The Good Girls (16 page)

PARKER HEARD JULIE'S FAMILIAR, COMFORTING
voice as if from a million miles away. Then she heard her name again, this time a little louder, a little closer. Parker concentrated on bringing herself to Julie's voice, and finally, she snapped back into place. She felt the damp soil beneath her and heard the rustling leaves on the trees swaying high above their heads. She was in the woods. Behind Ava's house.

Ava's house.
Everything else rushed back, too.

Sensory memories flooded through her: her biceps flexing as she pushed Leslie, hard; Leslie's fingernails piercing Parker's skin as she clutched desperately, fighting to regain her balance; the sensation of relief when Leslie released her grip and fell, her mouth forming a frightened and silent oval, over the balcony railing before landing with a resonant
thud
at the bottom. Parker had done it,
but it was as if her body had gone through the motions on autopilot or something. She didn't remember
deciding
to do any of that.

And then more memories bombarded her, too. Ashley Ferguson stood in her bathroom, getting ready to take a shower. She spun around as Parker came up from behind her, her arms raised to defend herself, her face twisted in fear but not exactly surprise. Parker felt her wrists strain as she shoved Ashley back, hard, against the tile in the shower. Then she felt the sweep of her leg and the contact of her shin on Ashley's calves as she kicked her feet out from under her. The floor vibrated as Ashley's head cracked against the tile.

And what about the feel of the cool grass against her ankles as she darted back into Granger's house after the others had left? She felt the weight of the knife handle in her hand, and she recalled the look of surprise on his face as she slipped into his room, where he stood in a towel. “What are
you
doing here?” he'd spat.

Then, a flash, and she was sitting in a booth at a diner on the outskirts of town, slipping a thick wad of cash to a grizzled older guy with a hat pulled down low over his face. She'd found him on craigslist. “Please take care of it,” she'd said, and he nodded. And then her father had died in the prison yard.

Finally, her thoughts returned to the start of it all—that
party at Nolan's house. . . . She felt the slippery plastic cup in her hand as Julie passed it to her, and she felt her fingers shake as she fumbled for the vial of cyanide in her pocket. She'd shielded her hands and pretended to spit in the cup, as the others had, instead dropping the powder into the warm beer. Then she'd handed the cup to Ava, who took it to Nolan.

She'd done it. She'd done
all
of it. All those memory gaps—her brain was somehow keeping her protected from the truth. And it explained why she'd been steering clear of Julie lately: She couldn't bear to tell her the truth, but she also couldn't hide something like this from Julie for long. Julie knew her better than she knew herself.

A bright flash of a thought entered her mind: She hadn't told anyone
else,
had she? No. Not Fielder. She wouldn't have done that. No matter how many times he bought her coffee, no matter how safe and appreciated he made her feel, she would never have told him that. Because he would have asked
why—
and he would have made Parker answer. Then again, wasn't the answer obvious? Nolan deserved it. So did Ashley. Even Granger. But Leslie? Instantly, the woman's angry face when she confronted Ava in the coffee shop popped into Parker's mind. Leslie had
hit
Ava. Parker sure as hell knew what
that
felt like.

The world spun violently, and she dug her hands into the dirt to steady herself. “I think I've done something
awful,” she repeated, glancing fearfully at Julie. “I think I've done a
lot
of something awful.”

“Parker?
Parker!
” Julie cried. “What do you mean?” Her eyes widened. “You did it, didn't you? All of them? You're just . . . going down the list?”

Parker's head began to throb and fill with explosive noise, but still the answer rang out clearly: “They all deserved it.”

Julie made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob. “Oh, Parker.” She sounded heartbroken. “No, they
didn't
.”

“They did,” Parker insisted. She felt so, so sure. “All of them did.”

Julie looked crushed, but there was something determined in her face, too. She placed her hands on Parker's shoulders, her expression stern. “You have to promise me something, okay? You
cannot
do this again. From now on, we're going absolutely everywhere together. I'm not letting you out of my sight. I'll go to school with you and go to your classes instead of mine. You stay at my place every night. Where you go, I go.”

Parker nodded. She felt too shaky and dizzy to speak.

“The only person left on that list is Claire Coldwell,” Julie went on. “We can still save her, Parker. She doesn't deserve anything bad to happen to her.”

Parker's eyes narrowed. “What are you
talking
about?” she sputtered. “
You
told me about what Claire did to Mackenzie.
How she'd, like, stolen her boyfriend and basically sabotaged her future—and how Mackenzie had shown up at your house in tears. Claire's a horrible person. As horrible as the rest.”

