Good Girls Lie(106)

My heart is bumping so hard against my ribs I have to put a hand against my chest to calm myself. “Let’s think about this logically, Ashlyn. Physical differences aside, age differences aside, you were the one who did the admission interview. The dean saw you. Heard you.”

“You were there the day I did my interview. You know exactly what I said, I know you remember, with that freaky recall you have.”

I had been there. One of the rare times I agreed to ferry a “package” to Ash, who was stuck on the estate for some sort of vital meeting and couldn’t come to Kevin herself. I was getting off shift, Kevin was there, begged me to run it to her and bring back the money. I never liked visiting Ash in her palace, and I refused to be their drug mule, but Kevin offered me a hundred quid to run the errand for him, and I’d had a bad day in tips. For some bizarre, fated reason, I’d agreed.

Ash had grabbed the package, broke it open, took a bump, then made me wait for Kevin’s money while she was on the computer talking to the dean of the school she was going to attend. I had heard the whole conversation.

“But we don’t sound enough alike, or look enough alike...”

“Yes, we do.” Ash pulls me to the bathroom, the cracked and spotted mirror. “Look. Really look. We could be sisters. The shape of our noses. The same eyes. Your lips are fuller, you cow, and your face is a little thinner. But we’re close enough.”

I have the urge to blurt out the truth—we are sisters, Damien Carr is my father, too. Something holds me back. I can’t believe I’m even giving this ridiculous idea credence.

“I’m taller. And no offense, I’m thinner, too.”

“You’re taller and a beanpole, yes, but no one’s going to be able to tell. I was sitting down. Seriously, thanks to Daddy’s disdain for media, there are very few official pictures of me out in the world. You know everything there is to know about me, Lex, you’ve been around the family since we were children.”

“And the piano? That woman talked about the theater director, who will be teaching you.”

“You took lessons. You know how to play.”

“But not like you. You’re...magical.” I feel ridiculous saying it, but she is really quite good. I can’t even begin to pull off that sort of impersonation. There’s no way. This is mad.

She softens a bit. “Thank you. I’ll teach you everything you need to make it seem like you’re just really out of practice.”

“But we’ll need paperwork...proof. I mean, I’m nineteen, and I look every day of it. How am I supposed to pretend I’m sixteen?”

“No one will know how old you really are. We’ll make fresh IDs, a fresh passport. I know you know how.”

“I said I knew a guy who dabbles, from the café. I don’t know how to do it myself.”

“See? Perfect.”

“And how long am I expected to maintain this charade, Ashlyn?”

My sister, something I can never let her know about, smiles. “Forever. This is your chance, Lex. We switch places. You get out. You have the life you always wanted.”

“And my mother? What about her? You truly think she’ll go along with this?”

Ashlyn whirls away, stomps in those thick-soled boots to the center of the living room. I try not to count, but it takes her a whole five steps.

“Your mother is an addict. Mine is, as well, though her drug of choice is cold hard quid, not heroin. How long do you think your mother is going to be with us, Alex? No, don’t get those tears in your eyes, you have to think clearly. She’s not going to get off the needle anytime soon, and she’ll be dead before anyone even thinks about this. It’s the perfect plan. We’re going to switch places. You’ll have everything you ever wanted, and I, I will disappear.”

She makes it sound so easy. So doable.

“All right. Say I agree. There’s another rather insurmountable issue. How are we going to get around your parents?”

Ashlyn smiles and I feel goose bumps rise on my forearm. My neck prickles with unease.

“You let me take care of that. Leave me alone in this flat for ten minutes and I’ll have everything I need.”



82

THE EXECUTION

Death smells. I have to fight back the surge from my stomach. I can’t lose it now.

Oh, Ashlyn. What have you done?

Damien—my father, our father—is dead, there’s no question. He is devoid of color, past pale, waxy like a creamy candle, a string of vomit dripping down his chin. He has soiled himself; this is part of the stench. The rest is blood. But it’s not his.

Sylvia is propped up against a chair. Her eyes are glazed over with pain. The gunshot must have nicked an artery, the bodice of her silk dress is thick with blood. It drips drips drips onto the parquet floor.

She sees me and raises a hand for help. She mouths the words weakly, but no sound emerges from her pale lips. Her eyes roll back in her head and she slumps forward.

I realize Ashlyn is standing by the curtains, a small smile on her face, pulling off gloves.

“You shot your mother?” My voice comes out in a squeak.

“Didn’t have a choice. She was being difficult. Wouldn’t take the pills I crushed up in the scotch. Damien did, though. Look at him!”

I don’t want to look at him again, the image of his face is seared forever in the vault of my memory.