The Dead Girls Club (ARC)

by Damien Walters

  “It is,” Becca said.

  The air changed, thickened. Rachel spoke, but her words were distant. She doubled over, clutching her belly; Gia sagged against the counter, fingers splayed over hers. Becca hunched her shoulders. I felt pain, too, but in my side, a sharp sensation that snarled my breath.

  The air snapped back to normal, like a vacuum cleaner had sucked all the thickness out. The pain vanished. We were all quiet, like no one wanted to go first.

  Then Rachel said, “I think I just got my period.”

  Gia wrinkled her nose. “Me too,” she said. “Like right this second.”

  Becca said, “Me three.”

  “All of us at the same time?” Rachel said.

  Their gazes swung toward me. I shook my head. “Not me.”

  “You made her mad,” Rachel said. “That’s why she did this.”

  “If she was mad, then why do it only to you, huh? Why not me?”

  “I don’t—”

  There was a creak from the second floor.

  Rachel was first to run; Gia second. I was third and didn’t check to see if Becca was following, but I heard her footsteps. Outside, Rachel and Gia were already nowhere in sight, but I waited by the hedge until Becca came out. She ran right past me. Didn’t even look back.

  When I got home, I went into the bathroom, knowing what I’d find: my underwear sticky with a brownish-red smear. I covered my mouth. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything at all.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NOW

  Ryan’s working late, so I don’t need to come up with an excuse for not coming home right away. Unfortunately, I leave the office at just the wrong time and fight traffic all the way to Towson. By the time I near the field, every nerve is screaming I’m a fool, I don’t need to do this, I won’t find anything. But I have to at least try.

  I park on the same street as the last time. Check to make sure no one’s watching before I fetch the shovel from my trunk. Once I’m on the field itself, there’s no sound save the weeds my soles are destroying and the grass whisking against my legs. I nearly step in a fresh pile of dog crap so rancid I hope there’s a vet visit scheduled soon. It’s chilly tonight, and I’m glad I wore a jacket.

  When I get close to what I think is the right spot, I see several darker areas around the base of the hill. Drawing closer, I recognize them as holes. But that can’t be right. A few steps closer reveal five, neatly—newly—dug, about eight inches wide and a foot deep, surrounded with scattered reddish-brown dirt. I spin, ears ringing, guts hot and liquid. I drop the shovel with a thump. Try to swallow, but my throat clicks.

  This can’t be a coincidence. I kneel beside the closest hole. Slip my fingers in, find only freshly turned soil. Still crouched, I scramble to the next, ankles protesting. I find the same. And in the next. And the next. And the next. Dirt spills between my fingers, dirt and nothing more. I sit back on my heels. Pan from left to right. I’m still alone. This is the correct spot. It’s where I remember kneeling. And digging.

  I shovel the first hole deeper. Drive my fingers into the new space, sifting through the loose soil. I move to the next hole. Do the same. I turn all five into ragged, open wounds, scattering earth every which way, no longer caring if anyone sees. Then I tackle the solid ground between the holes, jabbing with the point of the shovel. I dig deep, tossing rocks and pebbles, lifting scoops of dirt in my palms, flinging it away. I stab the ground again and again, biceps, wrists, and forearms aching. Nothing. There’s nothing.

  Nothing here, or nothing to find because someone else already found it?

  The shovel slips from my grasp, and I press a dirt-covered hand to my forehead. Sweat slicks my skin. Then there’s no ground beneath me; my fingers and toes are numb; a gray haze clouds my eyes. My heart is a tattoo gun. I throw my head back, take in gulps of air as my fingers clutch the earth. The purpling sky watches, indifferent.

  No one knew about this. If anyone else saw me back then, they would’ve said something. They would’ve done something. I was crying. Frantic. Trying to be quiet, maybe, but no doubt failing—because I was twelve goddamn years old.

  With the shovel bouncing bruise-hard against my side, legs moving in an uneven gait, I race to my car. Fling the shovel into the trunk. Fling myself into the driver’s seat. The visor mirror reveals a woman with flushed skin and dilated pupils. A woman slowly being driven mad. A woman who soon won’t have any fight left, who will only be able to curl in a ball and wait for it to end.

