The Dead Girls Club Read online

  THE DEAD GIRLS CLUB

  A Novel

  DAMIEN ANGELICA WALTERS

  For all the girls whose names we know, and those whose names we don’t.

  Little girls are cute and small only to adults. To one another they are not cute. They are life-sized.

  —Margaret Atwood, Cat’s Eye

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOW

  There’s nothing special about the envelope. Standard #10 size, 24-pound white paper stock, available in any office supply store. My name and address written in capital letters with black ink. Deliberately generic, so neat it appears typed, but the giveaway is a tiny smudge on the d in Maryland. No return address.

  Early-September sun peeks through the window blinds behind me, cutting bars of light and dark across my desk, and a plane rumbles overhead on its way to or from nearby BWI Airport. I have a letter opener in one hand and a small pile of unopened mail before me. To my right, a messy pyramid of opened envelopes and their contents; on my left, a laptop with an unfinished game of solitaire on the screen. I was decompressing when Ellie, the receptionist, brought in the mail after my last appointment, a fifteen-year-old with complex PTSD as a result of years of abuse. Doesn’t matter how thick your skin or how well your patient is doing, you never grow accustomed to hearing certain things.

  The envelope is unbalanced, and as soon as I slice open the top, it’s clear there’s no letter within. Curious, but not overly so, I fish out something small wedged in the corner.

  A thin silver chain unspools with a quiet hiss. A small half-heart pendant, its clasp broken, tarnished by nearly thirty years’ worth of time, the edge in the shape of a lightning bolt so as to fit its opposite. With a trembling finger, I turn it over, knowing what I’ll see—an ST with half an E and NDS below, and another bisected E and VER beneath that. Best friends forever.

  “Please,” I say, my voice too loud, too ragged.

  My free hand flutters to my bare neck; my gaze darts around the room.

  On the corner of my desk sits a framed photograph. Me in heels, a black dress, and red lipstick, my shoulder-length hair pulled into a sleek chignon, the hundred bobby pins taming it in place invisible against the dark strands; Ryan in a charcoal suit, one arm snaking my waist, his hair secured at the nape of his neck, one stray pale curl hanging at his temple. All evening fancy and champagne flutes. A gala six months ago for the opening of Silverstone Center, a substance abuse treatment center for girls. The picture ended up in the newspaper, and objectively I can see why. We look good together. His light to my darkness. We’re shining with happiness. Security. Honesty. That woman looks like a stranger right now. I nudge the frame so only Ryan’s visible. Nudge it again so he’s staring at the wall. A coward’s tactic? Call me Baum’s lion.

  I flip the envelope, revealing a smeared, illegible postmark. An accident or done on purpose?

  I’ve done everything possible to keep that summer, to keep what transpired, tucked away in a tiny, impenetrable box, but the necklace, this necklace, is the key. The lock shatters. I’m no Pandora, unleashing evil into the world. This is a private apocalypse. Devastation for one, ma’am? A potent vintage.

  The heart, the other half of which once hung around my neck, even after, is a cheap thing of nickel, stainless steel, or some other inexpensive alloy. Originally affixed to a cardboard square and purchased by two girls who saved their allowance. Best friends forever. We meant it, she and I. We meant it with every bone in our bodies and every true and good thing in our souls. We didn’t know forever didn’t always last that long. We had no way of knowing that day was the beginning of the end.

  The necklace is an impossibility, yet here it is on my palm, the weight an anvil. I can still smell the basement of the empty house: the new paint, the old moisture trapped within its walls. Can feel the carpet rough against my skin and Becca’s hand in mine. Hear her saying my name. Heather.

  I scrape a nail across the front of the charm, dislodging several gritty flecks. They crumble between my fingers and leave reddish-brown streaks behind. Another plane passes, and I let go. The chain hisses again; the heart clinks. It lands faceup on the desk, the letters an accusation.

