The Good Girls (18 page)

AVA STARED AT HERSELF IN
the bathroom mirror at Beacon Memorial Hospital. Her eyes were red, her nose was chapped and flaking, and she looked wiped out. She patted the puffy bags under her eyes, pulled her hair up into a messy ponytail, and tossed a bunch of crumpled tissues into the metal trash can. When she walked out of the bathroom, she passed a police officer going in the opposite direction. She cringed, but the officer didn't even look at her.
Maybe he should,
she thought with a start.

Leslie was still in a coma, making little progress, but at least she wasn't getting worse. Ava's father had spent every moment by her side, and Ava had spent a good deal of time at the hospital, too. No matter how much she hated Leslie, she wanted to be here for her dad.

The police had investigated Leslie's fall and determined
that it was an accident—her blood alcohol level had been extremely high, and she'd already been agitated. They assumed she'd drunkenly slipped off the balcony in her sky-high heels. Still, Ava felt nervous about the whole thing. Thank god she had an airtight alibi, since she'd been with her father when it happened. But she couldn't help thinking about that yellow legal pad from Granger's house. Where
was
that thing? What if someone found it?

In some ways, Ava longed for Leslie to wake up. At least then she might be able to tell them who had pushed her.

She slumped back to the waiting room and found her father sitting in one of the uncomfortable couches, a cup of what was probably cold coffee in his hands. Leslie's mother, Aurora Shields, who had made her appearance just hours after Leslie's accident—an incredibly awkward situation, as they'd put her up in their house but had absolutely no idea what to do with the woman, who complained about everything from the uncomfortable sheets to the lack of soy milk in the fridge—sat stiffly across from him, her hands folded in her lap. Mrs. Shields eyed Ava coldly when she walked back in. Ava wondered what Leslie had told her mother about her. Probably nothing good.

She gave Mrs. Shields a polite smile, walked over to her father, and leaned her head on his shoulder. He looked up and wrapped her in a tight hug. As he held her, Ava cast her eyes on the paperwork he'd been reading. “McAllister
Cemetery” curled across the top page in a dignified and serious script.

Ava frowned. “You have to think positive, Dad. She's not . . . you know.
Yet
.” She eyed Mrs. Shields, who was clearly paying attention.

Mr. Jalali nodded, then folded the papers on his lap. “I'm just trying to cover all the bases,
jigar
. And anyway, Aurora and I thought it would be a good idea just to see what our options are.” He eyed Mrs. Shields, too. That's when Ava realized it had probably been all Leslie's mom's idea.
Jesus.
Leslie was in a coma for mere days and her mother was already buying up a burial plot. Perhaps that was why Leslie was such a shitty mother—she'd had a terrible role model.

Ava let out a small whimper, briefly thinking about her own mother and her regrets about Leslie. Mr. Jalali looked at her sympathetically, his eyes wet with tears. “This must be so hard for you, dear. It's bringing back memories for me, too.”

Ava cringed. It
did
bring back memories: She and her father had kept vigil at this very hospital after her mother's accident, though not nearly for as long. Mrs. Jalali's death had been sudden, and it had only been a brief wait in the ER before the doctors told them they couldn't save her. But the smell of hospitals still turned Ava's stomach, as did the dreary art on the walls, and the pale, drawn faces of all the
family members waiting to hear whether their loved ones were going to recover or die. For some reason, when she heard the news about her mom, Ava hadn't started crying. Instead she'd walked numbly to the vending machines and stared at the snacks lined up in neat rows behind the glass. She'd fed quarters into the thing and selected Bugles, her mom's favorite snack, as if buying them would bring her back.

Ava knew that if Leslie died, she wouldn't be hit with the same grief—it would be guilt instead. But she did recognize how hard this probably was for her father. However bizarre it seemed to her, Leslie had been the second love of his life—and Ava had taken that away. She stroked his arm, feeling the need to comfort him. “We have each other. We always have. It'll be okay.”

“You're such a good girl,” Mr. Jalali whispered, which gave Ava a guilty pang. Then he looked at her. “Don't you have a Halloween party tonight?”

Ava shook her head. “I'm not leaving you alone.” Especially with Mrs. Shields.

“Oh, Ava.” He sighed. “You should go, have some fun. I know how much you love costume parties. Is Alex going?”

Ava shook her head. “He has to work late.”

She couldn't help but smile, though. Now that Alex had been cleared of all charges in Granger's death, her dad was suddenly a huge Alex fan again.

“What about your friends?” Mr. Jalali asked. “Those girls you've been hanging around with?”

Ava had received a few texts from Caitlin and Mac earlier, asking whether they should go to Nyssa's or not. Mac had decided to go, to keep track of Claire—she was the only person left on that list, after all. Caitlin had said she would go, too. Ava felt suddenly guilty—she should go with them, they'd have strength in numbers.