  * * *

  When Nicole texts to ask if I want to meet for drinks after work, I lie and tell her I have a late patient. I do end up working a little late—my last session runs over—but once it ends, I pack up and go to close the window blinds. And there, in the parking lot beside my Jeep’s passenger door, is someone standing in dark clothing. Hunched over. I gasp, slamming my palm against the window frame. The person walks on, arm swinging free, car fob in hand. I choke back a humorless laugh.

  Still, as I leave the building, I scan the lot. Make a quick walk around my Jeep to check the back seats. It’s only when I’m inside and have the doors locked that my shoulders loosen, my fingers uncurl.

  The drive home is uneventful, and although Ryan didn’t text me that he was working late, his truck isn’t here. The next-door neighbor pulls into their driveway the same time I do, and we offer cursory waves. A warm front moved through the area this afternoon and at least a few people are taking advantage of it—I smell hot dogs on a grill and hear the rhythmic bounce of a basketball.

  Shifting the weight of my bag on my shoulder, I reach into the mailbox, and my fingers sink into something soft. Yelping, I yank back. Bend down in slow motion to spy gray fur. A bushy tail. A squirrel.

  “Okay,” I say, stepping back a few feet.

  We’ve had squirrels in the attic but never in our mailbox. I wait, but it doesn’t come out. Then I smell it. Rot and decay, sweet and thick. My guts churn. Did the squirrel climb in there to die? Think, Heather. Think. I fetch a pair of rubber gloves from the kitchen and a contractor bag from the garage, but when I reach into the mailbox, I shudder and drop the bag, my arms like electrified worms.

  Returning to the garage, I scan the tools for something small but not sharp. Lightbulb moment. From the shed in the backyard, I find a small gardening shovel. There’s enough room for me to slide it in the mailbox, above the squirrel. I lower it until there’s resistance, burying my mouth in my shoulder to keep from inhaling the stink any more than I have to. With my other hand holding the open contractor bag below the mailbox, I pull the shovel forward. The carcass emerges. The smell intensifies and I step back, fighting not to vomit.

  I bend forward. Exhale. I can do this.

  When the squirrel comes free, I jump back in surprise. Both animal and shovel tumble to the ground, not inside the bag. My arms worm-wiggle again. The squirrel is on its belly, its bottom half flattened, imprinted with tire marks.

  I hiss out a watery moan. Fight the urge to puke again. The squirrel couldn’t have survived being run over like that, let alone climbed inside our mailbox after the fact. Someone had to have put it there. Mouth into shoulder again, I use the shovel to push the squirrel into the bag but misjudge the amount of effort needed and flip it instead.

  Sticking out of the animal’s chest is a small knife with a plastic handle. I back away, arms rigid, and return with hesitant steps. There’s very little blood around the wound. It’s not the knife. It’s too new—the bit of blade I can see is shiny—but the implication … I’m not reading too much into it. It’s a clear message. They know. They fucking know.

  An engine rumbles nearby, and I scoop the squirrel, knife and all, into the trash bag. Gloves, too. This isn’t anything like a picture sent in the mail or a ribbon left on my car. This is a threat.

  Or a promise.

  I need to call the police. It’s what anyone with a modicum of intelligence would do. A dead squirrel with a knife in its chest is not a friendly message i
n any way, shape, or form. But what the hell would I say? How can I point them toward anyone specific when I don’t know who’s behind it? Not really. They’ll probably decide it’s kids playing a sick prank. If the knife weren’t there, I’d think the same myself.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I stomp to the trash cans on the side of the house and head inside for disinfectant spray.

  If I don’t call, am I putting myself at risk? But haven’t I been at risk since the necklace arrived? Maybe I didn’t want to see it, but it’s more than apparent now. What are they going to do next? They obviously have the advantage. They know where to find me, and I have no idea where or even who they are. That has to change. The rules of this game obviously have.

