And Caitlin looked at the detective pleadingly. “Will this get us in trouble?”
McMinnamin crossed his arms over his chest, heaving a sigh. “After everything that’s happened, all I want is a confession. And I need you to help us find Julie. She’s very sick. She needs to be in custody before something else happens.” He coughed into his hand. “It’s why we came to the party tonight. We suspected Julie might be there. And we’ve just confirmed that she isn’t at her residence. Can you girls think of anyone else she’s close with, somewhere she might be?”
Ava frowned. “Well, she went on a few dates with a new boy at school, Carson.”
McMinnamin shook his head. “Carson Wells. We already checked with him. He hasn’t heard from her in days, and he’s worried—especially when he found out that the friend Parker she kept referencing died last year. We have our guys looking for her everywhere. But until we find her, she’s on her own.”
Hot tears flooded Caitlin’s eyes. Julie was out there somewhere, with no one—no one real, anyway—to help her. How would she take care of herself? Did she even have any money for food or a place to sleep? “We have to find her,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to hunt me down,” said a small, choked voice.
Everyone’s head shot up. Julie stood in the hall; who knew how she’d gotten past the front desk? Caitlin stifled a gasp. Julie wore a dirty hoodie. Her hair was matted and messy around her face. Her skin was pale, her makeup smeared, and there were deep hollows under her eyes. Caitlin couldn’t help but wonder who was staring back at them—Julie or Parker. She felt sorry for both.
“I’m here. And—you’re right. I’m sick. I need help.” Julie choked back a sob. “But I have one request, okay?”
“We’ll try and honor it,” Rose said quickly.
She looked back and forth, her jaw trembling. “I want to talk to my therapist—and only him. His name is Elliot Fielder.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“PASS THE MUFFINS, WOULD YOU?” Ava mumbled through her already-full mouth.
Caitlin snatched the basket off the coffee table and passed it across, leaving a trail of gluten-free Paleo morning glory crumbs across Ava’s sprawling L-shaped couch. “Thanks,” Ava said gratefully, stuffing one in her mouth. “These are my favorite.” She was about to wax poetic about how the muffins were both decadent and fairly healthy when Caitlin shushed her, pointing to the TV across the room.
“An update!” Caitlin cried.
Mac grabbed for the remote and turned it up. A chipper blond reporter stood in front of Beacon High. They caught her in mid-sentence. “. . . Miss Redding has confessed to three confirmed killings—Nolan Hotchkiss, Lucas Granger, and Ashley Ferguson, whose body was discovered by police divers in a river behind Ferguson’s house yesterday, just where Redding told them it would be. Three of Redding’s classmates at Beacon Heights High near Seattle have admitted to pulling a prank on state senator Hotchkiss’s son, Nolan, involving OxyContin, but they have been cleared of any involvement in his death and given a slap on the wrist.”
Ava shifted nervously, weirded out that their secret was finally out in the open. Not that the reporter called them out by name . . . but still. They’d negotiated to keep other details of what they told the police a secret, too. Like how they’d made that list in film studies of people they wanted dead . . . and how that list wormed its way into Julie’s head until she felt it necessary to avenge all their enemies. Ava hadn’t wanted to tell the police about the list, but it was probably right to come absolutely clean. Still, she hoped that the police would never, ever tell anyone about it. She couldn’t imagine what her father would think of her if he knew.
The reporter continued. “Redding herself said they had nothing to do with the murders. It is assumed the high school senior will likely try for an insanity plea, as her case of split personalities is, according to experts, ‘extremely severe.’”
The screen flashed to a shot of Julie’s dilapidated house, where crime scene techs in full-body biohazard suits swarmed in and out, carrying filthy box after filthy box. They cut to Julie’s mother standing on her porch, greasy hair pushed back from her face, her torn, shabby housecoat and crazy eyes on display for the world to see. “Julie was never right. Never right. Her father knew it from the start.”
And back to the reporter, her hair blowing in one solid piece in the breeze: “Join us tonight at eight, when our own Anderson Cooper finds out what goes on inside the mind of a teenage killer. He sits down with Redding’s mother for a one-on-one interview you won’t want to miss. Now back to you in the studio, Kate.”
Caitlin muted the TV again, and the girls sat in silence.
“Why don’t I feel any better?” Mac asked miserably.