The Dead Girls Club

by Damien Angelica Walters

“Hey yourself,” I say. “Something good happen?”

  “Indeed. I got a call today from Eloise Harding.”

  “Should I recognize the name?” I say, pulling a glass from the cabinet and peering over his shoulder into the bowl. Olive oil, red wine vinegar, a scatter of spices. “Looks good.”

  “Remember the four-million-dollar house with the cupula on Sharps Point Road?”

  “I think so. That big gray one with the wraparound porch?”

  “That’s the one. Eloise Harding lives there, wants her guest bathroom renovated, and as she put it, I came highly recommended.”

  “That is good. I’m happy for you.”

  He scans my face. “What?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you’d be happy. It could be a big deal.”

  “I said I was, and it sounds like it could,” I say. Could, but isn’t yet. And I know the Kane check didn’t come today because I checked the mail. He forgot. Again. I fetch plates, carry them into the breakfast nook, and return for silverware.

  “This isn’t just for an estimate,” he says. “She hired me over the phone. I’m going tomorrow morning to start measuring.”

  “I thought you were helping Mike this week with their kitchen rehab?”

  “I still am, afterward. Mike’s fine with it.”

  I’d hope so, since Ryan isn’t charging his brother a dime. A knife turns in my hand, catching the light and my reflection, and I shiver.

  “Look,” he says. “I know it isn’t a paycheck now, and I called Gerald again today. He’s sending the check tomorrow.”

  The oldest excuse in the book, but I say, “It’s fine.”

  “I can tell it isn’t.”

  “Please,” I say. “I don’t want to fight. I am happy for you. It was a long day, I’m tired, and I want to change out of these clothes.”

  “Right,” he says, turning away.

  I pinch my lower lip between my teeth. “I’m sorry,” I say, pushing softness into my words. “Today was a rough one.”

  He turns back, his head cocked. “Another one? You okay?”

  “Mm-hmm.” The lie is battery acid and sandpaper, and I’d like nothing more than to drop to my knees and spill the whole story. But at this point, where would I start? The necklace? Or the murder? “I’m … edgy and out of sorts. I’ll finish setting the table when I come down.”

  “The chicken should be ready by then. Do you give up yet?” he says, stiff but not exactly angry, and it takes me a second to understand. Our game.

  “Can I get another hint?”

  He grins, and I pretend there’s no strain behind it. “Going up, or going all the way down with a little help?” he says, spinning one finger in a circle.

  “That’s helpful,” I say.

  Turning back to the counter, he starts humming, but I can’t hear him once I’m out of the room and upstairs. It would be different if we had kids; the house would never be quiet. Luckily Ryan and I were on the same page. It’s for the best, really. I don’t think I’d be a very good mother.

  I mull Ryan’s hint while I change into a T-shirt and leggings. The spinning finger. A helicopter? Tied somehow with an elevator and faulty wiring? I leave my earrings on my dresser, not wanting to open my jewelry box.

  Children in an elevator. Children in an elevator hanging below a helicopter. Fire. The pieces come together, revealing a small but significant section of the whole, and I walk back downstairs with confidence. “The Towering Inferno?”

  He makes a small bow. “The lady wins this round. Ball is now in your court.”

  To be fair, if it hadn’t been one of his favorites—he has a quirky predilection for disaster movies, especially the old ones—I wouldn’t have had a clue.

  My phone vibrates with a new email, and I do a double take at the subject line: INFORMATION YOU REQUESTED. I open the file attachment with a mix of dread and anticipation. Let’s see what sixty dollars buys.

  Apparently, a list. Phone numbers and addresses for over a dozen Lauren Thomases. And I don’t even know if the right Lauren is here. I should’ve known better. Nothing’s ever that easy.

  “Everything okay?”

  Ryan’s a foot away, holding a plate of chicken, and I turn my phone so the screen isn’t visible. “What?”

  “You were frowning.”

  “No, everything’s fine,” I say, taking the plate from his hands.

  Everything’s perfectly fine.

  * * *

  Viewed at a quick glance, the four-story Silverstone Center with its old brick, dormer windows, and room-sized porch could be a bed-and-breakfast, like many others in Annapolis, and to be fair, it was before the owners sold it, after it proved too out of the way. Tourists wanted West and Main Streets, restaurants and crab cakes, the shops and harbor, all within easy walking distance.

  But the reason for the failure made it perfect for its new purpose: a private substance abuse facility funded primarily by a family whose teenage daughter had overdosed several years prior. Look past the well-manicured hedges and see wire mesh in the windows, an intercom next to the front door, a keypad beside the back. Wrought-iron fencing with spiked posts enclosing the front lawn. Since its opening, I’ve worked a half day here every Friday.

  Although it’s not yet nine AM and the sky is clouded with gray, there’s a girl sitting on the lawn beneath a tree, a book in her lap. She glances up as my car creeps down the driveway—not for her benefit, but because the path is narrow. She’s not in any of my group sessions and I don’t know her name, but she reminds me, painfully so, of Kerry Wallace, a patient I couldn’t save. A patient targeted by bullies. A patient who ultimately took her own life.

