Good Girls Lie(63)

I reach for the blanket on the back of the sofa. “Turn off the light as you go, won’t you?”

They do, silent as the grave.

I have my laptop open the second the door closes. Check everything public Camille might have gotten into. I see her footprints easily now that I know what to look for—times I wasn’t in my room or online. The penetration is relatively benign. Most of what I find are Google searches for the name Ashlyn Carr and Oxford, England.

I normally resist falling prey to the egotistical urge to Google my life but out of morbid curiosity, I click on the links. It will help to know what has been discovered.

The obituaries pop up immediately. My throat tightens. There are hits on profiles of Damien, and on the third page, a reference to Johnny. Damien Carr’s Lost Son.

I don’t read it. I already know what it says. Know the photo is from the funeral.

The black clothes, somber and mothball scented, lifted from trunks in attics. The thick black veil on Mother’s fascinator, the grim look in Father’s eyes.

The small girl, blond, blue-eyed, looking utterly terrorized. Burying her brother, her companion, her bosom friend.

Johnny’s death isn’t a secret that will be problematic to explain.

I breathe a little easier. Camille didn’t make it past my fire walls into the private settings.

Regardless, I enter this forbidden space now and, with only a moment’s hesitation, wipe everything from the computer.

I can’t run the risk of someone else finding my secrets.

* * *

I lie quietly in the gray predawn light, praying for sleep. I itch. I am heartsick. The night has been too intense, too strange, too scary. Too many swings between high and low. A dog barks. A girl cries. The wind blows, rustling the leaves on the ivy outside my window. I am back on the edge of the lake, the lily pads so green and white, the sky so blue. Everything is sharper in memory, not dulled.

I want peace.

I want oblivion.

It is not forthcoming.



47

THE MOTHERS

Ford is beyond relieved when Tony and his niece release her from their attentions. It is almost five in the morning now. Camille’s body is being transported to Charlottesville, the diary has been taken into evidence along with Ash’s torn shirt, and Ford has been given permission to call Camille’s mother.

Deirdre Shannon is clearly in shock when she answers the phone. She is not crying; her voice sounds frozen, robotic, almost. She’s probably been given something to calm her. Though she sounds anything but calm as she starts the rapid-fire questioning.

“Dean? What happened? They told me they think Camille committed suicide. Is that right? Was she upset? I haven’t heard from her in a few days but she seemed fine when I talked to her last. She’s had such a hard semester with the terrible flu bug she’s been suffering from. Just tell me what you know.”

The flu? That’s what she’d told her mother. Oh, boy.

“Deirdre, she was pregnant, and had an abortion. Were you aware?”

By the gasp, it’s clear she isn’t. “Oh, Ford. No.”

“It seems she had a chemical abortion. Pills. Virginia law dictates a family member over eighteen give consent, there’s no way she could get them without a prescription, an ultrasound. She had to have been to a doctor or clinic. If you weren’t involved—”

“I didn’t know. It had to be her sister, then. Wait until I get my hands on Emily.” The threat hangs in the air, shimmering. Emily Shannon was head girl last year. Head of Ivy Bound. Smart, responsible. A solid Goode citizen. It’s not a stretch to think Camille would go to her if she were in trouble.

“I’m trying to be delicate here, but do you have any idea who the father might be?”

A breath. A pause. Finally, Deirdre says, “Yes and no. She was seeing someone this summer, I do know that, but she refused to tell me who. Said it was a boy she’d met at school. I asked how serious they were, whether she was planning to have sex with him. She told me she’d decided against it, but I’m no dummy, I know what we were like at her age. Lest you think me totally oblivious and irresponsible, I did take her to the OB-GYN, put her on birth control. The pill. Just in case. It appears I was too late. Or she didn’t take them.”

“Ah. A boy she met at school—so it could be someone from one of the all-boys schools around here. Woodberry Forest is the closest, and the one Goode has the most events with.”

“Possibly. She’s mentioned having fun at the dances. It was someone she was seeing at home, though, I get the sense. But, Ford, do you think she was upset over having an abortion? I would think she’d be relieved. I know that sounds callous, but she’s sixteen, for heaven’s sake. It would have ruined her life.” A beat. “Was sixteen.”

And then she breaks, the tears and the wails and the moans, and Ford hangs on to the phone and takes it all in. She owes it to Deirdre and to Camille. She owes it to them all.

She has failed. She has failed. She has failed.

When Deirdre gathers herself, Ford tells her the rest. “We are investigating the entire situation, how she came to be on the bell tower, which is always locked, what might have driven her there. Why she didn’t reach out for help. The sheriff is running the investigation, but I’m looking into things here. I know we want to keep this private if possible.”