Good Girls Lie(17)

The seniors have their own staircase, too. I was warned three times today to never, ever, go anywhere near the seniors’ curlicue staircase. “Underclassmen who go up to the attics uninvited will never graduate,” Vanessa said, eyes wide and serious.

I rolled my eyes at yet another ridiculous infraction rule to be obeyed. I am the least superstitious girl on the planet, but fine with me. Like I told my suitemates, I’m here at Goode to study my ass off and get into Harvard. If I excel and fit in, I will have an easy path to Boston.

It has been drummed into me all day—a diploma from Goode guarantees you placement wherever you want to go. Women from The Goode School hold the highest positions in every industry, from politics to business, law to medicine. Some are published authors, some are tenured professors. There are research scientists and a cadre of CEOs. Goode is the foundation upon which all things are built.

The singing stops abruptly. The silence is deep, as can only be found isolated away in the mountains.

I begin to drift, then start awake to the sound of whispers. I strain but can’t make out the words, only the gentle susurrus of girls’ voices. A giggle.

Then, “Ash.”

It’s quiet, almost inaudible, but it is definitely my name. I sit up so quickly I smack my head on the bottom of Camille’s bed.

“Ow. Bloody hell.”

The whispers stop.

It must be Camille and Vanessa and Piper in the hall, talking about me. The new girl poisoned the piano teacher. Watch out, she’ll come for you next.

I slide out of bed and make my way in the dark to the door. I fling it open, step into the hall.

It is empty.

I move next door and put my ear to the wood. The doors are thick, but I can hear the barest hint of gentle, wheezy girl snores. Either they’re pretending to be asleep, or I’m hearing things.

You’re exhausted. You’ve been on guard all day. You’re jet-lagged and stressed, in a new environment, and you’re being silly. Go back to bed.

A door is ajar at the end of the hall. There is a flickering light inside.

Just a glance. One quick little look.

“Ash?”

I jump, my heart taking off at a gallop, whirl around to see Camille, her face red, eyes puffy.

“What are you doing in the hall...?” Standing in front of their door? she might as well add, though she trails off, watching me inquisitively.

“I thought I heard my name. Someone was outside the door whispering. Are you all right? You look like you’ve been crying.”

Camille gives a big sniff and gestures toward our room. I let her go in first, stop at the door. Turn my head toward the open doorway only to see nothing but deep, velvety darkness where the light once shone.

Inside our dark room, Camille climbs into her bunk. She lies there, sniffing.

“What’s wrong?” I finally ask.

“It’s nothing. Go to sleep.”

“If you want to talk—”

“I don’t. Okay? I didn’t feel well, and now I’m all right. Go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

She falls asleep quickly, but I’m awake for good, it seems, so I pull my worn copy of The Republic from the bedside table and fasten a nightlight to the thin cover. If I can’t sleep, I might as well study.

But my mind is wandering. The whispers, the crying, the light in the ajar door like an invitation. A decade-old murder. Secret societies. What purpose could they possibly serve? And what sort of secrets do they hold?

Worse, a galvanizing thought.

What have I gotten myself into?



13

THE INSOMNIAC

The dean can’t sleep.

She’s been tossing and turning for the past hour, running the day over in her head, looking for mistakes, issues, pitfalls. She has a staff meeting tomorrow with all the teachers to address any concerns that have arisen, and she’s not looking forward to it. It’s always the same, every year, teachers immediately singling out the students who need extra help, who are being disruptive, who are not fitting in, too sad, or too stupid, to cut it. All that negativity is such a downer. She’s not had to intervene in any disciplinary actions so far, which is good—maybe she’s worrying for nothing. Maybe tomorrow’s meeting will be smooth sailing.

She has Ash Carlisle on her mind—not surprising, after her tearful breakdown over Muriel’s unfortunate incident. If Ford’s being honest with herself, though, she’s been thinking about the girl for weeks, ever since the news of her parents’ passing, so unexpected, so lurid. When Ash appeared in the doorway to Ford’s office—thin, tall, haunted—Ford was torn between offering a hug and sending her back to England.

Something about Ash bothers her. She doesn’t have the whole story of the girl’s past, this much is clear. The shadows in her pretty blue eyes aren’t something brought about by a loving, stable life. With her parents’ deaths... Yes, that’s all. The shadows are grief. Grief explains everything—the weight loss, the soft voice. How the girl seems to scurry. A broken heart. Shadows. So many shadows.

Ford hadn’t noticed when she interviewed her. The computer’s camera wasn’t great; the room Ash had been in was dark and gloomy, lit only by the natural light from the window. They lived in an estate in Oxfordshire, Ash explained, on a vast expanse of land. Ford had looked up the house itself during the background check—harled stone, three stories, covered in ivy, elegant grounds. Quintessentially British. The parents were the right sort. Ash herself was the right sort. Some spots on the academic record, to be sure, but so often the children of these kinds of people lash out until they find themselves.