The Good Girls

Police cars and ambulances swarmed Ava’s picturesque suburban street, their lights casting an eerie-colored glow over the manicured lawns. Julie parked far away from Ava’s house and cut behind the neighboring houses, across the backyards, drawn forward though she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. She reached the thicket of trees on a slight rise above Ava’s backyard and looked around, suddenly having a premonition. Parker was here somewhere.

 

She plunged into the woods. Only a hundred yards in, a familiar figure sat huddled at the base of a towering tree, rocking from side to side. Julie gasped. Parker’s hoodie was pulled over her head, and her face was covered in dirt. Her eyes rolled upward. Just the sight of her brought Julie to her knees.

 

“Parker,” Julie whispered as she squatted down. She pushed the hoodie back from Parker’s face, but Parker didn’t look at her. Julie put a hand on her arm. “Parker?” she whispered.

 

Parker continued to rock and mutter to herself, as if Julie wasn’t even there. Julie leaned closer, panic rising in her chest. “Parker!” she cried, gripping Parker by the shoulders.

 

Parker stopped her movement and went quiet. She looked straight into Julie’s eyes, her gaze suddenly lucid. “Julie,” she whispered. “Oh my god, Julie.” She sounded terrified.

 

Julie pulled her in and held her tightly. “It’s okay, Parker. It’s okay. I’m here.”

 

Parker’s face screwed up and she let out a loud sob. “I think I’ve done something awful. I think I’ve done a lot of something awful.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

 

 

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.

 

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