The Good Girls (2 page)

ON SUNDAY MORNING, MACKENZIE WRIGHT
stood outside the Beacon Heights police station, staring morosely at the curb. Storm clouds hung low in the sky. Six squad cars were lined up in the parking lot. The other girls from film studies had all already left, either with their parents—Mac's would be there any minute now—or on their own.

As if summoned by her thoughts, her parents' sedan turned into the parking lot. Mac's stomach flipped. She'd caught a ride with Ava here this morning, but after the cops had called her parents, they'd insisted on coming to get her. Mac couldn't imagine how her family was reacting to the news that she'd broken into the house of a teacher who'd been killed last night—stabbed with his own
kitchen knife
. She, Mackenzie Wright, first chair cello, was a murder suspect.

The car slowed, and her mother bolted out of the passenger seat, enveloping Mackenzie in a firm hug. Mac stiffened, surprised. “Are you okay?” Mrs. Wright said into Mac's shoulder, her voice tinged with sobs.

“I guess so,” Mac said.

Her father had jumped out of the car, too. “We came as soon as we could. What
happened
? The police said you broke into a house? And there'd been a
murder
? What's happening to this town?”

Mac took a deep breath, saying the words she'd rehearsed for the past five minutes. “It was a big mix-up,” she said slowly. “A few friends and I thought we had some information on Nolan Hotchkiss's death. That's why we came to the police station. But then . . . well, then things got kind of confusing.”

Her father frowned. “Did you or did you not break into a teacher's house?”

Mac swallowed hard. She'd been dreading this part. “We thought he was home. The door was open. We had some questions for him, about Nolan's death.”

She lowered her eyes. Her parents had known who Nolan Hotchkiss was even before he'd died—everyone did. The Hotchkisses were wealthy and powerful, even in the influential, glamorous, perfect world of Beacon Heights. What her parents didn't know was what Nolan had meant to
Mac.
Not so long ago, he'd taken Mac out on a couple of
dates. Wooed her, made her feel good, lit up her life. When he'd asked for a few pictures, she hadn't even flinched, posing behind her cello and snapping away.

Turns out he'd only wanted the pictures for a bet—which Mackenzie realized when he drove by her house with his friends, laughing and throwing money at her. Can you say
humiliating nightmare
?

Worse, the police had
found
those pictures on Nolan's phone, which to them was as good a motive as any for Mac to have murdered Nolan. They didn't have proof of anything yet, but still, it wasn't good.

That was why Mackenzie and the other girls had gone to Granger's house—to try to clear their own names. They knew that Nolan had something on Granger—something big—and thought maybe Granger killed him to keep him quiet.

Mrs. Wright held Mac at arm's length. “You honestly thought your teacher had something to do with Nolan's death? What kind of teacher was he?”

“Not a good one.” Mac squirmed at the thought of Granger fooling around with quite a few of his students—the Something Big that Nolan had known about. They'd discovered that when Ava found a threatening message from Nolan on Granger's phone. Oh, and Granger had hit on Ava, too.

After they snooped through Granger's house and found hard evidence that Nolan was blackmailing the teacher,
they'd all gone to the police station together. But they hadn't exactly gotten the warm welcome they'd expected. Granger had died just moments after they fled the scene. Ava's boyfriend—or maybe ex-boyfriend—had seen them leaving Granger's house and called the cops.

The mind-boggling discussion she'd just had with her friends flashed through Mackenzie's mind.
Is Granger Nolan's killer?
Caitlin had asked.
Or did Nolan's killer kill Granger, too—and make it look like us
again? No one had an answer for that. It had all made sense when they thought Granger killed Nolan, but now it was clear that everything was more complicated than they'd realized.

Her father slung his arm around her and pulled her in close, yanking Mac back to the present. “Well, we believe you, and we'll get this worked out,” he said. “I already have a call in to an old friend who's a lawyer. I'm just sorry it happened, especially in light of all the good things going on right now.”

It took Mac a moment to realize what he was referring to: She was supposed to be celebrating her unofficial acceptance to Juilliard in New York. She'd gotten the call from her mom's friend—who had inside information from the admissions office—two days ago, but they hadn't really gotten to enjoy the moment. Not that Mac felt much like celebrating, since the victory was tainted by the fact that Claire Coldwell had gotten in, too.

Her dad guided her into the backseat of the car. “I'm just glad you're okay. What if you'd been inside that house with some maniac holding a knife?”

“I know, I know,” Mac mumbled into her chest. “And I'm sorry.” But that made her wonder: If they'd remained on Granger's property, a safe distance away, for a little while longer, would they have seen who'd snuck into his house and killed him?

