following weekend. “That sounds great. And—oh. The whole team is bugging me to go to Nyssa's Halloween party tomorrow. You'll come, right?”

“A Halloween party?” Jeremy sounded circumspect.

“I'm not really in the mood, either, but maybe it will be fun,” Caitlin said. “We'll dress up, have some beers . . .”

Jeremy snorted sarcastically. “Since when do you know me as someone who likes to dress up and drink beer?”

Something inside Caitlin twisted—she'd really hoped Jeremy would just say yes without complaint. “I'm planning on going as a UDub cheerleader, if that helps,” she said enticingly, trying to keep the mood light. “It involves a super-short mini . . .”

He sighed. “Okay, okay. I'll go, but only for you.” She heard him swallow. “Are you okay? You've been kind of . . . strange, lately. Not really yourself.”

“Yes! I'm fine. Just really tired.” She yawned as if to emphasize the point. “I haven't been sleeping well. It's making it hard to think straight.”

“So then nothing's going on?”

Jeremy sounded more resigned than irritated. Caitlin hated keeping stuff from him, building up the stacks of lies between them. Even little things: Though her parents had been informed, she'd kept it from Jeremy that a psychological profiler had questioned her. She could have explained it easily to him, but she'd decided not to. And then there was everything worse: What if he knew about Granger? And how would he see her if he knew she'd sat in a circle of
girls and named people they wanted dead—and now those
very people
were getting murdered right and left?

“Is it the stuff with Ava's stepmom?” Jeremy guessed.

Caitlin took a breath. “Yeah,” she admitted. The story had been all over school. “I just feel so bad for Ava,” she said.

Jeremy sniffed. “I thought you told me Ava hated her stepmom.”

Oops.
Caitlin had told him that. “Well, hate is a strong word,” she said quickly. Then she looked out the window. “You know what? I think I'm lost.”

“Where are you?”

“On the edge of town. At least I
think
I am.”

“What're you doing all the way out there?” His voice was sharp.

Caitlin braked as a pickup truck pulled out in front of her. “I don't know,” she said absently. “I just sort of . . . ended up here.”

“Maybe we shouldn't talk on the phone while you're driving. And maybe you shouldn't be driving when you're so tired.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I'll call you when I'm home. And hey—”

“Yeah?”

“I'm excited about that movie marathon. Really.”

Jeremy clucked his tongue. “Well, I'm not excited about
the party, but hey. At least it's an excuse to see you in a cheerleader skirt.”

Caitlin tapped the button on her steering wheel to disconnect the call, and the car went silent. There was another secret she was keeping from Jeremy, too: She and Josh had exchanged a few texts in the past several days. Nothing serious, mostly just a random
hi
or
how are you feeling,
but still. Josh was her ex. Jeremy wouldn't be happy about that.

Caitlin knew she should just cut Josh loose, but she felt so bad that she'd been the cause of his injury. It was nice to talk to him, too. He was so much calmer these days with his injury. It was as if the pressure to play soccer had been a noose around his neck, cutting off the circulation to his brain—sort of like it had been for her. Maybe they had more in common than she thought.

So did that mean she
hadn't
picked the right boy?
Of course not,
she told herself.
You said it yourself—you're just tired.

The news, which she had on very low in the background, caught her attention, and she turned it up.
Officials are still trying to nail down a suspect in the Nolan Hotchkiss murder case,
a reporter said in a droning voice.
Hotchkiss was killed several weeks ago from cyanide poisoning at a party that took place at his family's residence in Beacon Heights. Detectives speculate that his death and the death of Lucas Granger, a
Beacon Heights teacher, might be connected, though they don't have evidence to prove that yet. In other Beacon Heights news, seventeen-year-old Ashley Ferguson, who disappeared from her home two days ago, still has not been found.

Caitlin shuddered. It was a wonder the news hadn't mentioned Parker's dad and Ava's mom in that little synopsis, too. Was it only a matter of time until detectives figured out they were all linked?

She took a turn at a stop sign, then slowed. All at once, this neighborhood was familiar—especially the junked-up, falling-down house at the end of the street. Caitlin drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, surprised at herself. She'd driven all the way to Julie's house without realizing it.

She ran her tongue over her teeth and pressed gently on the gas. No one had seen Julie in days; she hadn't been answering calls or texts, either. It was definitely worrying. Was she hiding out because of the Ashley stuff? She knew Ashley was missing, right? What about Leslie's death? How had her interview with Dr. Rose gone? It was like Julie had dropped off the face of the earth.

Caitlin pulled up to the curb in front of Julie's dilapidated house, hopped out of her car, and wended her way around the old appliances and piles of trash blocking the walkway. As she neared the porch, a gruff, unfamiliar voice called out from the shadows.

