Lost Girls(31)

Chapter Eighteen


I narrowly missed Dad’s SUV as I pulled into the garage, my hands shaking, my head throbbing. It felt like tiny fissures were blossoming beneath my fingers as I rubbed my neck, like my skull had suffered an 8.0 earthquake during the evening and now bits of bone were cracking open. The headache had started sometime between Janie falling to the ground and Nicole getting beaten to death.

All I wanted to do was take some Tylenol and go to bed.

Getting out of my car, I grabbed that bag Mrs. Hernandez had given me and a photo of Nicole tumbled out. I hadn’t seen this one—it hadn’t been on the mantle or on one of the living room tables. Nicole stood in a group of girls, all with their arms around each other, all grinning like they were at a party. They were wearing white tank tops with the words “Pink Candi” written in glitter. For the first time I noticed thick streaks of pink hair in Nicole’s brown-black tresses and that all the other girls had similar stripes of color in their hair.

They looked like some sort of athletic team.

The more I looked at their shirts, the more they reminded me of the handful of tank tops I’d found tucked away inside that purple box in my closet. I hunted through my pockets until I found that note I’d written, folded and refolded so many times the creases had darkened and the edges were starting to rip. I’d shown it to Agent Bennet, to Lauren, and finally to Molly...

Peace. Love. Unity. Respect. LOL. And then party like there’s no tomorrow.

Had I been at the same party as Nicole?

I stared down at that photo again, turning on the light inside my car to see better. There was a flash of blue behind Nicole, someone moving so fast their features were blurred, but it was pretty clear that whoever it was had blue hair. Could it have been Janie Deluca, the blue-haired girl I’d left lying in the street, blood seeping from her lip? And on the right side of the photo stood another girl, her body cropped so you couldn’t see her face.

A purple dragon tattoo snaked up her arm.

I pushed my door open, sending a cold flood of air rushing in, icy fingertips that moved over me, running up my legs, over my hips, across my back, and finally thudding to a halt at the base of my skull. I grabbed the steering wheel and closed my eyes.

Nicole knew Janie and at least one of those Dragon Tattoo Girls from school.

A rich, coppery taste like blood filled my mouth as I thought about how I’d wanted to fight those Dragon Girls earlier today, and how I’d baited Janie by kicking her bat away. I’d wanted to kick in teeth, to break noses, to flip someone onto her stomach, and knock the wind from her chest…and now the air in my own chest was coming in halting, slow gulps.

No matter what I did, it somehow wasn’t enough, it was never enough—none of it would bring Nicole back. My feelings for her were different from how I felt about Janie and the Dragon Girls. I wanted to lock elbows with Nicole and take down the mangy crowd behind and beside her. I wanted to protect her, even though I knew it was too late.

I held that photo in my hand and all I could see was the triumphant look in Nicole’s eyes, like she was staring right at me. I was at that party, I was certain of it.

Because I was the one who took the photo.

Light poured into the garage. Someone was walking toward me, concern in his voice. I didn’t notice him or hear him until he was beside me.

“Are you all right?” Dad was asking, his hand on my arm, helping me out of the car and leading me toward the house. “Where have you been? Your mother was worried and she waited for you to come home as long as she could. She finally went in to work a few minutes ago, although she should have been there hours earlier—”

I wanted to talk, but all I could do was stare at that picture in my hand, realizing that this girl had been a friend of mine. A friend who was now dead. I could almost hear myself saying things like, bigger smiles, come on now, you won, let’s celebrate!

I was at that party. I took the photo.

Dad’s irritation and anger melted when we started to walk up the two steps that led into the house and I couldn’t walk any farther. A soft moan came from my lips and my knees buckled. My head hurt like someone had kicked me, and I ran my hand over the back of my neck, expecting my fingers to come away red and sticky.

“Rachel!”

Then he was catching me in his arms and carrying me into the house, so swift it seemed like it had been planned, like it was part of a choreographed dance that we had been practicing for weeks. I would start remembering things, Agent Bennet said. Strangers’ faces would look familiar, but it would all be too much for me to bear, shadows too dark.

I rested my head on Dad’s shoulder.

The hallway lined with our family photos reminded me of the pictures on Nicole’s mantle. The single light that glowed in the kitchen reminded me of that porch light that would stay on forever, calling a dead girl to come home. The living room wrapped in warm shadows reminded me of Nicole’s mother, sitting all alone as she stared into the fireplace.

Meanwhile, our living room sofa loomed closer and closer. Someone was covering me with a blanket, and someone else was placing a cool cloth on my brow.

Was I hot? Was that why I had this horrid headache?

“You should have come home hours ago, Rachel,” Dad chided me while he slid a thermometer between my lips. A long moment passed, then, “You’ve got a fever. What were you doing out there? It’s almost nine o’clock and you’re soaking wet. Kyle, run upstairs and get your sister some dry clothes, something comfortable.”