She was just about to get into the car when she heard a snicker behind her. Standing across the street in her front yard was Amy something-or-other, a sophomore she knew from school. Amy was leaning against a tree, a cup of coffee in her hands, just . . . staring.

Mac put her head down. How long had the girl been watching? Had she heard about Granger? How much did she know?

Sighing, Mac scooted into the seat next to her younger sister, Sierra. Sierra looked at Mac a little cautiously, almost as if she were afraid of her. Mac stared straight ahead, pretending she didn't notice, but when she heard Nolan's name on the local news radio, she flinched.
The search is still on for the person who poisoned Mr. Hotchkiss on the night of . . .

“Enough of that,” Mrs. Wright said sharply, her hand shooting forward to adjust the dial to the classical station, which was playing Beethoven. Nobody spoke for the short ride home. Mac leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling
deeply, painfully tired. The silence was only broken when they pulled into the driveway and Mrs. Wright cleared her throat. “Looks like you have a visitor, Mackenzie.”

Mac's eyes popped open, and she followed her mother's gaze. Her first thought was that it must be Claire, her ex–best friend. Dread filled her. After Claire's attempts to sabotage Mac's Juilliard audition, Mac never wanted to see her again. The fact that she'd have to spend the next four years with her—at the school they'd both devoted their lives to getting accepted to—felt like some sort of cosmic joke.

But then her vision adjusted. It wasn't Claire sitting on the family's front porch, slowly turning the shiny fronds of a pinwheel that was jammed into the flower bed. It was Claire's boyfriend—and the boy Mac had loved quietly for years.
Blake.

Blake's head shot up as the car pulled to a stop. There was a desperate, searching look in his eyes. His mouth opened, but no words came out, and he snapped it shut again. Mac felt a tug in her heart. His shaggy hair and long-lashed pale blue eyes still knocked the wind out of her. And he looked so . . . sad, like he missed hanging out with her.

Then she noticed something in his lap. It was a confection box from his sister's bakery in town along with a square white envelope. A memory suddenly struck her: meeting Blake at the bakery last week so they could rehearse songs
for his band. It felt like ages ago. Mac had kept her distance from Blake for so long—ever since Claire started dating him even though she clearly knew how Mac felt about him. But that day in the bakery, they'd . . . connected, just like old times.

She closed her eyes, flooded with the memory of how their lips had met. It had felt so wrong and so
right
, all at once.

But the soft spot inside Mac quickly turned iron-hard. She thought of the next time she'd seen Blake at the bakery: finding him and Claire after the Juilliard audition. They'd stood together, hand-in-hand, a united front.
I
told
Blake to hang out with you,
Claire had teased.
I knew you'd drop everything, even practicing for your audition. Oh, and all your confessions to Blake? He told me everything. Including that you were playing Tchaikovsky.
She'd looked at Mac with so much anger and hate in her eyes.
And we aren't broken up. We're stronger than ever.

Blake hadn't been able to look at Mac when she asked him if it was true. But he hadn't needed to. His downcast eyes and guilty expression had said it all.

Now Mac turned and followed her parents into the house through the garage. “I don't want to talk to you,” she snapped.

Blake leaped off the porch and ran down the driveway. “I'm sorry, Macks. Seriously. I am so,
so
sorry.”

Mac stopped short. She might have whimpered. Her mother touched her arm. “Honey? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Mac said weakly. She hadn't told her mom about the Blake-Claire drama—they didn't exactly have that sort of relationship. She gave her mom her bravest smile. “I just need a sec, if that's okay?”

“A few minutes,” Mrs. Wright said, glancing cautiously in Blake's direction before stepping inside.

Mac turned and looked at Blake. He reached out a hand toward her arm. She reflexively tried to pull away, but then wilted. The warm smell of cupcake batter and powdered sugar wafted off him.

“I'm sorry,” Blake began.

“I don't want to hear it,” Mac said, feeling tired, but Blake pressed on.

“Macks. It's true that Claire
did
ask me to start hanging out with you.” He winced. “But once I realized how you felt—and
I
felt—I wanted to put a stop to it. You're the one that I've always wanted. I didn't mean to hurt you. I felt terrible about it—all of it.”

Mac scoffed. “That didn't stop you from carrying out your plan.” Telling Claire that she was playing Tchaikovsky, so that Claire could practice the same piece and play it first. Trying to distract her before the most important audition of her life. “You almost ruined everything.”

“I know, and I'm an asshole.” Blake kicked at a pebble
on the ground. “Just so you know, I broke up with Claire. For good this time. I want to be with you . . . if you'll have me.”