“What are you doing here?”

Caitlin jumped, then searched the darkness. She could just make out the outline of a person hunched over in the shadows near the front door. She stepped closer to the house and peered at the small, defeated-looking figure whose face was obscured by a bulky hood.

“Um. Hi?” she asked tentatively.

“I
said,
what are you doing here?”

The head lifted, and Caitlin gasped. It was
Julie
. A shrunken, shriveled, pale version of her, anyway. This person had the same features, the same colored hair framing her face, but her eyes were flat and lifeless, her complexion ashen, her demeanor stiff. She seemed like . . . a
zombie.

Caitlin knelt down to her cautiously. “A-are you okay?”

“Fine.” Julie looked away from Caitlin, studying a stack of faded, wet newspapers that looked glued to the corner of the porch. Next to them was a row of dried brown plants—dead stalks, really—in cracked ceramic pots that looked like they'd been sitting there since the seventies. “But seriously. What are you
doing
here?”

Caitlin was alarmed by the coldness and distance in Julie's voice, and a prickle of unease skittered across her skin. She looked around the porch, unsure where to rest her eyes. “I . . . I, uh, just wanted to check on you. We haven't heard from you. That's all.”

Julie's gaze flickered to Caitlin for a split second.
“Thanks for the concern. But I'm never going to school again.”

She sounded so certain and determined. Also so robotic. Caitlin took a breath, wondering if she should even press the issue further. But she did. “Look, I know it must be really hard to think about coming back, but it's okay. We'll be there for you—we'll protect you. Plus, I don't know if you even know this, but Ashley isn't . . . well, she's not at school right now. She's missing.”

“I heard,” Julie said.

“Oh,” Caitlin said, surprised. “Well, okay then. But don't you think it's scary? Considering . . . you know. Our list.”

Julie turned and stared at her, her eyes still lifeless. It sent a shiver up Caitlin's spine. “
All
of this is scary,” she whispered. And then she shut her eyes and crumpled back to the porch. “I'm really tired,” she mumbled.

Caitlin nodded and stood. “Okay. I'll let you get some rest, then.”

Julie lurched to her feet awkwardly. “Maybe.” She shuffled to the front door, her face angled downward.

“Will we see you tomorrow?” Caitlin blurted out, cringing at her overly chipper tone.

But Julie didn't respond. She opened the front door, wobbled through it, and closed it behind her with a wheezing clatter.

Caitlin stood on the front porch for a moment longer,
too astonished to move right away. It was like she'd been talking to a completely different girl right then. Someone she didn't know.

She knew she should leave that instant, but something made her remain in place, listening. Through the door, she heard Julie's muffled voice. Julie sounded mildly agitated. When she was done speaking, there was silence—whoever Julie was talking to was speaking too quietly for Caitlin to hear. Julie's voice murmured again, then more silence. Was it her mother, perhaps?

The curtain flickered, and Caitlin jumped away, suddenly feeling like she was eavesdropping. She turned and started to head down the stairs but crashed into a rusted metal pot and scraped her shin, hard. “Ow—crap!” She leaned down to rub her leg, and when she did, she caught a glimpse of something tucked into the far corner of the porch, behind the newspapers and potted plants. It was a plastic tub, slick with droplets of rainwater collected on the lid. A red biohazard symbol—Caitlin recognized it from chemistry class—was emblazoned on the front. She moved closer and read the label: FERTILIZER. And below that:
For agricultural use only. Contains Potassium Cyanide.

Confusion and fear radiated in waves through Caitlin's body. It took her brain a moment to catch up. She stared at the bucket, reading the words over and over.

That's what killed Nolan.

FRIDAY AFTERNOON, JULIE SAT AT
her desk, staring blankly at her computer, while Parker sat on the bed behind her, leafing through
Us Weekly
. It was midday and still so weird to be home while everyone else she knew was at school. But whatever. She was never going again. No one could make her.

Julie logged on to Facebook. She wasn't even sure why—it wasn't like she was going to just start messaging people or posting like nothing had happened. She could just imagine the post:
Sorry I haven't updated in a few days! Been too busy recovering from public humiliation, avoiding the cops, and covering up for my best friend—the serial murderer. Good times!

She had barely finished typing in her password when dozens of notifications popped up. One after the other, they delivered the happy banalities of normal life—the life
she and Parker would never have again. She read the messages about Nyssa's Halloween party.
Who's ready to start the party early? See you at my place in 3 hours! Only the costumed need apply!
Nyssa had written. A bunch of people had replied with enthusiastic
likes.