  * * *

  On Wednesday I’m sitting in the parking lot outside Alexa’s office when Corinne leaves for lunch, and then I’m inside the building’s elevator faster than I can think about it. This is the easy—and legal—part. My guess is Alexa doesn’t realize how much she’s let slip over the years. Nothing important. Small things like Corinne choosing to eat lunch out of the office every day or her office partner’s habit of leaving his keys in his coat pocket. I don’t even recall the conversation where she brought it up. At the time it was insignificant. Now it’s paramount. And it means I have a good chance of getting in, getting what I need, and getting the hell out.

  The warm front blew out as quickly as it arrived, and it felt downright cold this morning. Fingers crossed it was chilly enough for Clark to wear a jacket. Fingers crossed he still takes a late lunch every day. Fingers crossed the outer door is unlocked. If it isn’t, I’ll have to try again a different day. But I can’t waste any more time. Alexa won’t be in Florida forever, and I need Lauren’s address.

  There’s a bitter taste in my mouth when I open the outer door. I’m not breaking in, technically, not yet, anyway, but this isn’t morally right. Still, no time for second-guesses or cinematic pauses in the doorway. Only time for a peek down the hall confirming that Clark’s office door is closed.

  My luck holds. He wore a jacket and left his keys. It only takes two tries to find the spare to Alexa’s office, and I close the door behind me as quietly as possible. Exhale.

  No keys to her cabinets on the ring. Of course not. What was I thinking? Why would she leave them while she’s away? Corinne might have them, though. I kick off my shoes. Run to the front. No keys anywhere. Back in Alexa’s office, I double-check the drawers in her desk. All locked.

  Then I eye the cabinets. We have the same model. I wonder …

  I take hold of the top two drawers. Give a hard yank. Nothing. Another yank, even harder. Please don’t let Clark hear. Please don’t let this be a defect with my cabinet alone.

  It isn’t.

  I scan the files fast. Shit. Not in this one. I move to the next. Repeat the drawer trick and nothing happens. Shit, shit, shit. I yank hard as I can. The lock disengages and the drawers open with a metallic rattle. I freeze, prepared to see Clark bursting through the door, demanding to know what’s up, but it doesn’t happen.

  I find what I need three drawers down. I flip open Lauren’s file and snap a picture of her address with my phone. Alexa was telling the truth; Lauren lives almost an hour away from me. We wouldn’t have run into each other. There’s also a note inside regarding Lauren’s employment at a hotel. Housekeeping. I recognize the name of the chain. Not a five-star, but respectable. I take a picture of that, too.

  Without the key I can’t relock the cabinet, but it is what it is. Holding my shoes, I lock Alexa’s office, open the closet, return the keys. I have one shoe on and the other in the process when the outer door opens. Corinne. Back early.

  Fuck.

  Her brow furrows. “Dr. Cole?”

  “Hi. I was nearby and thought I’d stop in to see Alexa.” I finish putting on my shoe. “Sorry, I caught a pebble on the way in.”

  “She’s in Florida,” she says. “I’m quite sure I mentioned it when you called.”

  “I know. You did and I forgot. I realized it once I got here.”

  She doesn’t believe me. It’s there in her pursed lips. It’s in my rapid pulse.

  “Maybe I should call Dr. Martin,” she says, moving too close.

  What the hell is she going to do? Physically try to restrain me? I step back. “No worries at all,” I say. “I’ll come back when she’s back in town.”

  And I’m out. Heart thudding, I take the stairs, my heels tattooing panic on the vinyl tile. I keep waiting for a door to slam open, for a security guard to tell me to stop. But even if they search me, they won’t find anything. They won’t think to look on my phone.

  I drive away from the building like a bat out of hell. Triumph bubbles from my lips with a hysterical edge, but I don’t care. I got Lauren’s address. I really did.

  “I got you,” I say.

  I should go right now. No time like the present. No time to worry or chicken out. And I wasn’t at Alexa’s as long as I thought I’d be. I even moved two sessions to come today. With an airy grunt, I pull over on the side of the road and punch Lauren’s address into my GPS. If I drive fast and don’t spend hours there—and why would I?—I should be okay. Or I could wait until the end of the day. Then I wouldn’t have to worry.

  I square my shoulders. No. No more waiting. Between the holes in the field and the dead squirrel, I have to do this. I have to know if it’s Lauren. I have to look her in the eye.