  Nothing good will come of this. I feel it in my bones. Know it in my gut. I grab the hands of the clock to stop them from spinning, but it’s too late. You can’t unopen an envelope. Can’t undo the damage you’ve done. The box is open, no way to hide what’s inside. Not anymore. The tangle of truth and lies and imagination makes no sense, but we make up stories when it hurts too much to tell the real ones. The ones with teeth; the ones that keep us awake at night. They’re the ones that leave scars.

  Not trusting my legs to carry me to the bathroom, I reach for a tissue, ball it up, and scrub the red marks from my skin. I keep scrubbing, even when they’re gone.

  The last time I saw the pendant, it was on Becca’s neck. Her eyes were closed, her arms at her sides. I sat beside her for what felt like hours, my fervent apologies filling the air, my tears turning the changed world to a blur.

  Long before the Dead Girls Club, long before the stories of the Red Lady, Becca was the one person I could tell everything to, no matter how hurtful or ridiculous, the one I knew would always be by my side, the one I promised to help, no matter what. She was my best friend.

  And I killed her.

  Sorrow thickens my throat and I rock back and forth, the tissue crumpled in my fist. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean it. Didn’t mean to hurt her.

  I didn’t.

  I inhale. Exhale. Nudge the necklace into one of the pockets in my bag and toss the tissue. I want to shout, to rage and tear my hair. Instead, I growl, long and low. It’s not loud enough to seep through the walls, so I don’t have to worry about Ellie or the other psychologist with whom I share the space hearing.

  Doesn’t take a genius to figure out why I chose this career, why I don’t see anyone over eighteen. I don’t have any photographs of Becca, but I remember her pale eyes and her even paler hair. I remember the two of us talking about Ted Bundy, our heads tucked close together, the sleepovers, the giggling until late in the night. I remember—

  I make twin fists. Pinch the tip of my tongue between my front teeth. I can’t afford to do this right now. There isn’t much time before my next patient arrives. After that, back-to-back appointments until the end of the day. I need to do what I’m good at. I need to listen. I need to observe. Memory lane can wait.

  Here’s the thing: I refuse to believe the dead can buy postage stamps.

  But someone obviously did.

  The only two possibilities are so remote, so absurd, I can’t even take them seriously. If Rachel or Gia, the two other members of the Dead Girls Club, knew, why would they wait so long? Why didn’t they tell the police? Then or now?

  All four of us—me, Becca, Rachel, and Gia—were thick as thieves at the end of the school year. Before summer’s end, we were no longer friends and Becca was dead. I don’t think I ever spoke to Rachel or Gia again.

  I scratch my temple. I can’t call the police, but …

  My fingers hover over the keyboard. The clock isn’t just ticking, but ticking down. Once I start this, there’s no going back.

  “I didn’t start it,” I say aloud.

  I wonder if things would’ve been different if they’d found her body. That’s when a missing girl becomes a dead girl. That’s when she gets interesting.

  Focus, Heather. Focus.

  The necklace was on Becca and she wasn’t moving. She was dead. And now—

  My desk phone rings. I jump and answer it.

  “Elijah’s here, Dr. Cole,” Ellie says.

  “Thank you. I’ll be up in a minute,” I say, arranging my voice into a
professional cadence. I’ve worked hard for that voice. I’ve worked hard, period. No way in hell am I going to let anyone take that or anything else away from me.

  Necklace or no necklace, they don’t know what happened.

  * * *

  By the end of the day I feel like the Hulk, every nerve exposed, waiting for the explosion. On the inside, anyway. On the outside, I’m Dr. Cole of the tailored slacks, the crisp button-down shirt, the trim waist, the tasteful silver watch and wedding band, the polite good-night to Ellie, the shiny black Jeep Cherokee waiting in the parking lot. A typical Wednesday.

  Bag over my shoulder, steps wide and confident, I scan the lot. No one’s skulking about or sitting in their car, staring at me. And most of the cars are already gone. Route 100 is quiet. Frequent glances in my rearview mirror assure me that no one follows me onto Interstate 97.

  Our house in Edgewater, thirty minutes from my Linthicum office, overlooks the South River, a tributary of the Chesapeake Bay. Fifteen minutes from downtown Annapolis and all the restaurants and local seafood you could ever want, but our neighborhood’s quiet. Only one road leads in or out, and after I make the turn, the sound of traffic vanishes, like a blanket’s been settled over it all.

