The Dead Girls Club (ARC)

by Damien Walters

  I run into the café and go up and down the aisles between the tables, checking every seat. No blonde hair. No Becca. At the counter, I clear my throat. “Did anyone see a woman, short with blonde hair, a few minutes ago?”

  Heads shake, shoulders shrug.

  “Please, it’s important!” My words are sharp with panic.

  “No, I didn’t see anyone,” the woman behind the counter says. She looks at her coworker, then back to me. “Is everything okay? Should we call 911?”

  I smooth my palms together. “No, no, it’s nothing like that, sorry,” I say. “I had someone leave my office upset. I thought they came here. Thank you.” I say, exiting before she can say anything else.

  I run back to my office, ignoring Ellie’s “Is everything all right?” With the door locked, I pace back and forth. Becca. Alive. Why didn’t she stay? Why didn’t she want to talk? Was she even here? I choke down nervous laughter. I know who I saw and my eyes aren’t liars. Becca’s alive. She’s been alive the entire time. How? How did she get out of the basement? Where did she go? Did someone help her? I need to talk to someone. I need to tell them what I saw. Instinctively, I think of Ryan, but I can’t. He won’t understand.

  My mom picks up on the second ring. “I saw her, Mom. I saw Becca. She was here, right across the street.” I’m sobbing as I speak, choking out the words.

  There’s silence on the other end, then she says, “Heather, this isn’t funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. It’s not a joke. I saw her.”

  “Stop it, Heather. Stop it right now, I mean it.”

  “I swear, Mom. I swear on my life. It was her. It was Becca. She’s alive. She’s okay.”

  “Heather, you need to get hold of yourself. I have no idea why you’re harping on this, on her, but you need to stop.”

  “Would you fucking listen to me! I saw Becca and she. Is. Alive!”

  More silence, but of a different kind. The call’s been disconnected. I call back, but it goes straight to voice mail. I toss my phone aside. I shouldn’t be surprised. How could she understand? She didn’t see Becca.

  Before my next patient’s arrival, I check out the window, scanning the lot and the street, just in case. I flip through the book again, inhaling the memories. I do the same after the patient leaves, too. And before and after the next one as well until, somehow, it’s the end of the day. I stand by my car for a long time, waiting and hoping. No Becca, though.

  When I walk in the house, Ryan’s sitting in the breakfast nook, a letter open before him, elbows on the table, upper body curled over, his face serious. But I’m sure he’s fine. He’s always fine.

  “You’ll never guess what happened today,” I say, gripping the top rail of one of the chairs, barely pausing between words. “It’s the strangest, most amazing thing, and—”

  “When were you going to tell me?” he says, his voice thick.

  “Tell you what?” I say.

  “That you want a divorce?”

  My hands tighten, the force momentarily lifting the front legs. “What are you talking about?”

  He picks up the sheet of paper, heavy stock with an embossed logo. “This. From your fucking attorney. Asking if you’ve gathered the rest of the requested information yet. The rest of the information? That sounds pretty clear-cut to me.”

  A letter from Rachel’s firm. Today of all days. “I can explain,” I say, reaching forward.

  He yanks the paper away. “I’m sure you can,” he says. “It all makes perfect sense now, the way you’ve been acting, how you’ve been treating me. Never in a million years did I think things would end like this, that you wouldn’t even say a goddamn word. I didn’t even know you were that unhappy. Why didn’t you just talk to me? Why?”

  “Please, listen to me. Yes, I went to see her, but only because I knew her when I was a kid. I needed to see what she was like now and I wasn’t sure how else to do it.” I touch his hand, but he pulls away. “It sounds ludicrous, but someone’s been following me, and the other night when I crashed the Jeep, someone tried to run me off the road. Then today, an old book was delivered to my office and it was from my friend I told you about. The one with the alcoholic mom. I didn’t tell you that she went to jail for killing her, for killing my friend, but she isn’t dead, like I thought. She isn’t.” My words rush and crash, and even I can tell the story’s tangled and doesn’t make sense, but if I can just get him to listen to me, it’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.