  The ride doesn’t take as long as I thought, and by the time I get there, my palms are so sweaty the steering wheel is hard to hold. Gauging by the aged brick, the double-hung windows, the apartment complex is an older one. No balconies here. No separate entrances or loft ceilings. Probably built around the same time as my parents’ house; they share the same neat, no-frills appearance. I wonder if it makes Lauren feel more at home.

  There’s nothing in my purse I can use to defend myself, if needed, and although the shovel’s still in my trunk, I can’t exactly walk to the door with it over my shoulder. I slip a key through my first two fingers, the way most women do when facing a dark parking lot. I wish I could say it makes me feel better.

  What if Lauren hurts me? No one knows I’m here. She could open the door and shoot me straightaway. If the door’s made of wood, she wouldn’t even have to open it. But she’s a felon. She can’t own a gun. I wrinkle my nose. No, she can’t buy a gun legally. Doesn’t mean she can’t get one. But the likelihood of her shooting me out in the open is slim. She wouldn’t be that foolish. And if she invites me in, I don’t have to go. Anyway, if she knows what I did, she’s probably afraid of me. Never mind the implied threat of the knife, a squirrel in a mailbox is passive.

  I’m not afraid, I tell myself. I’m not afraid of her. I try to shake away the chill and pretend it works.

  In spite of carpet worn threadbare and walls in need of new paint, the inside of the building is clean and tidy. No random flyers spilled below the neat metal mailboxes on the wall. One is labeled L. THOMAS. I can’t tell if the handwriting is an exact match to the envelopes, but it’s close. I swallow hard. Wipe my palms.

  From an open door, there’s the steady tumble of clothes in a dryer and the smell of fabric softener. Somewhere else in the building, a muted conversation, maybe a television.

  Lauren’s apartment is on the second floor and I hold tight to the railing, walking on the balls of my feet. Even so, my steps seem like elephant thuds, my knock on the door even louder. I hold my breath. No footsteps. No click of a bullet sliding into a chamber. No answer.

  I knock again, same result. Rock back and forth on my heels. My mouth like sandpaper and dust, I turn the doorknob, but it’s locked. The third knock results in a door creaking open behind me. I spin around and there’s a young girl—about ten, I’m guessing—peeking out. Her skin is pale, save for a bit of red around her nose, her hair lank around her shoulders. She’s in pajamas and striped socks.

  I put on a professional, calming smile. “Hello, how are you?”

/>   She starts and takes a half step back.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Is your mom home?”

  Worry circles her eyes, but she doesn’t move to close the door. “Not yet,” she says with a sniffle.

  “Your dad?”

  She stands a little straighter. “He … doesn’t live here.”

  “Okay. I was just looking for Miss Lauren, who lives across the hall. Do you know her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m Anna,” I say, the lie rolling easily off my tongue. “I’m sorry if I was knocking too loud, especially since you’re sick.”

  “’S okay,” she says.

  “And what’s your name?”

  There’s a slight hesitation and another sniffle, but she says, “Mikayla.”

  I crane my neck, listening. The last thing I need is someone else coming out of their apartment to see what’s happening, but there are no other doors opening. “Mikayla, I’m Miss Lauren’s boss. From the hotel,” I say, silently thanking Alexa for having that information in Lauren’s file. “Have you seen her today?”

  A quick shake of the head. She rubs the top of her foot against the back of her ankle.

  “I really need to talk to her, but maybe I should just come back later. Do you know if she’s usually home at night?” If Lauren works the late shift, my ruse is toast.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes, I guess? Is she in trouble?”

  “No, not at all,” I say. “Has she had any visitors here lately?”

  Mikayla blinks a few times. “Is this about the fight?”

  I don’t have to feign my surprise. “The fight?”

  “Uh-huh,” she says. “She had a big fight with someone. My mom even went over to make sure she was okay.”

  “And was she?”

  “Uh-huh. My mom said it was just a fight with words, not hands.” She does a quick double-blink, arcing her shoulders forward.

  I crouch so I can look her straight in the eye. “Mikayla, this is important. Do you know who she was fighting with?”

  “Uh-uh.”