The Good Girls Read online

  CLAUDE: I didn’t mean to! I just—I heard Emma had some things in her locker. Not real bad things. Just caffeine pills and stuff. I, uh, thought they’d be useful. And when I saw her phone . . . I don’t know. Maybe I could sell it or something. I don’t even know what’s on it.

  CLINE: Can you unlock it for me?

  CLAUDE: No.

  CLINE: Claude, do you need me to remind you how serious this situation is?

  CLAUDE: How am I supposed to open it? It’s not my phone.

  CLINE: Forgive me if I’m skeptical.

  CLAUDE: Fine.

  Wrong password.

  Wrong password.

  Wrong password.

  And . . . now it’s locked.

  Your turn. Don’t you have some sort of secret police computer-hacking program that can get you into any phone? Can’t you violate Emma’s privacy with a special investigation law?

  CLINE: Even if we had the right to open Emma’s phone, we don’t have the means. Best we can do is restore it to factory settings.

  CLAUDE: You can’t get it open?

  CLINE: You sound distressed. Everything all right?

  CLAUDE: Yeah. Yeah. Everything’s fine. I’m just surprised. I thought you fucking fascists could do anything.

  CLINE: (sighing) Tell us about your last conversation with Emma.

  CLAUDE: Already did.

  CLINE: You didn’t tell us about the phone call.

  Your phone record shows three minutes of conversation. Emma’s phone to yours. Tell us about it.

  CLAUDE: Um. I was driving. I was on my way to Steve’s party. You remember the party you grilled me about earlier today. So I was going, and Emma called. I don’t know why—it’s not like we’re friends. I told her she should come.

  CLINE: Did she come to the party?

  CLAUDE: No.

  CLINE: Did you go to the party?

  CLAUDE: Yes.

  CLINE: Did you know Emma wanted to buy a gun?

  CLAUDE: . . . What?

  CLINE: What was she afraid of, Claude? Was it you?

  CLAUDE: I don’t know anything about her disappearance or a gun. I didn’t kill her.

  CLINE: You do know something. You and Emma had something going on, and if you won’t tell us, we’ll have to guess. You know what I think? It sounds like you were dealing to her. Maybe you need a secret place to do it, so you pick Anna’s Run. It’s got a reputation, it’s secluded, and if anyone did go there, the river’s so loud they wouldn’t hear your conversation. Right?

  CLAUDE: Wrong. None of this is true.

  CLINE: I think Emma called you last night. She wanted to meet, maybe to buy more. Only, something’s off when you get there. Maybe she didn’t bring the money. Maybe she owed you. Maybe you needed the money for something. Your car’s transmission sounds like it’s suffering.

  CLAUDE: You broke into Janine?

  CLINE: Maybe Emma threatened you. Her dad’s the chief of police, after all. She could get you into big trouble, and she’d walk away without a stain on her reputation. She’d leave Lorne far behind, while you were stuck here dealing pills to the next generation, dodging citations and jail time. She held your life over your head, didn’t she? She and the corrupt system she’s part of. The system that rejects you, calls you names, whispers about you behind your back . . .

  CLAUDE: That’s not what happened.

  CLINE: What did happen, Claude?

  I’m sorry, this is a private conversation.

  CHRISTOPHER GRANT: And I’m this young lady’s counsel.

  CLINE: I see. Please take a seat.

  GRANT: That won’t be necessary. You have no grounds to hold my client. We’ll be leaving.

  CLINE: We have evidence—

  GRANT: The phone? The phone number’s not connected to Emma Baines in any way. Which means that charges toward my client of intending to distribute a controlled substance to Miss Baines are circumstantial and nothing more. Let’s go, Claude.

  FROM: Will Tabor

  TO: Detective Camilla Muñez

  DATE: December 6, 9:24 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Forensics study and preliminary examination—smartphone—case number 27-95-1682

  The forensics team found partial prints belonging to two distinct persons, possibly a partial of a third person. The last print is so far unidentifiable. The first set of prints belongs to Claude Vanderly, the second set belongs to Avery Amelia Cross. We’ll keep working on the third.

  The tech team here hasn’t had preliminary luck with unlocking the phone. We’ll be sending it back to JLPD with a squad car first thing in the morning. Maybe Avery Cross can help you.