  I pull into the driveway, not bothering with the garage, even though there’s plenty of room with Ryan’s side still empty. When his truck is parked there, it feels too small for both our vehicles, even though I know it’s not. I step out of the car, a small dog lets loose with a series of high-pitched barks, and an engine revs. The rich smell of grilling meat hangs heavy in the air. It feels even warmer now than it did this morning. September’s always a funny month. One foot still in summer, the other in autumn.

  Nothing waits in the mailbox other than a sale flyer and a gas-and-electric bill. A little bit of tension eases from my shoulders as I walk the stone path to the front door. The house, a Craftsman with cream-colored siding, black shutters, and a wide covered porch, has four bedrooms, two and a half baths, a two-car garage, and a secluded backyard ending at the river. It’s bigger than two people need, but ten years ago it was in sorry shape, so we got it for a steal.

  The interior of the house, filled with a mix of furniture inherited from his grandparents and pieces found in consignment shops or on Craigslist, is even quieter than the neighborhood. Normally it’s welcoming; today it’s suffocating.

  I refuse to look in the mirror above the small table in the foyer, can’t bear to see the liar reflected there. Balancing from one foot to the other, I pull off my heels, then take the stairs two at a time up to my bedroom, my bag bouncing against my shoulder blade.

  Small velvet squares in the bottom drawer of my jewelry box cup my earrings, and in the back row in the corner, beneath a plastic bag holding spare buttons to a jacket I no longer own, is my half of the heart. Did part of me know this day would come? Is that why I’ve kept it all these years?

  As I search the outside pocket of my bag, I think I’ve lost Becca’s half and my shoulders get tight, then my fingertip hooks the chain. Maybe they won’t match. Maybe this is a coincidence of monstrous proportions. Maybe I mentioned it sometime, somewhere, and someone picked up on it. Fixated on it. One of my former patients occasionally sends cheap medallions, all of them pseudo-religious in nature, though the religions are usually headed by online gurus who push detox cleanses and herbal supplements.

  I could say such things a dozen times, a thousand, and still wouldn’t believe them. Besides, the proof is here in front of me. Time and tarnish notwithstanding, the halves fit together. There’s power here. It bound us then, it binds us now. Inescapable. Irrevocable.

  We crooked our fingers together when we put them on for the first time, Becca and I. A pinkie swear. Best friends forever.

  I said it that last night. She did, too. And we weren’t lying. My chest tightens. I yank the heart apart, dropping mine back into the jewelry box and holding Becca’s by the chain. The heart spins a slow circle like a hypnotist’s pocket watch.

  Tell me your story. Where have you been? What have you seen? Why are you here? Who sent you?

  There were only two people in the basement that night, but did we examine the rest of the house first? Could someone have been hiding; could they have seen the whole thing? What we—what I—did, what the Red Lady made me do? I shake my head. Not possible. We would’ve known. We would’ve heard.

  And they would’ve stopped us.

  I gather the necklace in my palm and finger the broken clasp. The two ends are still hooked together but hanging from one side of the chain. It wasn’t broken that night. It was on her neck when I …

  If someone else was there, did they yank it off?

  The garage door purrs, and I return the necklace to my bag. Meet Ryan downstairs and fold into his arms, ignoring his protestations that he’s sweaty and grimy.

  “Rough day?” he says into my hair, and I answer with a nod. In his arms everything feels right and normal and true. When I let go, he cups my face and kisses me on the forehead, the tip of my nose, my lips.

  “If I don’t shower, my clothes are going to stage a rebellion,” he says. “You know things are bad when you can smell yourself.”

  “Swamp ass,” I say. “So very sexy.”

  I start dinner, focusing my attention on seasoning chicken breasts and fetching a bag of frozen broccoli. Gourmet cook, I am not. Hanging out in the kitchen has never been anything I enjoy, much to my mother’s chagrin when she tried to teach me.