Julie shook her head. “No, she's not, Parker. She's a bitch, sure—but she doesn't deserve to be hurt.”

Parker crossed her arms over her chest. “I need to stand up for my friends.”

Julie placed her hand over Parker's. “You don't have to do it like this. It has to stop, Parker. Can you stop?”

Parker peered at her friend. Julie seemed really, really upset. Suddenly, the weight of what she'd done crushed down on her. She shut her eyes. Of course Julie was right: Parker was a monster. She'd interpreted a ridiculous conversation in film class literally. But none of them really wanted those people dead.

She gulped, all at once finding it hard to breathe. “I don't know who I am anymore,” she said hoarsely.

“It's okay.” Julie petted Parker's arm. “I'm going to help you. I promise. But for now, we have to get you out of here. Keep you safe.”

Parker swallowed hard, a metallic taste in her mouth. “You want to help me?”

Julie nodded. “Of course. I'm the one who hid Ashley's body for you—I've been helping all along.”

Parker blinked.
Ashley's body.
Had she really just left Ashley dead on the floor? “You knew I was there?”

“I guessed you'd been there,” Julie explained. “I cleaned everything up, wiped down all the fingerprints. They'll never know it was you.” Then she looked toward Ava's property. “But as for this, let's hope you didn't leave prints. And for Granger and Nolan and your dad . . . well, I'll do the best I can.”

Overwhelmed, Parker let out a heartrending sob and collapsed into Julie's arms. “I don't know what I'd do without you,” she cried through tears. “I'll do anything you say.”

“Good,” Julie said. She helped Parker up, and they walked through the woods to Julie's car. But only a few paces in, Parker could already feel herself wavering. Something else inside her, some deep dark part of her, had taken over when she'd done all those awful things.

How did she know that something wouldn't take over again?

MAC COULD BARELY MAKE OUT
what Ava was saying through her hysterical sobs. She pressed the phone to her ear, trying to discern a few clear words. Finally she pieced together a sentence, but she almost wished she hadn't.

“Someone pushed my stepmother off her balcony!”

“Jesus,” Mac gasped. “Just breathe, Ava. Breathe.” She took her own advice, inhaling and exhaling slowly. “Is she . . . did she . . .”

“She's alive. She's in a coma.”

Mac shut her eyes. “Oh, thank god, Ava.”

“What's happening, Mac?” Ava sniffled into the phone. “What are we going to do?”

Mac stood up and shut her bedroom door. Her parents were downstairs fixing dinner, but her sister had spent a lot of time lurking around her room the last few days. Mac
wasn't sure if Sierra was being supportive or suspicious, but either way, she didn't want her hearing any part of this conversation.

What
were
they going to do? It was clear now that this wasn't a coincidence. The killer was going down their list like it was the telephone tree parents used when school was canceled. And it was, in some way, their fault. If they hadn't said those names, none of this would have happened.

She sat back down on her bed and gripped her phone hard. “We need to stay calm and stick together, okay?”

“Yeah.” Ava gulped. “The scariest part is that the killer was
in
my house the same time I was.”

Mac shuddered. It was a horrible thought. She tried to imagine the killer downstairs in her own house, right that second. Her limbs went cold with fear.

“I could have seen her—maybe I could have stopped her—if only I'd known to look.” Ava began crying heavily again.

Mac cocked her head at Ava's words. “I'm still not sold on the fact that the killer is a girl.”

“Alex
said
he saw a girl going into Granger's,” Ava said. “And . . . I don't know. It just feels right.”

There was an awkward silence. Then Mac realized something. At least there was one upshot: There was no way Ava was the killer, and Ava had to know that Mac
wasn't, either—otherwise she wouldn't have called her. Maybe they could start trusting each other again.

“Have you heard from the others?” Mac asked.

Ava cleared her throat. “I texted Julie but haven't heard from her yet. I'm going to try Caitlin next.”

Mac shut her eyes, trying to imagine one of the others sneaking into Ava's house and pushing a random woman off a balcony. They weren't capable of that, were they? It had to be someone else.

They clicked off the call, and Mac tossed her cell onto her bed and paced the room anxiously. Her cello beckoned, but she couldn't imagine playing. Then, her phone chirped from under the folds of the comforter. She fumbled around for it. Blake had sent her a Snapchat of a pink sprinkles cupcake, her favorite flavor. And he'd drawn little glasses and a mustache on the cupcake. The sight of it somehow cheered her up.

Mac grimaced. No, no,
no
. But before she even knew what she was doing, she dialed Blake's number. It rang once . . . twice. . . .