  16

  The Sister

  Snow makes the world silent. As Gwen walks, rotating her arm, lights flicker in the homes around her like a toy Christmas village owned by one of her wealthier peers. Cars still in their summer tires sag on the side of the road. A cracked plastic play set already has two inches of snow.

  The front walk of the Sayer house is blanketed in a thick white layer. Gwen’s father isn’t home yet. Stems and thorns give a muted snap underfoot as Gwen makes her way to the front door. The click it makes as it unlocks is as loud as a shout.

  The lights are all down inside, save for one lamp in their joke of a living room. The linoleum underfoot is warped and crackles as she steps on an air bubble. Gwen’s mum sits against the least duct-taped side of the couch with a book beside her and her head in her hands. An untouched glass of wine is on the battered coffee table. Gwen’s parents used to enjoy a glass of wine each evening. Before Lizzy enjoyed wine a little too much. The kitchen area is dark, but Gwen smells chicken and potatoes and rosemary.

  Mum looks up as Gwen kicks off her boots. “Where have you been?” she asks thickly.

  “School. Then speech and debate. Then tutoring, so I missed the bus.” Gwen covers the shaking of her hands by hanging up her coat.

  “I rang you.” Mum’s voice is ragged but tentative. She doesn’t know how to be stern anymore. Another thing destroyed in the wake of Lizzy’s death—her confidence. Her knowledge, so sure before, that she was a good parent. That she was good enough.

  Gwen hates Lizzy for that. And she hates herself for hating.

  “I know. I was at school, so I didn’t pick up.”

  “You should have messaged me between classes.”

  “And then you’d come and get me? I told you I wanted to go to school.” Shivering, Gwen starts toward the kitchen. “And it was the right call.”

  Before, Mum would have challenged that. She’d have stood up and put her hands on her hips, saying, “Oh, was it?” before lecturing Gwen on who the mother was in this situation. Now she says nothing, just gets to her feet and follows Gwen to the kitchen, crossing her arms as she leans against the refrigerator.

  Mum used to be a fearsome woman, a woman who’d lost and found her voice. She comes from a Puritan family in Bridgend and she describes her childhood the way other people would describe being in a cult. When she was seventeen, a charming missionary from the States lodged with her family for six months. When he moved back to California, he took Bronwyn with him, and he gave her a black eye twice a week for three years. She fled all the way to Lorne to be rid of him—or maybe it was just that she met Gwen’s dad there and found out that some men aren’t trash. She didn’t want a paper trail leading husband number one to her, so she cleans for whatever the housewives of Lorne will pay her. Dad’s education finished at high school, and even though Mr. Mecklin’s a generous supervisor, he can’t promote Dad without the right certifications. They never used to care; Mum always said she knew from experience that there were worse things than being poor.

  Mum wasn’t ashamed to talk about her past life, before Lizzy. Now she’s quiet, and she prays when she thinks no one’s listening.

  Gwen hates the idea that Mum might pray over her. That Mum might wonder if her children are punishments from God, sent for abandoning her oppressive faith, for divorcing an abusive shit and marrying a
man who’s never raised his hand against them.

  At last the kettle clicks and Gwen pours a cup of tea for her and Mum, adds milk and sugar, and goes over to her chair. She feels like a disappointment. She’s not sure what to say.

  Mum follows every movement. “Some vicious speech and debate?” she says, nodding to Gwen’s arm and the way she winces every time she lifts it. Mum opens the freezer and grabs a bag of frozen peas.

  “I slipped on ice.” Gwen picks up her phone, puts it down. She has to do something to quiet her hands, quiet her mind.

  Mum slings the bag of peas over Gwen’s shoulder. “You should have called me. I would have come.”

  “Did Dad put winter tires on the truck yet?” Trick question. They can’t afford winter tires.

  Mum is silent for a moment. Then she shakes her head. “You can’t do this, Gwen. You can’t lie to me first and justify it after. That’s what—” She stops.

  The silence is back, and cruel.

  “I’m not her,” Gwen says. She clenches her hands to keep them from shaking.

  Mum stares at the table, blinking rapidly. Then she leans over and rearranges the bag, businesslike again. “No walking to school tomorrow, all right?” Mum says. As if Gwen hadn’t spoken at all.