  After dinner, after our teeth are brushed and we’ve turned in for the night, I roll onto my side, rearranging the pillow until it’s comfortable. Ryan does the same and we link fingers, the rasp of his rough carpenter’s skin, calluses and scars aplenty, a comfort. In the light from the bedside lamp, his green eyes appear gray, his blond hair brown. I twine a finger through one of his curls, pull it between thumb and index finger until it’s straight, let it go. A simple act, yet it’s the tether I need.

  His face and physique, all long hair, cleft chin, and lean muscles, say California surfer as much now as they did when we met at an acquaintance’s party, the ink fresh on my bachelor’s degree. I took him for a pot-smoking perpetual student. How wrong I was. Only two years older than me, he already had his own home improvement business. “I was the kid out mowing lawns every summer and shoveling sidewalks every winter, saving every dollar,” he said on our first date. A coffee shop, him with an espresso, me with a latte. Almond biscotti and blueberry scones. Knuckles brushing together. Knees nudging under the table. Ten minutes in, wanting a second date. Hoping he did, too.

  Here and now, he takes a strand of my hair, mimicking my actions, although I’ve no curls to subdue and he rubs my scalp in small circles. I listen to the soft whisper of skin against skin and the branches of the oak tree outside tapping against the roof.

  “Do you want—”

  “I was thinking—”

  “You first,” he says.

  “No, go ahead.”

  “Want to talk about it?” he says.

  “Talk about what?”

  “Your rough day?”

  “No,” I say, the word too blunt. “Just one of those days.”

  “No more weird phone calls?”

  A few weeks back, while working late, I received a call with shallow breathing on the other end of the line. I hung up, and thirty seconds later the phone rang again. More breathing.

  “No, no calls. Just things that were hard to hear.” He shows no indication of detecting the lie within my words, and I’m grateful I’ve used the excuse before.

  “Anything you can talk about?”

  “Did you ever hurt any of your friends when you were a kid?” I say.

  “All the time,” he says. “Football in the street, acting like assholes on the docks.”

  “No, I mean …” I rub the tip of my nose. “Intentionally.”

  “Indian burns, snowball fights, dunking in the river,” he says, ticking each item off on a finger. He traces a line
from his philtrum to the center of his chin with a thumb and index finger. “One time …” He shifts a little. Frowns. “My buddy Christian and I beat the shit out of each other. Bloody noses, black eyes, the works. Don’t remember what prompted the fight, but I meant every punch. It felt good to hit him, to hurt him.” His fingers make a slow circuit around his mouth again. “I haven’t thought about that in years. What a little asshole I was. Does that make me Hannibal Lecter?”

  “Depends,” I say with a grin, despite the cold waltzing the length of my spine. “Did you eat him afterward?”

  “With or without fava beans? ’Cause that’s important, right?”

  “Could be.”

  I debate whether to ask him if he talked to Gerald Kane yet about the outstanding check for their basement renovation but don’t want him to think I’m prying. Bringing it up today would be a crappy thing to do, too. Can’t guarantee I wouldn’t be trying to pick a fight, release some aggression. Why bring that home to him? Into our bed?

  I don’t want to talk anymore, don’t want to think either, so I peer through my lashes. “Come here, Mr. Morrison.”

  “On my way, Dr. Cole.”

  He scoots closer, traces my lower lip with his thumb. I pull it into my mouth, and for a time we let everything go in favor of the crash and pull of our bodies. Afterward, he curls in a comma behind me, hand resting on my hip.

  “In a scorched landscape,” he says, “she plunges into danger to save the lives of two children. Panic and faulty wires abound. Will she succeed? Will she fail?”

  “Mmmm,” I say, nudging him gently with an elbow. “Not fair, taking advantage of me when I’m falling asleep. Can I have a hint?”

  “Already?”

  I growl but play his words over in my head, trying to match them to a scene in a movie. The first time we played our game, we’d been dating for about six months. No lead-in, nothing. Walking out of the restaurant, he leaned close, dropped his voice, and said, “Two faces, a blind attorney, and his ex-lover get tangled up in what could be a real estate investment deal gone wrong.”