Julie had forgotten it was her old friend's Halloween party tonight. For a brief moment, she was transported to parties of years past—such happier times. Like the one two years ago: She'd dressed up as a Vegas showgirl, with a plume on top of her head and a sparkly dress that showed off her toned body. People had taken tons of pictures of her for Facebook, and she'd been unofficially voted best outfit of the night. She'd danced all night with her friends—including Parker. Parker hadn't been at last year's, though—her attack had happened only weeks before. Julie vaguely remembered going, but not really having that great of a time—she'd still been so shaken.

She felt Parker's hand brush against her shoulder and turned. Her best friend was leaning over Julie, reading the post. “Looks like everyone's going,” Parker murmured, pointing to a list of comments under the invite.

Julie stared at the post, too. Her gaze focused on a particular name: There, halfway down the page, Claire Coldwell had written
Count me in!
She whipped around and stared at Parker, her heart beating hard. Had Parker seen Claire's name? Was that a whisper of a determined
smile on her face? Julie remembered how adamantly Parker had said that Claire deserved justice, too.

“We're not going,” she said emphatically.

Parker gave Julie a crazy look, then held up her hands in a
back off
gesture. “Since when do
I
want to go to a party?”

Julie swallowed hard. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Just making sure.”

Then she shut her eyes. This Parker thing was getting to her at the best of times and putting her in full-on, hyperventilating, major-insomnia-panic mode in the worst. Just two days ago, she thought there was nothing she wouldn't do for her friend, and she'd sworn that she would protect her at any cost. But now Julie wasn't so sure. Parker had
killed
people, with her own hands. Just knowing that made Julie feel so guilty and responsible. Keeping this secret—even for Parker—was wrong.

On the other hand, how could she turn in her best friend? The only person who had been there for her through everything? Julie wished there was someone she could go to for guidance. She had even considered talking to Fielder about it, despite his questionable behavior toward Parker, but eventually she'd decided it was just too risky. She couldn't trust him, and if anything happened to Parker, she'd never forgive herself.

“Sorry,” Julie said, casting Parker a smile. “I'm just tired and stressed. Don't mind me.”

“Hey, I totally understand,” Parker said. “But don't you think that being cooped up in here is probably not helping?”

Julie stiffened. “We have to stay here . . . at least until we figure out what comes next.”

“How long is
that
going to be?”

“I don't know!” Julie knew she needed to make a plan—maybe an escape route for her and Parker to leave the city. She had to get out of here before the police figured it out—or before Leslie woke up and remembered that Parker had pushed her. But she just felt so
stuck
. And exhausted: She couldn't even put forth the effort to take the first step.

A faint chime sounded through the closed bedroom door. Julie and Parker exchanged a look, their eyes wide.

“Was that the doorbell?” Parker whispered.

“Yeah.” Panic bloomed in Julie's gut. They weren't expecting anyone, and she was pretty sure Caitlin and the others had gotten the hint that she just wanted to be left alone. The bell rang again.

“
Julie—aren't you going to get the door?
” Mrs. Redding screeched from somewhere down the hall.

She needed to answer it, but she really didn't want to leave Parker alone. Finally, she cast Parker a warning look. “Stay here,” Julie hissed at Parker. “I really mean it.”

“I promise.” Parker sat back down on the bed and pulled her knees into her chest.

Julie worked her way carefully down the hall, sidestepping boxes. She opened the door to find Detectives McMinnamin and Peters, looking awkward in their suits and ties, standing amidst the wreckage of Julie's house. Their faces were dead serious. Julie was relieved she'd told Parker to sit tight in her room.

“Hello, Ms. Redding,” Detective McMinnamin said brusquely. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“Uh, sure.” Julie kept her voice neutral, but her mind was racing. Should she step outside and talk to them on the porch? Or would they find that weird and think she was hiding something inside? But if they came in and saw just how awful her house was, wouldn't that make her even more of a suspect in their eyes?

“Why don't you come inside,” she said evenly, as if she invited people into her house on a routine basis.

She pushed open the stubborn front door, nudged aside a heap of old blankets with her foot, and led them into the living room. The detectives studied the room with a detached observation. They looked unfazed, their professional poker faces intact.

Julie threaded a narrow path through the crammed space, over to the couch she had honestly forgotten was in the house. She grabbed a moldering stack of magazines and placed it atop a column of boxes nearby. She moved a tall tower of board games—Parcheesi, The Game of Life,
Battleship, Trivial Pursuit—games Julie never remembered playing even when she was little. Even after all that, she'd barely cleared enough space for the two men to sit down. At least there was one positive thing in all this: The cats were all gone, Animal Control having removed them a few days before. The place still smelled like cat pee, but at least there weren't a dozen creatures rubbing up against the officers' legs.

“Please, have a seat.” Julie gestured at the couch.