  He shakes his head. “Are you even listening to yourself? What you’re saying makes no sense. You’re being followed? Your dead friend isn’t dead?” He waves the letter again. “And this isn’t real? Jesus Christ, I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Please, none of this is what you think. It’s not. I don’t want a divorce. I’ve never wanted a divorce. I went there for her, not for us.”

  Palms out, he backs toward the front door. “Stop it. Just stop. I’ve been as patient as I can be, but I’m done. I have nothing left.”

  Then I see the duffel bag on the floor. Its implication falls like a ton of bricks.

  “You’re leaving? But the letter— Please, I told you, I don’t want a divorce.” I can barely get the words between my tears. “I went there for … for research. Rachel, she’s the lawyer, I needed to see her and there was no other way. That’s why I was outside Gia’s, too. Please don’t leave. I need your help. Please.”

  There’s a hush between us, and his face shifts from anger to confusion and back again. “I can’t stay. I’m sorry. I love you, but I can’t. I’ll call you in a few days and we can maybe talk when we’re calm.” But there’s a look I’ve never seen. Disbelief. In me.

  After he leaves, the silence in the house is deafening.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THEN

  I didn’t feel good, so I stayed in my room all day. Mom took my temperature, said I had a slight fever, and brought me chicken soup I couldn’t eat. I wanted to stay in bed, but after my parents were asleep, I sneaked out through the basement once more.

  Becca had to be awake by now. I hoped she wouldn’t be mad because I’d waited until now to come back. I was halfway across the field when I heard footsteps. I crouched super low and listened hard, but heard nothing else. When I stood up, I didn’t see anyone either. But I felt like someone was there, watching me.

  What if Becca had just been playing a game the whole time? The knife could’ve been fake. The blood, too. What if they were all trying to trick me? With each step, I got angrier and angrier, stomping through the grass, swinging my arms. If it was a trick, it would be one of the meanest ones ever and I wouldn’t talk to her again for a long time. Wouldn’t talk to any of them.

  The basement was dark, so I turned on the overhead light. Walked like a little kid down the stairs, one foot down and then another on the same stair. The candles had burned down to nothing. Becca was in the same place, the same position. She looked like she was sleeping.

  “Becca?” I said, steeling myself for the jump up, the Gotcha!

  She didn’t move.

  “This isn’t funny anymore,” I said.

  I counted to twenty, then crossed the room and knelt beside her. Her shirt was stuck to her skin, the blood dried to a hard brown crust. When I touched her arm, it was like ice. I yanked my hand away. Scrubbed my eyes. Touched her again. Poked her with a finger. Poked a second time, even harder. She didn’t flinch, didn’t do anything because—

  No, no, no, no. She’d said she would come back. She’d said the Red Lady would bring her back. I shook her arm. “Becca, please. You have to open your eyes now. I’m here, so you can wake up now.”

  Even if she jumped up and scared me, I’d forgive her. I’d forgive her anything if she would just open her eyes. But she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

  Because she was dead.

  I pulled away with a hiss and covered my mouth. She was dead. I’d killed her and now she was dead. Hands still over my mouth, I r
ocked back and forth on my heels. She couldn’t be dead. Not Becca. Not my best friend.

  With a loud shriek, I jumped to my feet. “She said you’d help her! Please, you have to help her. You have to bring her back.” I turned in a circle, peering past the flickers of light into the shadows beyond. “She believed in you,” I shouted, not caring if anyone heard. “She said you’d help her. She said you’d save her. You lied to her. You lied!”

  I crouched by Becca’s side and shook her again. And again and again and again. She had to come back. She had to.

  But she didn’t.

  She was never coming back.

  I let her go and cried until my chest ached. Until my shirt was slicked with snot. Until I had no more tears to cry.

  The Red Lady had tricked her. She’d tricked us both.

  My shoulders sagged. And nobody was going to believe me. I’d go to jail, and I’d never see my parents again. I’d never see anyone.

  Becca weighed a lot less than me, so I could pick her up, but I wasn’t sure where to take her. Back to her house? But I couldn’t do that. Her mom would see me.

