After that first night, flashlights were not seen in the woods again, though the girls were kept under strict curfew after supper, roll call taken by the teachers as they sat in their rooms. CeCe was the one who went to Mrs. Patton’s office, pleading for the search to continue—She’s not run away, she said to the headmistress, the woman no girl dared approach. She can’t have run away. She’s hurt. Please, we have to help her. It was hopeless. She’d begged Katie to come with her, but Katie had refused, embalmed in the dark and the stillness, her body numb, her brain hushed, watching everything as if it were a world away. Watching the other Idlewild girls lose the fearful looks on their faces and begin to chatter again.
“She just ran away, that’s all,” Susan Brady said. Susan was riding high on her importance as the dorm monitor, helping the teachers with roll call every night. She heard things the other girls didn’t, things the students weren’t supposed to hear. “That’s what the police say. They say she must have found a boy. She wouldn’t need her suitcase if he bought her all new things, would she? That’s what I think. She was quiet, secretive.” She shrugged. “Who knows?”
The teachers lost their tense, watchful postures, their anger replaced with the usual everyday irritation again. Ladies, ladies. Sportsmanship. Three days, that was all it had taken. Three days, four. Five. Six.
She’s hurt.
The girls didn’t speak of it.
The girls barely spoke at all.
I’m failing her, Katie thought, the words like constant echoes buried deep in her brain. She needs me, and I’m failing her. It was CeCe who had had the courage to go to the headmistress’s office, not Katie. It was Roberta who had left early for field hockey practice to search the woods on her own. Katie was powerless—as powerless as she’d been in the moment Thomas had thrown her down in the playground and yanked her skirt, his breath in her face; as powerless as she’d been the day she’d gotten out of her parents’ car and looked up at the portico of Idlewild. All her bravery, all her bluster, was a fake. At the end of it all, when it came down to what mattered, Katie was a girl, and nothing more.
Each floor of the dorm had a shared bathroom at the end of the hall; aside from regular washing, the girls were allowed a bath once per week, the days allotted on a schedule. On CeCe’s night, seven days after Sonia hadn’t come home, Katie was in their room, lying on her bunk and staring at the slats of the bunk above her, enduring the endless stretch of time between supper and curfew, when she heard screaming from down the hall.
She flew out of bed and fought her way to the bathroom, pushing aside the other girls who crowded the door in curiosity. They gave way easily when they saw who she was; she didn’t even have to kick anyone in the shins. She got to the bathroom to find CeCe still in the bathtub, hunched over her knees, her arms crossed over her ample chest, her hair hanging wet and plastered to her face, her lips blue, her eyes vacant. She was shaking.
Katie whirled to the other girls. “Get out,” she snapped at them, and when they receded back, she slammed the door. Then she turned to CeCe. “What happened?”
CeCe looked up at her, her big eyes pools of terror. Her teeth chattered.
For the first time in a week, everything was so clear in that moment. The puddles of water on the cold, tiled floor. The lip of the big old bathtub that dated back to the day Idlewild was first built. The smell of school-issued soap and shampoo, mixed with a sickly smell of lavender that came from the bath soap Mary Van Woorten’s older sister gave her, which she used religiously. The intestinal coils of the hot radiator against the wall. The grid of the drain against the floor, its wrought iron stark and black against the white tiles. The air was chilled, as if a draft had leaked into the room, and Katie felt as if someone had slapped her awake. “What happened?” she asked CeCe again.
CeCe answered, but Katie was so awake in that moment she already knew what CeCe would say. “She was here.”
“Mary?” Katie demanded. “In this room?”
CeCe looked away, her teeth still chattering. “I was rinsing my hair. I went under the water. I saw a shape . . .” She shuddered, so hard it looked like she’d been shoved with a cattle prod. “Something held me down.”
Katie looked down at her. There was not a whisper of disbelief in her blood, not a twinge of doubt. CeCe’s mother had tried to drown her, had held her down. It was the reason CeCe was here.
It was exactly what Mary Hand would prey on.
Katie jerked up her sleeve, bent over the bathtub, and pulled the plug from the drain. As the water gurgled, the door behind them opened with a quiet click—the toilets locked, but the bath did not, not at Idlewild—and Katie turned to shout at the intruder until she saw it was Roberta.
Roberta closed the door quietly behind her and looked from one girl to the other, instant understanding on her face. She grabbed a bath towel and held it out to CeCe, who snatched it and wrapped it around herself.
“Are you all right?” Roberta asked.
CeCe nodded, staring at the floor. Then tears began streaming down her cheeks, and her shoulders shook with a sob.
“Let’s get her out of here,” Katie said.
But Roberta was staring at the mirror. “Look,” she said.
The fog on the bathroom mirror was drying, but near the top of the mirror the letters were still visible, written by something scratchy:
GOOD
NIGHT
GIRL
CeCe made a choked sound in her throat, and Katie grabbed the girl’s robe and threw it over her shoulders. But it was Roberta who leaned over the sink, raised her arm, and scrubbed the words away with a vicious jerk, her jaw set, her fist scrubbing so hard on the mirror it made a screeching sound.
The curious girls in the hall had lost interest and dispersed, and the three girls went back to their room in hushed silence, Roberta’s arm over CeCe’s shoulders.
Still, CeCe was sobbing when they closed the door behind them. The robe dropped unheeded and she clutched the too-small towel to her, her shoulders shaking and tears rolling down her face. “She’s dead,” she said, the words sounding like stones she was trying to dislodge from her throat. “We can say it out loud. She’s dead.”
Roberta and Katie exchanged a glance.
CeCe rubbed a palm over her wet cheek. “Mary killed her.”
Bile curled in Katie’s stomach. “Not Mary,” she said. “Someone did. But not Mary.”
CeCe looked up at her, her eyes wide and seared with pain, searching Katie’s face. “What do we do?”
There was the helplessness again, creeping down the back of her neck, but this time Katie fought it. There had to be something. But dead was dead. She knew in her bones that Sonia wasn’t alive anymore, not after a week. They couldn’t save her. Maybe they never could have.
Roberta picked up CeCe’s robe from the floor and hung it, then walked to CeCe’s dresser drawer and pulled out a nightgown and a pair of underpants. She held them out to CeCe. “Do you know what I don’t like?” she said. Her face was pale and sickly, like that of someone who had lost a lot of blood, but her eyes were fire. “I don’t like that Mrs. Patton has her suitcase.”
Katie swallowed. She was angry now, the fire in Roberta’s eyes similar. Those were Sonia’s things. Her books, her notebook, her socks and underwear. They’d all watched her pack them, lovingly, hoping she’d never come back here. It wasn’t right that a bunch of adults who hadn’t known Sonia and had given up on her got to keep the suitcase and forget about it. Besides, it was possible there was a clue in there. “It must be somewhere in Mrs. Patton’s office,” she said.
“Which is locked,” CeCe said. She had taken the underpants from Roberta and slid them on beneath her towel. Her face was still blotchy, but now her mouth was set in a grim line.
“I’ll bet Susan Brady has a key,” Roberta said.
“To the headmistress’s office?” That didn’t seem likely to Katie.
“There’s a skeleton key,” CeCe said, as Roberta held up the towel and she turned away to put on her nightgown. “I’ve heard Susan brag about it. It opens everything. She isn’t supposed to have it, but she’s Mrs. Peabody’s pet, and Mrs. Peabody gives her things to do that she doesn’t want to do herself. So she has to have a key.”