In Mac's darkest moments over the past few days, she'd imagined a scene just like this one, where Blake came crawling on hands and knees to beg her forgiveness. But now that it was actually happening, she didn't feel nearly as satisfied as she'd thought she would. She stared at him now, somewhat shocked. He screwed her over and then had the nerve to ask her out?

“Here,” Blake said, his voice jittery. He pushed the cake box and envelope at her. “For you . . .”

Mac knew he wouldn't leave until she opened the lid. Inside was a single cupcake with a violin shaped out of gummy worms. The icing was sloppy—it was clear Blake had crafted it himself. Briefly, Mac tried to picture it: him standing over a mixing bowl, then checking on the cupcake in the oven, then carefully positioning the gummies just so. That seemed like a lot of effort for someone he'd tried to sabotage.

“Congrats on Juilliard,” Blake said gently. “I'm so proud of you.”

Mac's head shot up. “How did you know I got in?”

Blake blinked. He looked caught. That was when Mac understood: He knew because Claire had told him. Which meant they were
still talking.

“I heard it from Claire, but that was the last thing we talked about before we broke up,” Blake said quickly, as if he could sense Mac's thought process. “It's awesome, Macks. You so deserve it.” He shifted closer. “What will it take for you to forgive me? Do I have
any
chance?”

Mac could feel her eyes filling with tears. Just a few days ago, she would have given anything to hear Blake say that—to say that he wanted her, he chose
her
. For so long he'd been the guy on a pedestal, the one she wanted so badly but couldn't have.

But now he wasn't any of those things. He was just Blake the backstabber. Blake, the guy who truly didn't get it. How could she ever trust him again after what he'd done? How could he ever be that perfect, ideal Blake she'd fantasized about for so long?

She closed the bakery box. “There's no chance,” she blurted, grabbing the unopened envelope and walking inside.

And when she shut the door, she shut all thoughts of Blake firmly behind her.

“JULIE?” A HOARSE CRY SOUNDED
through Julie Redding's bedroom door on Monday.

Julie rolled over, pulled the covers all the way over her head, and willed herself back to sleep. It was quiet for a moment, but then, “Julie?
Julie!
” This call was more urgent.

With a grunt of frustration, Julie kicked off her crisp white duvet and sat up in her hospital-cornered bed. Her silk camisole felt smooth against her skin. Soft morning sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains. Lilting birds welcomed the day outside, and a gentle breeze washed over her face through the open window. Her room was in perfect order, just as she had left it the night before. Except for her crumpled James jeans and gray cashmere cardi—both from last season, bought secondhand—which she'd peeled off and let fall to the floor before collapsing into bed.

All around her, the day was dawning beautifully, perfectly . . . but Julie felt only darkness and grief. She heard the mewling and scratching of cats—hordes and hordes of cats—outside her bedroom door. And her mother's desperate voice.

“
JULIE!
”

Julie bolted from the bed and stomped across her room, past the extra twin bed where her best friend, Parker, usually slept. Parker hadn't come here last night—again.

She flung open the door. The precious, invaluable, beloved door, the only thing that separated her world from her mother's. The only thing that kept the moldering mess at bay, protecting Julie's domain from the contamination on the other side. As the door opened, the pungent stew of mildewed newspapers, food-caked dishes, crusted tins of cat food, and wet fabric wafted over her. She swallowed hard to suppress her gag reflex.

“What?” she growled at her mother, who stood in the crowded hallway. Guilt spiked through Julie when Mrs. Redding's fleshy face crumpled, but she pushed it away. The last thing she could handle on top of everything else was her mother. Julie rubbed both hands over her face, trying to will her brain into some form of Zen state. No luck. The best she could muster was a calm exterior. She took a couple of deep breaths. “I mean, yes, Mom?” she said, her voice now neutral and controlled.

Mrs. Redding pushed a strand of greasy hair out of her eyes. “School's already started, you know,” she barked. “But since you're already late, you might as well pick me up some Diet Sprite and cat litter for later.”

Julie set her jaw. “I can't. I'm never going out again.”

“Why not?”

Julie looked away.
Because of you, actually. Because of a horrible email that someone sent around to the whole student body about
you.

She could practically see the taunting looks on her classmates' faces; they'd surely read Ashley Ferguson's email by now. She already knew the catchy nicknames they'd scrawl on her locker:
JULIE ROTTING
,
DROOLY JULIE
, and the one she dreaded most,
PUSSY GALORE
. It was what the kids at her old school had called her, after all.