  Could I hide her in the field? I scraped wax off the side of a candle and flicked it off my fingers. I gathered the rest, shoving them in her backpack, on top of a bunch of folded clothes and a wad of money. I took down the picture, folded it, and put it in the backpack, too. People would think she ran away from home. I picked up the knife, staring at the blood crusted on the blade.

  Becca’s fingers twitched. With mine splayed on the carpet, I crouched beside her, weight on the balls of my feet.

  “You came back,” I said. “It worked. It really worked.”

  But she didn’t move again. My stomach tightened. “Becca?”

  The room grew heavy with the smell of a hundred wet pennies, and I was suddenly sure someone else was there. She was there.

  Don’t look in her eyes!

  I squeezed mine shut. My chest was a tornado, my heart a tiny building in its spiral. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

  Don’t look in her eyes, don’t look, don’t look!

  I staggered toward the stairs, arms waving in protective arcs. My foot banged against a riser; my elbow struck the railing. I caught a sliver of light and clamped my lids even tighter. I crawled up, palms and soles slapping against the wood, my shins striking every edge. When I was halfway up, I heard something like a laugh or a cry, but it wasn’t Becca.

  I didn’t stop. And I didn’t look back.

  I paused in the field, trying to catch my breath, still gripping the knife. I threw it down with a cry and turned back toward the house. But I couldn’t go back. And I couldn’t leave the knife. Kneeling, I dug a hole just deep enough, tossed it in, and covered it back up.

  Then I ran the rest of the way home. Stood at the kitchen sink, my flesh speckled with dirt and dried blood. I used the pot scrubber and dish soap, and red swirled into the water. Even after it ran clean, I kept washing, expecting my parents to wake and come see what I was doing. Inside I was cold. Empty.

  Skin burning, I crept to my room, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers over my head. The Red Lady had lied, and I didn’t understand why. I’d done what Becca said she wanted. And she had been there. I’d felt her. I hadn’t pushed the knife in by myself. I couldn’t have done that to Becca. I couldn’t.

  She was my best friend.

  * * *

  I didn’t remember hardly anything for the next few days because I had a fever so bad my mom kept putting cold cloths on my forehead, chest, and neck. I had lots of bad dreams, the kind that disappear as soon as you wake up. I guess my mom talked to my dad about taking me to the hospital, but then my temperature dropped. When she told me Becca was missing and a police officer wanted to ask me questions, I was in bed, holding a book but not reading.

  “What do you mean, she’s missing?” I said, my voice as dry and cracked as the corners of my lips.

  “I’m sure everything’s fine,” Mom said, but her face didn’t match her words.

  Blanket clutched round my shoulders, we went downstairs. Mom held my arm the entire way. Did the police already know what had happened? Were they going to arrest me right now, even though I was sick?

  By the time we reached the bottom step, my mouth was so parched I didn’t think I’d be able to speak at all. But the police officer smiled when I sat next to her on the sofa. She was sort of young and pretty and was wearing regular clothes, not a uniform. She had on a jacket, too, probably to hide her gun and handcuffs so they wouldn’t scare me. Or so I wouldn’t think that’s why she was here.

  “Heather, I’m Detective Harris. Thank you for coming downstairs. I know you’re not feeling well. We’re trying very hard to find your friend, and I want to ask you a few questions, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Can you tell me the last time you saw Rebecca?”

  I peeled my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “She doesn’t like her whole name. She goes by Becca,” I said.

  “Okay, thank you,” Detective Harris said. “When was the last time you saw Becca?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, staring at my lap. “It was a while ago.”

  “July,” Mom said. “It was in July.”

  The police officer gave her a side-eye, and Mom cleared her throat, cheeks pink.

  “My mom’s right. We kind of stopped hanging out.” It wasn’t completely a lie. I pulled the blanket up to my neck, turtled down into the fabric, and told Detective Harris how Becca had started hanging out with just Rachel and Gia. I kept thinking she was going to call me a liar, but she didn’t. She just listened, and her believing me was almost worse. She asked about places Becca might go, and I told her about the playground and how sometimes we’d had picnics in the field. I told her she’d spent the night at our house a lot, my voice trapped halfway in tears and snot.