What are you thinking?
She quickly pulled the phone away and hit
END
before he could answer, stabbed at her phone to make sure she'd really hung up, and then turned it off so that Blake couldn't call her back.
Why would you talk to Blake ever again, after how he treated you?
a voice in her head scolded her.

But the card he'd written was tucked into her underwear drawer, under a Miracle Bra she'd always been too chicken to wear. She and Claire had bought them together, giggling in a Victoria's Secret back dressing room.

Claire.
Mac felt a pull in her stomach. Claire was the only person on their list who hadn't yet been attacked. First Nolan. Then Parker's father. Then Ashley, and now Leslie.

Mac thought back to what she'd said in film studies that day.
Maybe a hit and run, something totally accidental.
She hadn't
meant
that—she'd just wanted to participate in the conversation. And for god's sake, it was all just talk! But now, if anything happened to Claire, Mac would blame herself forever.

Her heart began to rattle in her chest. What if the killer—whoever it was—planned to finish off the list, tonight?

Mac tried to think. She had to stop this. She had to protect her ex-friend. There was only one thing to do. She grabbed a sweatshirt and ran for her car, shouting out a quick “Be right back” to her parents as she raced past them.

Five minutes later, she pulled into Claire's driveway. Blessedly, Claire's car was parked in the garage, and there were lights glowing in her upstairs bedroom window. Mac exhaled, took a moment to compose herself, and glanced up and down the street. The only other cars were parked
in the semicircular driveways. No one idled at the curb or had even turned onto the block. Okay. That was better. But she still needed to see with her own eyes that Claire was safe.

She hustled to the front door and rang the bell. High-heeled footsteps click-clacked across the tile entryway. Warm light and Beethoven on the Sonos sound system washed over Mac as Mrs. Coldwell swung the door open wide. The house smelled like homemade pasta and freshly baked bread.

“Mackenzie! What a pleasure to see you.” Mrs. Coldwell's broad smile was so sincere, it sent a pang straight through Mac's heart. She had always loved Claire's parents, who were gentler and more relaxed than her own.

“Who is it, Mom?”

Mrs. Coldwell spun around and beamed at her daughter. “Look who's come to visit!”

Claire stood with her toes curled around the top stair. She was wearing a frayed
MELLO CELLO
tee and pajama pants, and her hair was in a headband. Her face took on a pinched expression when she saw Mac. “What do
you
want?” she asked sourly.

Mac blinked hard. She hadn't actually thought about what she'd say if she found her ex–best friend in one piece. She was just so relieved to see her standing there that she didn't care how ridiculous it must have seemed that she'd
shown up on her doorstep as if nothing had happened between them. “I . . . uh . . . I just wanted to come say hi,” she blurted.

“Well, isn't that nice?” Mrs. Coldwell asked in a singsong. “Can I get you some hot cocoa, Mackenzie? A homemade chocolate chip cookie?”

“That's okay,” Mac said. Mrs. Coldwell smiled for another beat, then murmured something about leaving the girls alone. She slipped into the back of the house.

Mac shifted awkwardly in the foyer, staring at the pictures on the console table. There was still a picture of her and Claire from a few years ago on the stage at the Seattle Symphony Hall. They were smiling so lovingly at each other, arms around each other's waists.

Then she looked up at Claire. “What are you up to tonight?”

Claire glared. Her tone was acidic, her expression withering. “Why do
you
care?”

“So you're not leaving the house?”

Claire just stared. “Does it look like I'm leaving the house?” She placed her hands on her hips. “What do you
want,
Mackenzie? To rub it in that you're seeing Oliver?” She rolled her eyes. “He seems lame, if you ask me. I never wanted him anyway.”

Mac pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, wanting to retort that it had definitely seemed otherwise at Umami.
But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except keeping Claire safe.

“Uh, I'm not dating Oliver,” Mac blurted. “We're just friends. That's what I came to tell you, actually.” The words rushed out fast, though they weren't a lie. She hadn't heard from Oliver in days: It seemed like he'd gotten the picture. “He's yours if you want him.”

Claire made a face. “I don't want your sloppy seconds.” Then she slammed the door in Mac's face.

Still, Mac didn't feel bad. Problem solved, after all. She practically bounced along the driveway, filled with relief. Claire was safe—for tonight, at least.

She pressed the button on her keychain and her Escape beeped, flashing its lights. Just as she pulled the door handle and ducked inside, she spotted a car gliding slowly, sharklike, down the street toward her, its lights off. Mac slumped down in the driver's seat and peeked out the window as the car made its way past Claire's house. With a gasp, she recognized the make and model—an older Subaru Outback. And she flinched when she saw the lone figure sitting stone-faced behind the steering wheel.

Was that . . .
Julie
?