Her gaze focused on her computer screen. Facebook was still open, but the page had changed—now Mac’s page was up. Julie stepped closer. A picture was highlighted. It was of Mac and a blond boy Julie didn’t recognize, sitting in a dark car, their heads tilted close. It was clear they were making out. A caption was beneath it: Once a slut, always a slut. Claire Coldwell had written it.
Julie sat back. “Shit,” she whispered. She didn’t know what this situation was, but she knew one thing for sure: Parker had been looking at it. And maybe, for her, it was the last straw, just like Ashley’s Instagram had been.
She jumped from the bed and zigzagged as fast as she could through the labyrinth of waste lining the hallway, back to the front door again. She flung open the front door. The yard was still, the street quiet.
Parker was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AVA STARED AT HERSELF IN the bathroom mirror at Beacon Memorial Hospital. Her eyes were red, her nose was chapped and flaking, and she looked wiped out. She patted the puffy bags under her eyes, pulled her hair up into a messy ponytail, and tossed a bunch of crumpled tissues into the metal trash can. When she walked out of the bathroom, she passed a police officer going in the opposite direction. She cringed, but the officer didn’t even look at her. Maybe he should, she thought with a start.
Leslie was still in a coma, making little progress, but at least she wasn’t getting worse. Ava’s father had spent every moment by her side, and Ava had spent a good deal of time at the hospital, too. No matter how much she hated Leslie, she wanted to be here for her dad.
The police had investigated Leslie’s fall and determined that it was an accident—her blood alcohol level had been extremely high, and she’d already been agitated. They assumed she’d drunkenly slipped off the balcony in her sky-high heels. Still, Ava felt nervous about the whole thing. Thank god she had an airtight alibi, since she’d been with her father when it happened. But she couldn’t help thinking about that yellow legal pad from Granger’s house. Where was that thing? What if someone found it?
In some ways, Ava longed for Leslie to wake up. At least then she might be able to tell them who had pushed her.
She slumped back to the waiting room and found her father sitting in one of the uncomfortable couches, a cup of what was probably cold coffee in his hands. Leslie’s mother, Aurora Shields, who had made her appearance just hours after Leslie’s accident—an incredibly awkward situation, as they’d put her up in their house but had absolutely no idea what to do with the woman, who complained about everything from the uncomfortable sheets to the lack of soy milk in the fridge—sat stiffly across from him, her hands folded in her lap. Mrs. Shields eyed Ava coldly when she walked back in. Ava wondered what Leslie had told her mother about her. Probably nothing good.
She gave Mrs. Shields a polite smile, walked over to her father, and leaned her head on his shoulder. He looked up and wrapped her in a tight hug. As he held her, Ava cast her eyes on the paperwork he’d been reading. “McAllister Cemetery” curled across the top page in a dignified and serious script.
Ava frowned. “You have to think positive, Dad. She’s not . . . you know. Yet.” She eyed Mrs. Shields, who was clearly paying attention.
Mr. Jalali nodded, then folded the papers on his lap. “I’m just trying to cover all the bases, jigar. And anyway, Aurora and I thought it would be a good idea just to see what our options are.” He eyed Mrs. Shields, too. That’s when Ava realized it had probably been all Leslie’s mom’s idea. Jesus. Leslie was in a coma for mere days and her mother was already buying up a burial plot. Perhaps that was why Leslie was such a shitty mother—she’d had a terrible role model.
Ava let out a small whimper, briefly thinking about her own mother and her regrets about Leslie. Mr. Jalali looked at her sympathetically, his eyes wet with tears. “This must be so hard for you, dear. It’s bringing back memories for me, too.”
Ava cringed. It did bring back memories: She and her father had kept vigil at this very hospital after her mother’s accident, though not nearly for as long. Mrs. Jalali’s death had been sudden, and it had only been a brief wait in the ER before the doctors told them they couldn’t save her. But the smell of hospitals still turned Ava’s stomach, as did the dreary art on the walls, and the pale, drawn faces of all the family members waiting to hear whether their loved ones were going to recover or die. For some reason, when she heard the news about her mom, Ava hadn’t started crying. Instead she’d walked numbly to the vending machines and stared at the snacks lined up in neat rows behind the glass. She’d fed quarters into the thing and selected Bugles, her mom’s favorite snack, as if buying them would bring her back.