The Good Girls

“On the edge of town. At least I think I am.”

 

 

“What’re you doing all the way out there?” His voice was sharp.

 

Caitlin braked as a pickup truck pulled out in front of her. “I don’t know,” she said absently. “I just sort of . . . ended up here.”

 

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk on the phone while you’re driving. And maybe you shouldn’t be driving when you’re so tired.”

 

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I’ll call you when I’m home. And hey—”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m excited about that movie marathon. Really.”

 

Jeremy clucked his tongue. “Well, I’m not excited about the party, but hey. At least it’s an excuse to see you in a cheerleader skirt.”

 

Caitlin tapped the button on her steering wheel to disconnect the call, and the car went silent. There was another secret she was keeping from Jeremy, too: She and Josh had exchanged a few texts in the past several days. Nothing serious, mostly just a random hi or how are you feeling, but still. Josh was her ex. Jeremy wouldn’t be happy about that.

 

Caitlin knew she should just cut Josh loose, but she felt so bad that she’d been the cause of his injury. It was nice to talk to him, too. He was so much calmer these days with his injury. It was as if the pressure to play soccer had been a noose around his neck, cutting off the circulation to his brain—sort of like it had been for her. Maybe they had more in common than she thought.

 

So did that mean she hadn’t picked the right boy? Of course not, she told herself. You said it yourself—you’re just tired.

 

The news, which she had on very low in the background, caught her attention, and she turned it up. Officials are still trying to nail down a suspect in the Nolan Hotchkiss murder case, a reporter said in a droning voice. Hotchkiss was killed several weeks ago from cyanide poisoning at a party that took place at his family’s residence in Beacon Heights. Detectives speculate that his death and the death of Lucas Granger, a Beacon Heights teacher, might be connected, though they don’t have evidence to prove that yet. In other Beacon Heights news, seventeen-year-old Ashley Ferguson, who disappeared from her home two days ago, still has not been found.

 

Caitlin shuddered. It was a wonder the news hadn’t mentioned Parker’s dad and Ava’s mom in that little synopsis, too. Was it only a matter of time until detectives figured out they were all linked?

 

She took a turn at a stop sign, then slowed. All at once, this neighborhood was familiar—especially the junked-up, falling-down house at the end of the street. Caitlin drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, surprised at herself. She’d driven all the way to Julie’s house without realizing it.

 

She ran her tongue over her teeth and pressed gently on the gas. No one had seen Julie in days; she hadn’t been answering calls or texts, either. It was definitely worrying. Was she hiding out because of the Ashley stuff? She knew Ashley was missing, right? What about Leslie’s death? How had her interview with Dr. Rose gone? It was like Julie had dropped off the face of the earth.

 

Caitlin pulled up to the curb in front of Julie’s dilapidated house, hopped out of her car, and wended her way around the old appliances and piles of trash blocking the walkway. As she neared the porch, a gruff, unfamiliar voice called out from the shadows.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Caitlin jumped, then searched the darkness. She could just make out the outline of a person hunched over in the shadows near the front door. She stepped closer to the house and peered at the small, defeated-looking figure whose face was obscured by a bulky hood.

 

“Um. Hi?” she asked tentatively.

 

“I said, what are you doing here?”

 

The head lifted, and Caitlin gasped. It was Julie. A shrunken, shriveled, pale version of her, anyway. This person had the same features, the same colored hair framing her face, but her eyes were flat and lifeless, her complexion ashen, her demeanor stiff. She seemed like . . . a zombie.

 

Caitlin knelt down to her cautiously. “A-are you okay?”

 

“Fine.” Julie looked away from Caitlin, studying a stack of faded, wet newspapers that looked glued to the corner of the porch. Next to them was a row of dried brown plants—dead stalks, really—in cracked ceramic pots that looked like they’d been sitting there since the seventies. “But seriously. What are you doing here?”

 

Caitlin was alarmed by the coldness and distance in Julie’s voice, and a prickle of unease skittered across her skin. She looked around the porch, unsure where to rest her eyes. “I . . . I, uh, just wanted to check on you. We haven’t heard from you. That’s all.”

 

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