  “I’ll take the bus.” Victory feels hollow.

  Mum gets up and checks on the oven. Gwen’s stomach growls as the scent of lemon, butter, and chicken wafts out. “Was school worth it?” Mum moves to the sink and starts to peel some carrots.

  “Yes,” Gwen replies automatically. Mum turns and regards her with a raised eyebrow. Gwen’s obstinacy is talking again. “I don’t know,” she admits. “They didn’t announce the scholarship today.”

  “And what does that mean?” Mum scoffs.

  “It means Emma won.” She tries to keep her voice neutral, but bitterness infects it.

  “You’ve got to be patient. This town is . . . going through something.” Mum falls silent. They’re both thinking about Anna’s Run. About the girls who went down to see Anna and never came back. Mum’s fingers come to the chain at her neck, the gold cross she put on again the first time Lizzy came home drunk. Then she shakes her head. “But what else did you do today? Did you talk to Mr. Pendler about your poem?” Gwen had a poem printed in the Lorne Examiner two weeks ago. Mum thinks Mr. Pendler will boost her grade, even though she already has 103 percent in his class.

  “I don’t want to talk to Mr. Pendler,” Gwen mumbles, glaring at the table. Her phone buzzes. She frowns at it, types something quickly. She tunes back in to Mum in time to hear her say, “And your comparative government class?”

  “School was just school, okay?” Like so many other things in her life, she can’t quite keep her voice under control. Mum’s shoulders hunch over the sink. The Mum of before would have told Gwen how she should speak to her mother. The Mum of now doesn’t say anything. So it’s up to Gwen to try. “Sorry. I just . . . I don’t want to talk about it. You were right. Everyone at school was weird, The police are looking through Emma’s things. . . . But I’m still right about going.” She adjusts the ice on her shoulder so she can use her phone without it sliding off. “Anyway. We decorating for Christmas?”

  The Sayer family always has a big Christmas. Grandma and Uncle Louis and Aunt Selma all live in Lorne and agree that the Sayers have the best kitchen. Uncle Monty and his kids and his wife, Sisi, and her kids make the trip down from South Dakota. The extended family loves coming to Lorne. They think the mountain town is romantic. They like to ogle the big lodges that business execs buy to feel like mountain men every once in a while. Uncle Monty always brings a tree he chopped down himself and strapped to the top of their Land Rover.

  “We always do,” Mum says, but she glances at Lizzy’s door.

  They used to decorate the house as a Thanksgiving tradition. Lizzy hated the holiday—American imperialism incarnate, she said. But Mum and Dad insisted that Thanksgiving was about family, and would be held in the Sayer house. So Lizzy decorated for Christmas to give them something else to celebrate instead.

  Thanksgiving sucked this year.

  Mum hands Gwen another carrot. “Where’s Dad?” Gwen asks.

  Mum has moved on to opening cans of corn. “He’ll be home when he’s home. We can eat without him tonight.”

  “Is he working late or something?” This feels like another trick question. Mr. Mecklin would never demand that Dad stay after six.

  “Mmm,” Mum replies. Like that’s an answer.

  And just like that, the silence is back.

  “I should do my homework,” Gwen says, but she knows she won’t. She can’t focus. She can’t think about homework or sleep or even school, where the whispers follow her in the halls and Emma’s name is like a noose. Slowly creeping closer, slipping around Gwen’s neck, choking.

  So instead of going into her room, she goes into Lizzy’s, for the first time since her sister died.

  Mum hasn’t changed a thing. From the fabric-painted Disney coverlet to the books on her desk and the faded photo of the Mari Lwyd, the skeleton mare. The charm bracelet Lizzy made in art class, mocking all the rich girls with their expensive Pandora charms. The books half read on her dresser. She’d once ranted at Gwen about how much Macbeth sucked because it was all blamed on Lady Macbeth and it only reinforced the Crazy Woman stereotype—Gwen sometimes wonders if she was drunk that day.

  When Lizzy started high school she read Shakespeare to Gwen, saying it would give her an edge. Saying you had to perform Shakespeare to really enjoy him. They put on silly voices until their impromptu drama sessions became fits of giggles. Then Lizzy would brush Gwen’s hair, braiding and unbraiding it and winding it with fake flowers she brought home from theater productions.

