Good Girls Lie(101)

And when faced with the opportunity tonight to show everyone her strength, her leadership, how good she really is, Becca had squandered it, and ruined everything to boot.

Drained, Becca finally flips over and feels something crinkling beneath her. There is a package on her bed, wrapped in tissue paper. She unfolds it to find a bloodred scarf. It’s lovely, thick silk. She winds it around her neck, withdraws the piece of paper, reads it, and bursts into fresh tears.

B—
Can we talk? All of this craziness with the Swallows and Camille and the news from home, I just need a friend. And some privacy. Meet me in front of the gates tonight. Midnight. I have something I want to show you.
Love,
A
This was clearly left behind before the initiation. A gift. A promise.

Oh, yes, my little Ash. I knew I had you. And now I’ve lost you.

Would she still come? Why would she? Becca has just humiliated her in front of Ivy Bound, cast her down, kicked her out. Ash would be well within her rights to tell her to drop dead.

It is almost midnight now. She shuts off her light, goes to the window.

Is it her imagination, or is there a shadow out by the gates?

Is Ash there, waiting for her, after all?

She sees the flick of hair and the glowing tip of a cigarette. Someone is out there, wearing a gown that blends in with the night perfectly.

Her heart soars. After everything, Ash is still willing to talk to her.

Becca has to go, go now. She has to beg forgiveness. She has to make Ash understand why she rejected her so cruelly. She has to make her understand what is at stake.

She has to make this right.

She has to win her back.

She rushes down the stairs, then turns right, toward the dining hall. There is a tunnel connected to the last trolley, a hidden door into the darkness. She slips through it, traverses the quad, and emerges on the main street, out into the night. The air feels heavy with impending rain, the clouds dark and roiling above, blotting out the moon.

She jogs up the sidewalk to the main gates, the red scarf flowing behind her, to the shadow that waits for her.

Toward her heart. Toward her future.

“Ash? I’m so sorry.”



76

THE MURDER

How do you kill a narcissist?

I mean, how do you attract one in the first place? Do you put off some sort of pheromone that says, Hey, sexy lady, I’m easily manipulated, come check out my wares?

I attract them. They find me. They seek me out—for whatever perceived vulnerability I give off, the pathos, the acceptance. They see me as a tool to their ascent, a shoulder to be stepped upon, a foil, a testing ground.

If I, sweet, biddable I, can be fooled into loving them, the whole world will, too.

Only I am not sweet. I am not biddable. I may send signals that I want to belong, that I want to be loved, but this is a false trail. I have been humoring you. I am curious to see what your plan is, what you intend to do. How you think you will rule over me.

I will extricate myself from your grip and wave you away. You, the one who thinks the world owes you, may think you’ve made this choice.

But I am the spider. I am waiting at the center of the web for the blundering fly.

I am the real monster.

When faced with killing a narcissist, I find it easier than I always thought it would be. There is nothing I can do but give in to the urge to punish the wrongdoer. To unmask the manipulator. To show the world who you really are.

Thank you for wearing my scarf. You look so pretty in red.

Let’s start with your eyes.

Oh, don’t whimper. This won’t hurt a bit.



77

THE GATES

The scene before Ford is a nightmare.

There are girls milling in the street, girls outside of the gates, girls inside the gates. They’re all staring at something... She sees a flutter of black fabric, and she knows.

Rumi brakes hard, tires squealing, throwing her forward into the leather and wood of the front seat. She jumped in the back out of habit, ignoring his scowl of disapproval.

“Just drive. Hurry.” And he had, peeling out of the garage.

She leaps from the car and races up the street, panting in panicked little breaths.

And sees why Melanie was so frantic.

One of her girls dangles backward from the tall, iron gates guarding the school’s entrance. There is a red tie around her neck, forcing her head to an almost comical angle. Her face is obscured, her hair is damp, making it hard to decipher color. She is wearing Goode School robes with a graduation stole around her shoulders.

Ford’s first thought: Another suicide. Oh, God.

Her second: Who is it?

You know exactly who it is. Stop deluding yourself. And you know what this means. If you’d acted when you had the chance instead of frolicking with Rumi, she’d still be alive.

She drags in a breath and starts to gather the girls together. “Come here, ladies, come here. Stop looking.”

Though she is looking, looking, looking. She already knows who is hanging on the gate, has that sense in her gut, but she has to be sure. She has to see for herself.

The eerie wail of a siren pierces the morning air—it’s so damp, did it rain last night?—and then the siren is deafening, shrieking at her, screaming its impotent fury.

The squawk to silence is broken by Tony slamming the door of his cruiser and running into the scene. He stops when he sees the gates, his face white, then gestures, waving her off, and Ford understands immediately.