So there was no way she was going back, ever. Julie hated to admit it, but Ashley had even outdone Nolan Hotchkiss in the I'm-going-to-make-your-life-hell department. And, oh yeah, there was also all that bullshit about Granger's murder. The story had broken on the news yesterday afternoon; no doubt Beacon would be buzzing with it. What if kids also knew that Julie and the others were suspects? In Beacon, things had a way of getting around even when they were supposed to be private. She could just hear the whispers.
Not only does Julie Redding live in a trash pit, she also killed Nolan Hotchkiss and her teacher! Didn't you hear she was arrested?

The Granger thing was really messing with her mind. Just when she and the others thought they'd found Nolan's killer, he turned up dead. Did the same person who killed Nolan—the same person, in other words, who set them up the first time—kill Granger, too? But who could that be? Individually, Julie and the other film studies girls had made a few enemies—like Ashley Ferguson. But who hated them
collectively
?

She sighed, realizing she hadn't answered her mom's question about skipping school. “Because I'm not welcome at school any longer,” she said emptily. “Because everything is ruined.”

Her mother shrugged, seeming to accept this as an answer. “Well, I still need some cat litter and Diet Sprite,” she said simply. “Surely you can go out for that.”

God forbid she'd ever ask Julie what could possibly be wrong.
One, two, three . . .
Julie counted, using her fallback technique to calm herself. Then she felt something soft and slinky brush her legs and almost screamed. One of her mother's mangy beasts was trying to get into her room. “Get away,” Julie muttered, half kicking it back into the hallway. The cat yowled and disappeared into a stack of boxes that another cat, a black one her mother always called Twinkles, was standing on top of. A third cat, a matted thing with one eye, stood in a random litter box halfway down the hall, staring at them.

Then Julie turned back to her mother. She'd had it. “Sorry,” she said. “No Diet Sprite. No litter. Get it yourself.”

Mrs. Redding's mouth fell open. “Ex
cuse
me?”

Julie twitched slightly. It had been a long, long time since she'd told her mom no. Ever since her mom's hoarding had started in full force, she'd always found it easier to just comply. But look where that had gotten her: She'd spent years scurrying around, trying her damnedest to make sure no one ever saw where she lived. She'd tried to make herself absolutely, unimpeachably perfect, so that no one would ever know the truth. But now the brunt of her resentment poked through, making her seethe.

“I said
get it yourself
,” Julie repeated firmly. “In case you're interested, Mom, I can't show my face to the world. Everyone knows now.” She waved her hand in the air wildly. “About this . . . this
place
.”

She narrowed her eyes, a newfound power flooding through her. Suddenly, she was ready to say all the things she'd kept pent up. And anyway, what was the point of holding back now that she was probably going to jail?

She looked at her mom again. “They know about you. And now they'll hate me again, just like they did in California.” It felt good to say it out loud. Julie felt a thousand pounds lighter, like she was floating. “Oh, and one more thing,” Julie continued. “I also feel a little
uncomfortable going out because I'm
wanted
for a murder I didn't commit. Is that a good enough excuse for you?”

Mrs. Redding looked at Julie blankly. After a long moment, her eyes narrowed. “How
dare
you not help me!” she screeched. She stepped toward her daughter, her eyes bulging out of her reddening face.

Julie took one step back. With a jolt of panic, she realized that her mother had crossed over the threshold . . . and
was in her room.
Mrs. Redding had never set foot in there. Even through her illness, she seemed to understand that this was a sacred space. Julie's heart thudded against her ribs, and she choked back a sob. With her stringy hair and frayed housecoat, her mother looked even more unkempt against the backdrop of spare furnishings and a spotless rug.

“What the hell good are you?” Mrs. Redding sputtered, thrashing her arms around like a maniac. “You were a useless child, and now you're a useless teenager. You just take and take and take, and you never do anything for
me.
” Her eyes spun around. “Your father knew how useless you were.”

Julie froze. “Stop.” She didn't want her mom to go down this road.

But Mrs. Redding knew she had her. “That's why he left, you know. The first time he held you, he turned to me and he said, ‘Well, maybe we'll get it right next time.' He saw right through you.
You're
the reason he abandoned us. You were never good enough for him.”

“Please,” Julie said weakly, shriveling into herself, the rush of confidence she had felt just moments before vanishing. This was always her mom's secret weapon. And it was always the thing that decimated Julie completely.

“So you're not going to school today, huh?” Mrs. Redding challenged. “I'm not surprised. Your father always said you weren't smart enough. You're a piece of nothing. A worthless, no-good, piece of nothing. Of course you're accused of a murder! You probably did it, you stupid bitch!”

She said more than that, way more, but the words soon blurred together, washing over Julie as they had since she was a little girl. Her mother had always been mean, even before she snapped. Julie remembered crying so hard when she was little, once even asking, “What can I do to make you love me?” To which her mother had just laughed and said, “Become someone else.”