  “I only have a few more questions,” she said. “Did you ever see her mom hurt her?”

  I shook my head; I was crying too hard to talk. I wasn’t lying either. I’d never seen her do that. I’d only seen what it looked like after.

  “Did you ever see bruises or other marks on her?”

  I pulled my voice free from the tears and said, “Sometimes.”

  “Did she tell you how she got them?”

  I went still. You can’t ever tell anyone about her. And I’d promised I wouldn’t.

  “She said she fell down or bumped into a cabinet,” I said.

  “Can you think of anything else that might help us find Rebe—Becca?”

  I hunched down even more. “Uh-uh.”

  “Okay, I think that’s all I need right now. Thank you very much for talking to me, and I hope you feel better soon. I promise, we’re doing everything we can to find Becca, okay?”

  I wiped my cheek on the blanket. The truth fizzed inside me, salt on a slug. Why couldn’t they see it? Why didn’t they know I was lying? All they had to do was shake my shoulders and it would all spill out.

  “Go on upstairs, sweetheart,” Mom said. “I’ll come check on you in a few minutes.”

  Detective Harris waited until I was almost upstairs before she spoke to my mom, but it was so low I couldn’t hear the words.

  I went into the bathroom, let the blanket drop, and picked up my hairbrush. When it caught on a tangle, I yanked hard until it came free, trailing several long strands of hair. One grabbed the chain. I tugged it back and ran my fingers over the heart.

  Was she still in the basement? Was she waiting to see if I’d come back? I started crying again, without making a sound. I kept brushing, ripping out the snarls, not even caring it hurt. I counted to one hundred, my cheeks wet and my nose running. I wanted everything back the way it had been when summer break first started. I wanted my friend back. We were best friends forever. We’d said it, both of us. She had to come back. She had to.

  I opened the medicine cabinet and removed a sharp pair of scissors from the bottom shelf. No matter how much you wanted to, you di
dn’t get to go back. Not ever. Tongue between my front teeth, I pulled out a hank of hair and chopped it off a few inches away from my scalp. Wildebeest, I thought. I grabbed more hair. Cut again, lips pressed together so I’d stay quiet. I kept cutting until the sink was filled with long strands. Until my fingers ached. Until I couldn’t see through the tears.

  I dropped the scissors and stumbled out of the room like a mummy in too-tight wrappings. My mom was coming up the stairs, and when she saw me, she rushed to my side.

  I offered my hands, hair draped over my palms. “I didn’t, I didn’t, I…”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” She put her arms around me, rocked me back and forth, and whispered against my head the way she had when I was baby. “Everything will be okay,” she said over and over again. “I promise. Everything will be okay.”

  I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t tell her she was wrong. She didn’t understand. She didn’t know what I’d done. Nothing would ever be okay again. I wanted to tell her the truth, but I couldn’t. When you made a promise, you had to keep it. No matter what. You had to keep it forever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  NOW

  With Ryan gone, every room’s a cavern, every hallway a tunnel. I pace the first floor, sure I’ll find him somewhere, never mind that I watched him walk out the door an hour ago. He said he’ll call me in a few days. I can be patient. Can give him his space. Once he’s calmed down, he’ll understand.

  I must still be on my mom’s shit-list, too, because she’s not answering my calls. Ryan is gone and Becca’s not dead. The words play in my head until they become a chant I can’t banish.

  Why did she leave? She went through so much trouble, so much theater, when she could’ve simply called. Oh, Heather, guess what? You’re not a murderer. Sorry to leave you hanging for so long. Sure, I might not have believed her at first, but it would’ve been easy enough for her to prove she was who she said. Remember our club? The serial killers? Please be fucking kind?

  I cross my arms again, drum an arpeggio on my sleeve. After all the dramatics, she shows up, and then … nothing? It makes no sense. I was right there. I waved, for god’s sake. Did she chicken out? That doesn’t seem like the Becca I knew. Then again, it’s been a long time. But something doesn’t feel right. The dead squirrel? The Chevy? Were they random events, pranks, not connected to her at all? And what of her mom’s death? Would she have…?