Good Girls Lie(69)

All things Ford doesn’t feel anymore when looking at Jude.

“How did it go?”

“It was fine. Hard. They’re all so broken up. After breakfast, I’m going to talk to Camille’s suitemates. See if they can shed some light on her actions. Then I have the board meeting.”

“Excellent. I’ve drafted a press release for you, and the crisis management team from Owens & Tudor will be here soon. Get some caffeine in you, and I’ve made some biscuits, they’re in the oven. You need fortification. And a nap.”

“You made biscuits? Who are you and what did you do with my mother?”

Jude laughs. “All right, I sent up to the kitchens for them. But I also had them bring that honey butter you love so much. Eat. We have a long day ahead.”

“We? You can’t attend these meetings, you know. You’re no longer the headmistress.”

With a breezy wave of her hand, Jude smiles. “I’m still your mother, and I’m allowed to see to the well-being of my daughter. And our family started this school. I have every right to be here with you.

“Don’t worry. I won’t get in the way. I just want to be sure you have all the tools necessary to deal with this. Should the investigation show something more devious happened, you want to have all your ducks in a row, show you’ve done everything by the book. Suicide is a terrible situation at a school. It can engender others. Create clusters. We don’t want that to happen.”

This is true. Ford can fight this, or she can lean in, allow herself to be coddled, if only for a moment. It’s not like the board can have her removed for letting herself be mothered a bit. Jude’s words feel prophetic, though Ford knows it’s only a reaction to the mistakes Jude made a decade earlier, trying to cover up her knowledge of the stalking that led to the murder.

Suicide. Murder.

That tiny scrap of fabric, though. Ash’s torn shirt. Ash and Becca were out of bed. Becca hadn’t told the whole truth, she wasn’t with Ash the entire time. There was a ten-to fifteen-minute window...

Don’t even think it. That’s not what happened, and you know it. You read Camille’s diary. She was suicidal. Upset. There isn’t anything more to this than a disturbed young girl who felt overwhelmed by a choice she shouldn’t have had to make. Combine it with being away from her support structure, and all the ingredients for a mental breakdown were present.

Jude is watching her. “Are you okay, darling?”

“Yes. I appreciate it, Mom. Thank you for looking out for me. Let’s have some breakfast.”

“Good girl,” Jude says, smoothing back her hair, making Ford feel like she’s nine. “You’ll want a shower and some makeup before you charge into the day, too. You look all washed-out. My poor girl. You’ve been working too hard.”

There is a soft knocking on Ford’s front door, then it swings open and a male voice calls, “Ford?”

Ford freezes. Her mother looks at her quizzically and calls, “We’re in the kitchen.”

There is a pause, then footsteps. Rumi appears, looking as surprised as Jude.

“What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be in the headmistress’s cottage. You’re a handyman.” There is such vitriol in her tone, Ford flinches.

“Mom, stop. Rumi is always welcome here. What can I do for you?”

He’s wearing a blue baseball cap with the stylized-G Goode logo. He takes it off and squeezes it in his hands, folding the bill practically in half. “I—I wanted to say how sorry I am about Camille Shannon. And see if there’s anything I can do.”

“You can leave and never darken our door again,” Jude snaps.

“Mother, that is enough. Rumi? Why don’t we step outside?”

She opens the French doors that lead to the small garden behind the cottage. In the summer, it is lovely, and such a different space than the imposing “family house” on the outskirts of Marchburg her mother renovated twenty years ago.

She’d done so assuming Ford would live there in the summers during high school and college, that they would be a family. But Ford hadn’t wanted to live under her mother’s roof once her stepdad died, even though Jude spent most of her time in New York or DC. Ford prefers her cottage. Her privacy.

Rumi pulls the baseball cap over his black curls. “I see your mom still hates my guts.”

Ford blows out a breath. “Have you heard anything useful?” Her tone is cutting, she’s being short without meaning to.

Rumi straightens. “Don’t take this out on me, Ford. I only came to see if you were okay. No, I haven’t heard anything. I don’t know anything. I had nothing to do with this. Isn’t that what you want to hear?”

“Rumi, no. Please. I haven’t slept and have barely eaten. I’m only trying to find out what happened. My key is missing, to the bell tower.”

“I don’t have it, if that’s what you’re asking. Why don’t I text you later? Get out of your hair.” His voice is quietly furious, and she can’t blame him. He’s come to comfort her, offer aid, perhaps even love, and her mother ruined everything, as usual.

Ford looks over her shoulder. Jude is standing by the French door, glaring at them.

“That’s probably for the best. I appreciate you checking on me. And no, I didn’t think you had the key. I was just telling you what’s happening. But if you overhear anything, let me know, okay?”