She nodded. “Okay. I'll go for a little bit. But Dad, if you need me, or if anything at all happens, you'll call me, right?”

“Of course.” He smiled at her kindly. Mrs. Shields, however, looked at Ava as if she'd just said she was going to go out into the parking lot to smoke some meth.

She turned to leave, thinking about how she didn't have a costume and would have to shower if she didn't want to smell like hospital. Just as she reached the door, her father called out to her again. “Oh, Ava?” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out something small and delicate. “I forgot. I found this—I think it's yours, yes?”

She crossed the room and held out her hand. He dropped it into her palm, and she studied it for a moment. It was a pretty chandelier earring of silver wire and shiny amber beads. She shook her head. “It's not mine.”

Her dad looked confused. “Are you sure? It's not Leslie's, and I found it upstairs on my bedroom floor . . .”

Ava blinked hard. All at once, she got a flash of recognition—she'd seen those earrings before. Her heart stopped. Her eyes widened.

“You found this in your
bedroom
?” she cried.

He nodded, cocking his head. “Why?”

Another thought hung on Ava's lips, but she didn't dare say it aloud.
The bedroom with the balcony Leslie fell from?

“What is it?” her father asked, leaning forward.

“N-nothing. I'll see you later. Love you.” She turned and bolted for the door, her mind suddenly spinning. She needed to get to the party and find the others as quickly as possible.

The earring was Julie's.

ON FRIDAY EVENING, A SIX-FOOT-TWO-INCH
fuzzy white bear slammed into Mac and clumsily swiped at the spilled beer on her shirt with a giant paw. “Oops, sorry!” he crowed with a muffled giggle. Mac could tell it was Sander Dennis, who was in her chem class. His girlfriend, a junior named Penelope Steward, cackled in her pink tutu, then sauntered around the DJ table toward the keg.

“Where's
your
costume?”

Mac looked up. Thad Kelly, a senior, was wearing a blue bird costume and a sash with “Insert 140 characters here” printed on it. He stared at Mac drunkenly, even though the party had started, like, five minutes ago.

Mac looked down at her boyfriend jeans, rolled up at the cuffs, and her thick cable-knit sweater. “I didn't really have time to think one up,” she said.

“Lame!” He laughed and boogied away.

She sighed and scanned the room again. If only she could tell him she wasn't here to celebrate Halloween—she was here to save a life. A horrible premonition told her that tonight was going to be the night that the killer was planning on hurting Claire. It was the perfect environment: a loud, chaotic party, lots of alcohol, lots of suspects.

The exact thing they'd said when they were planning to prank Nolan at
his
party.

Mac shuddered. She
had
to find Claire. She was definitely coming to this: Earlier today, she'd posted on Facebook about her top-secret costume. Mac had also noticed a post about
her
from Claire on Facebook—a picture of her and Oliver, kissing, with a nasty caption—but she'd quietly deleted it from her page and decided not to dwell on it or on the fact that Claire had apparently snuck out of the restaurant that night and spied on her and Oliver while they were kissing. It couldn't get in the way of Mac trying to save her.

Mac had checked other people's sites, too. Ashley Ferguson's Facebook was still silent, though a lot of people had posted that they were praying for her. People had posted to Ava's account offering their condolences for Ava's stepmom, though Ava hadn't added anything in a long time.

Julie's page was just as silent. The last time she'd posted was before the whole hoarding email thing, when she'd uploaded a link to an article called “The Ten Best Pandora Downloads to Kickstart Your Weekend.” There was certainly no mention that she was attending the party.

Mac closed her eyes and remembered the image of Julie driving past Claire's house. Maybe there was an explanation for it. Maybe Julie knew someone else on that street. Maybe she was driving slowly because she was looking for a particular house—just not
Claire's
house. Because why on earth would Julie be behind all this? Why would she risk so much? In fact, maybe Julie had the same reason Mac did: to check on Claire to make sure she was safe. That had to be it.

A Katy Perry song came on, and a bunch of kids screamed and started dancing. Mac took another spin around the patio, circumnavigating the pool, where a horde of juniors were playing an aggressive game of co-ed water polo, the girls holding tight to their string bikinis as they hurled themselves up and out of the water.

Then Mac saw her. There was Claire, sitting with Maeve Hurley, who played violin. Claire was dressed as a sprinkle candy from Candy Crush and holding a beer. Mac was so thrilled she almost cheered.

She marched over. When she was a few feet away, Claire looked up at Mac and narrowed her eyes. She started
whispering something to Maeve. Maeve looked at Claire and giggled.