  “I feel bad for Olivia,” Gwen said one night as Lizzy brushed her hair. They’d finished Twelfth Night earlier that evening. Lizzy had her hair long tonight, too, via the magic of cheap extensions. She wouldn’t let Gwen get her own hair cut for the world. “Olivia thought she was marrying one person and ended up with another.”

  “Viola was lying the whole time, too.” Lizzy’s fingers began to twist at the nape of Gwen’s neck. “She even lied about her gender.”

  “A girl’s gotta make some cash,” Gwen said. “But Olivia genuinely loved her.”

  “You don’t think Olivia would have been worried to discover she married a girl?”

  Gwen shrugged.

  The movement at her braid stilled. “You wouldn’t mind marrying a girl,” Lizzy said. Her voice was so careful, so neutral.

  Gwen’s voice cracked. “Um . . . I don’t know.”

  She wanted to cry, like it was something terrible. Something she hadn’t really put into words before. A great disappointment in herself.

  “It’s okay.” Lizzy’s arms came around in a hug. “It’s okay.”

  And then she was crying, because she knew it was okay, of course it was okay to be gay. But there was a big difference between accepting that someone else might be gay and accepting that she might.

  Gwen never cared about boys. She’d always assumed she was too busy with her studies to be interested, but then Samantha Johnson had burst out laughing at a joke during speech and debate, and Gwen’s heart had stopped. And she’d buried it in the back of her mind, something to think about later when she wasn’t fighting for a scholarship or the top slot at school or a trophy from any clubs—and she’d sort of hoped that by the time she got to college, she’d realize she liked boys after all.

  “We don’t have to talk about it,” Lizzy said, smoothing Gwen’s hair, undoing the braid and starting to brush again. Gwen wiped under her eyes. She felt foolish for crying. It had been the shock more than anything. “But you’re my little sister. You can tell me anything, okay? And when you’re ready to talk to Mum and Dad about it, I’ll be right beside you.”

  That’s a promise Lizzy can’t keep.

  They were supposed to take the world by storm together. They were supposed to ge
t full scholarships and make bank and buy Mum and Dad a house with real foundations. They were supposed to fund scholarships of their own to get more girls out of poverty. They were supposed to do it all together.

  Neither of them was supposed to end up they way they are: one dead, one in way, way over her head.

  Gwen moves away from Macbeth. Her hands find the top drawer, her fingers hesitate on the knob. The last time she opened this drawer—the last time she was in this room—was the day of Lizzy’s funeral. She shoved the note in this drawer, too sick to think about it. She thought she’d eventually be ready.

  She was wrong.

  The note is in a shaky hand, not like Lizzy’s usual neat print at all. One corner is fuzzy, like a tear fell and Lizzy tried to wipe it away. I love you, Pilipala. Her nickname for Gwen. It means butterfly in Welsh. Please don’t be mad. I couldn’t stay today but I promise I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll always be right beside you.

  Gwen found the note on her desk that night, shoved it to the side so she could work. Lizzy’s promises had been hollow back then, just like Lizzy herself. And Gwen had been mad. Booze and parties and boys were more important to Lizzy than her own sister. So Gwen decided that her sister was less important than history essays, and practicing her French, and doing her algebra. And she’d ignored the texts that said heeeeey and hey G and hey polypsis, which was supposed to be Pilipala, but Lizzy was obviously too drunk to see the autocorrect. And she’d ignored the call, figuring her big sister could get in trouble with Mum if she wanted something.

  And now Gwen will never know what Lizzy was calling about.

  She can’t breathe. Gwen shuts the desk, and the snap of the drawer is like emerging for air. She already walks on a blade-thin edge, and thinking of Lizzy just clouds her mind. She turns away from the desk, from the bed and the bookcase—and she sees them. Those stupid plastic extensions. Draped over Lizzy’s chair in an array of colors.

  And Gwen realizes: she has to sneak out of the house for the second time today.

  By the time she gets to Anna’s Run, mud cakes her boots and knees where she slipped. Her jeans are soaked up to midcalf. The ground ahead of her is a patchwork of black and white. Aspen and evergreen trees crowd her. But she can hear Anna, ever hungry. The scent of the forest hangs thick, pine sap and crisp new snow.