“Thanks.” McMinnamin plopped down with a heavy sigh, pulling a small notebook out of his back pocket.

“I'll stand, thanks,” Peters said in his deep baritone.

Julie pushed aside a basket teeming with pouches and pots of cosmetics samples and tiny bottles of hotel shampoos, then perched on the edge of the coffee table, trying to look as natural as possible. The room was silent for a moment. Julie listened carefully for any noises from her room down the hall. So far, Parker had been silent as a mouse.

McMinnamin cleared his throat. “So, Julie, we're actually surprised you're home tonight. We hear there's a big Halloween party.”

Julie blinked. How on earth did the cops know that? Did they keep tabs on all the Beacon parties . . . or just recent ones, in light of what happened to Nolan? “Uh, I'm not really up for partying these days,” she muttered.

McMinnamin nodded, as though this were completely understandable. “We'd like to ask you some questions about one of your classmates, Ashley Ferguson. You probably know that Ashley has been missing from her home for a couple of days now. Yes?”

“Uh-huh,” Julie recited.

McMinnamin stared at her with his rheumy blue eyes. “Her family is very worried about her, and we're just following up on every lead. We heard you and Ashley had some problems.”

Julie shrugged. “Ashley found out about”—she gestured at the room, the house, the yard around her—“all this. My mom's hoarding. And she exposed it to the entire school in an email.”

McMinnamin and Peters blinked and waited for her to continue.

“But I was trying my best not to let it get to me.” She looked back up at the detectives, locking eyes with McMinnamin. “High school can be brutal sometimes.”

McMinnamin pursed his lips, as if deep in thought, then clicked the top of his pen a few times. “Where were you on Tuesday afternoon, after you left Dr. Rose's office at the police station?”

Julie pretended to think about where she'd been, though she'd been rehearsing her lie for days. “I was with Parker.” McMinnamin's eyebrows rose slightly, and he looked over
at Peters. Peters nodded. “We were out shopping. All afternoon,” Julie said confidently.

The officers stared at her, their eyes narrowing. “Parker who?” McMinnamin finally asked.

Julie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Uh, Parker Duvall? My best friend?”

McMinnamin glanced down at his notepad. He scribbled a few notes, then exchanged a silent look with his partner. “Right. Parker Duvall,” Peters said. “Got it.”

Julie was seized with a sudden fear that she'd said the wrong thing.
Are they going to want to question Parker now?
She wasn't sure Parker could handle it. Maybe she shouldn't have mentioned Parker at all. Maybe she should have said she was with Carson. He would have covered for her.

McMinnamin's voice brought Julie out of her reverie. “Okay. Thanks for your time, Julie.” He stood.

“If you think of anything else,” Peters added, “will you let us know?”

“Of course,” Julie assured them.

McMinnamin shook her hand. Peters tapped two fingers to his forehead as a good-bye. She led the men to the door, trying to seem as if she had all the time in the world. She shut the door behind them and leaned against it, relief washing over her. That hadn't been that bad at all. Except for the part where she'd basically steered them right toward Parker. But they hadn't asked where Parker was or
anything—or given any indication that they wanted to speak with her. And by the time they
did
come back, having realized that Parker usually camped out at Julie's house, Parker and Julie would be long gone.

First, though, she needed to make one call. It had become painfully clear to Julie that she couldn't handle this alone. She needed help—and there was only one person she could think of to call, despite her many,
many
reservations. Julie picked her way along the hallway back to the living room couch and sat down. She didn't want Parker to hear her do this. She slipped her cell phone from her pocket and tapped
F-I-E
into the contact search window. Elliot Fielder's name popped up instantly, and she dialed his number.

“Parker?” He sounded anxious. “Is that you?”

Parker?
Julie was confused. Why would he be expecting
Parker
to call? She hung up the phone reflexively and pushed back through the hall and into her room, ready to ask questions.

That was the problem, though: The room was empty. Julie looked around, her heart lurching into her throat. “Parker? Parker?”

Her gaze focused on her computer screen. Facebook was still open, but the page had changed—now Mac's page was up. Julie stepped closer. A picture was highlighted. It was of Mac and a blond boy Julie didn't recognize, sitting in a dark
car, their heads tilted close. It was clear they were making out. A caption was beneath it:
Once a slut, always a slut.
Claire Coldwell had written it.

Julie sat back. “Shit,” she whispered. She didn't know what this situation was, but she knew one thing for sure: Parker had been looking at it. And maybe, for her, it was the last straw, just like Ashley's Instagram had been.

She jumped from the bed and zigzagged as fast as she could through the labyrinth of waste lining the hallway, back to the front door again. She flung open the front door. The yard was still, the street quiet.

Parker was gone.