But that still didn't deter Mac from her mission. “Hey, Claire,” she said, approaching her ex-friend.

Claire looked at her confusedly, then wrinkled her nose. “Nice outfit. Or
lack
of outfit. This is a costume party, dork. Or is that your costume—a dork?”

Then she and Maeve exchanged a look, stood up, and headed toward the house. “Wait!” Mac cried.

But Claire didn't turn.

Well, whatever. Mac would just tail them all night. She followed closely behind them, studying the costumed faces in the crowd to see if anyone else was watching Claire, maybe plotting to hurt her. All she saw were slutty Marilyn Monroes, disheveled rock stars, a couple of Daft Punk robots, and about a dozen of the requisite slutty cat/slutty witch/slutty nun costumes. All of them were paying attention to their drinks or taking pictures of one another on their phones.

She followed Claire and Maeve through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen, where a painfully realistic decapitated head rested on a carving platter. Next to it was a display of candy eyeballs and something that vaguely resembled human brains. A couple of giggling, red-eyed, guilty-faced jocks in totally unoriginal Seahawks jerseys bolted out of the pantry, jars of peanut butter and boxes
of crackers spilling out of their hands. They careened into Mac, and she bumped into the girl in front of her. Who, actually, was Claire.

Claire swung around. “
Watch
it.”

“Sorry.” Mac cast her eyes down at the floor.

Claire crossed her arms, her candy-colored head cocked to one side. “What's your deal, Mackenzie? Why are you stalking me? Isn't it clear I don't want to be your friend again?”

Mac thought again of the Facebook post. This probably did seem weird. “I'm sorry. I just—”

“You just
what
?” Claire snapped. “You just are going to leave me alone now.” Then she swung around and headed up the stairs.

Mac lunged forward to follow Claire once more, but then a hand appeared in her line of vision, stopping her in her tracks. Mac was suddenly face-to-face with Blake, dressed as Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, complete with his shirt off. He had, Mac couldn't help but notice, amazing abs.

Blake looked at Mac, then at Claire, climbing the stairs. “I know you think making amends is the right thing to do,” he shouted over the music, “but maybe it's a lost cause.”

Mac pulled away from him. “You don't understand.”

“Yeah, I do.” Blake shoved his hands in his pockets. “You're trying to be a good friend. You guys have been tight
forever. But she's changed, Macks. Claire isn't the girl you remember.”

“I don't care about that,” Mac said tightly. “I have to make sure she's
safe
.”

“Safe from what?” Blake grinned. “Safe from booze? It's probably too late for that. Safe from making out with a random guy?”

Mac blinked. There was no way she could explain this to Blake. But maybe she
was
overreacting. What could really happen to Claire while she was inside Nyssa's house? After all, she had said that she would kill Claire by hitting her with a car—and that couldn't happen as long as she was indoors. She began to breathe out. All she needed to do, she realized, was make sure Claire didn't
leave
.

She turned back to Blake just as he was stepping toward her. It was weird—she'd avoided him at school for weeks now, scurrying away if she saw him in the halls or in the parking lot. And now, up close, he seemed different. Taller, perhaps, than she remembered; broader, cuter. He was standing so close to her, too, that his bare chest was almost touching hers.

He reached out gently and touched Mac's hair. “You look really pretty tonight.”

Mac scoffed. Now she was sure Blake was lying, considering how un-dressed up she was.

Blake took a step closer to her. All at once, Mac could smell that sugary, bakery smell he always gave off. “I miss you so much, Macks.”

She lowered her eyes. “Blake . . .”

“And I've been hoping—
praying
—you'll at least talk to me again. I've been miserable, Macks. Life isn't the same without you. Did you read my card?”

She wanted to shake her head no. She wanted to tell him she didn't care about some stupid card. But she felt her lips tremble. She couldn't get the right words out. Then he touched her chin, tilting it up. He didn't say a word, just looked deeply into her eyes, and Mac felt herself crumble. A thousand thoughts competed for attention. Could she trust him? He
seemed
sincere . . . but he did last time, too. How did she know he meant what he said?

Mac felt herself leaning toward him anyway. She wanted to trust him—she needed to trust him. And maybe she could.

The sounds of the party slipped away. She tipped her head up toward his and closed her eyes, excited to feel his lips on hers again.

“
Mac!
” Someone gripped her upper arm, snapping Mac back into the loud, raucous present. Ava stood next to her, looking both hurried and a little sheepish. “I'm so,
so
sorry to interrupt,” she said, her gaze darting from Mac to Blake, “but we have to talk.”

Mac had never seen Ava look so frantic. Her heart started to pound. She turned back to Blake, her lips parting. “Um, sorry, I—”

But Ava cut her off and grabbed her arm. “
Now
.”