That was when Julie became . . . well,
Super Julie
. Even as a six-year-old, she'd scuttled around doing everything her mother asked—anticipating her every need, bringing her slippers, a case of Diet Sprite, her favorite weekly tabloids. It was why she studied harder than anyone else in her class, dressed neater, brushed her auburn hair until it was the shiniest of all the girls in her grade.

But it had never been enough. No matter what Julie did or how she did it, her mother despised her. Julie often felt
like the barrage of words was worse than the sea of trash lapping at her bedroom door.

When they moved to Beacon Heights, she'd thought she could start fresh, and for a little while, she'd gotten away with it. But maybe her mother was right. Maybe Julie
was
the problem. If she had just tried harder to keep her secret from Ashley, no one else at school would have found out. If she had just tried harder to fix her mother, then there wouldn't have been a secret in the first place. And if Julie had just tried harder to stop herself and the others from drugging Nolan, if she'd done a better job of disguising her handwriting so the cops wouldn't recognize it on Nolan's face, if she just hadn't broken into Mr. Granger's house, maybe she and the others wouldn't be suspects. If Julie were smarter, better, stronger, then she would be able to figure out who had snuck back in after they left and killed him. Because right now she didn't have the faintest idea, and unless she figured it out fast, she was going to jail.

Maybe it
was
all her fault.

Somewhere in the distance, Julie thought she heard a bell. Mrs. Redding halted mid-word. Julie heard it again—this time more clearly. It was the doorbell.

Julie's mom turned back to her. “Well, are you going to get that or not?”

Julie, who had flung herself on her bed and curled into
a tight fetal ball, slowly sat up and blinked. “Uh, sure,” she said weakly.

“Good.” Mrs. Redding hefted herself up from Parker's bed and trudged out the door, leaving a cyclone of cat hair swirling behind her. “And after you do, you can get my cat litter and Diet Sprite.”

“Okay,” Julie said in a tiny voice.

The doorbell chimed again. Julie rubbed her eyes, sensing how red they probably were. What if it was Ashley? The girl materialized in her thoughts, her red-gold hair the same shade as Julie's, her clothes so carefully copied, her smile so saccharine and evil. Ever since the email, Julie had had nightmares about Ashley ambushing her at every turn. Ashley popped out of a cake at a birthday party, poked her head into a private bathroom stall, even interrupted Julie at a waxing appointment. “Do you know the truth?” Ashley giggled every time. “She's a disgusting freak! She lives in a trash heap! Her clothes are made of cat hair!” And whoever else was in the dream—a friend, an acquaintance, even a stranger—would look at Julie in horror, understanding her true nature.

Then again, maybe it was just Parker at the door. Parker needed her now. And Julie had wondered where her friend had disappeared to after the police station yesterday—after they'd spoken about who could be after them, Parker had taken off through the woods, insisting she wanted to be
alone. Julie should have followed her. Parker was too fragile to be alone.

She slipped from her bed and wrapped a plush terry cloth robe around herself. Slowly, she wedged her way down the hall, following the square beacon of light that streamed in through the one small window set high in the front door.

Just as Julie was a few feet from the door, the light went dark. A face blocked the window, peering in. She froze in her tracks, her heart leaping into her throat. She recognized the olive-green eyes, the beautiful dark skin: It was Carson Wells. The new guy in town, whom she'd been foolish enough to go on a few dates with before everything went down.

A small cry escaped her lips. Wasn't her disgrace complete already?

She jumped as the doorbell rang again. Slowly, she edged backward, pressing herself against the stack of boxes—maybe she could just slip away and pretend no one was home.

The face at the window moved in closer to the glass. Carson's hands shaded his eyes as he pressed his nose to the window. “Julie,” he yelled, his Australian accent sharpening the vowels in her name. “Julie, I know you're in there. Open the door.”

Julie shrank backward another step. She started to hyperventilate.

“You can't hide in there forever. I just want to talk to you.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Yeah,
right.
He wanted to tease her. Or maybe cut her apart for not telling the truth. Whatever he was going to say, she didn't want to hear it.

Carson was silent for a moment, watching her through the small window.

“Please talk to me.”

She looked up. His voice was so sweet, so sincere. Something in her turned. She desperately
wanted
someone to help her, soothe her, especially after the police and Ashley and her mother's cruel words.

She forced herself to take one step forward, then another. She felt like she'd walked a mile when her fingers finally closed over the knob. The door swung open, and the fresh air washed over her like a spring shower. Julie took in the dewy grass, the cars still beaded with last night's rain, the newspaper on her neighbor's stoop. And Carson.