  The car lurches forward and my teeth snap on my tongue, just short of drawing blood. I ease my foot off the gas pedal. Seems all my skeletons are coming out to play.

  The staff entrance in back is a reinforced steel door. A tiled, oatmeal-colored hallway leads to another locked door. Once inside, tile changes to charcoal carpet, dove walls, and pleasant lighting. This section of the first floor is all administrative; even I have a small office. As I pass the office of the facility’s head of psychology, I peek inside, offering up a Venti caramel macchiato.

  Nicole Matheson’s face lights up, her green eyes catching the overhead. “And this is why you’re my best friend,” she says, one blush-pink silk-clad arm reaching over the cherrywood desk for the cup. I sit in one of the leather chairs across from her desk while she takes a sip, making a small noise of pleasure. Though we didn’t become close friends until a few years later, I’ve known Nicole since college.

  After a few minutes of non-work-related chitchat, Nicole tucks an auburn strand behind her ear and slides a file across the desk. “Samantha, the new girl.”

  I thumb the cover open, scan the first page. Fifteen years old, opiate abuse, stealing from parents, skipping school. Nothing unexpected.

  “Keep an eye on her,” Nicole says. “She’s smart. Manipulative. A bit aggressive verbally with the other girls. Could be something more going on.”

  Not unexpected. Drug abuse in kids is often a blind for something else.

  Nicole and I part ways and I prepare for my sessions, steeling myself for potential trouble. But the new girl, all dirty-blonde hair, narrow hips, and American Eagle jeans, doesn’t say anything more than hey when she enters the room. She takes a chair and flips it around, sitting wide-legged. Other than a brief wave to decline talking, she doesn’t shift position.

  Nicole’s not in her office when I leave, but her car is still in the lot. As I reach mine, the skin on the back of my neck prickles. There’s no one around in any direction, but there are plenty of trees with trunks large enough and bushes dense enough for a person to hide behind. A light breeze stirs the air, and I swear I hear my name whispered underneath. A husky, otherworldly voice. Skin crawling, I get in the car, locking the doors.

  There’s no one hiding or lurking. Or whispering. It’s only my imagination. Stil
l, I pull out of the parking lot too fast, and I don’t look back.

  * * *

  My parents still live in the same house in Towson where I grew up. The Saturday traffic’s light, so I make it there in under an hour. Turning onto their street puts a stone in the pit of my stomach, and I wish Mom and I had decided to get together elsewhere. Even shopping, which I hate, would be preferable to the onslaught of images rushing in: four young girls traipsing up and down the streets, walking to each other’s houses under a bright summer sky, glee trailing behind us. Giggles, whispers, gruesome stories rolling off our tongues. I should’ve canceled today altogether.

  But I parallel-park in front of the house, shove the unease—and the memories—down deep, and don an untroubled mask. My mom hugs me and doesn’t hold on too long, something she does when she knows there’s a problem, so my subterfuge works. I kick off my shoes, having nearly six inches on her in my bare feet as it is.

  She’s in palazzo pants and a flowy shirt, accentuating her body’s slight roundness, a softness she didn’t have when I was a child, but her arms and her heart are as strong as ever. The overhead light gives her skin a warm glow, and while she’s over sixty, her hair threaded with gray, only a few wrinkles kiss the corners of her eyes and faintly bracket her mouth. Genetic luck, she says of her unlined forehead. I’m not quite as lucky, but I’m doing okay.

  In the dining room she has pasta salad, bread drizzled with olive oil and herbs, and a tray of melon and prosciutto set out on the table along with a bottle of sparkling water. As I’m sitting, she’s already dishing out food.

  “The dressing’s a new recipe. Your dad loves it, so hopefully you will too, and if not, pretend for my sake.”

  I wait for her to finish filling her plate before I take a bite, tasting garlic, rosemary, and pepper. Of course it’s delicious.

  “Long week?” she asks. “Good one, I hope?”

  I nod and spear pasta with my fork. She doesn’t request anything more. Patient confidentiality notwithstanding, we drew that line in the sand a long time ago. “But I’m proud of you, of what you do,” she told me then. “Don’t forget that.”

  “So where’s Dad today?”

  “He’s playing golf.”

  I almost drop my fork. “Golf?” When I was a kid, he called it the most boring invention ever.

  “Oh believe me, I teased him about it.”

  We’re clearing the table when I say, “Do you remember Becca? Becca Thomas, who lived on Barron Drive with her mom?” As soon as the words are out, I want to pluck them from the air. It makes perfect sense to ask, but still. I’m a glutton for punishment.

  She pauses, holding a plate and blinking, then gives a little shake of her head as she turns to the dishwasher. “Yes, I remember her. Why?”

  “I have a patient with a similar history and thought, I don’t know, maybe there’s something I can refer to for help. Or something.” I’m talking too fast and know it. “My memories are a little vague. There’s a lot I can’t remember at all.”

  “Good,” she says, and her vehemence surprises me. She rinses another plate, then fixes me with a frown. “You were young, and her … it was hard on you.”

  “What do you remember?”

  She shuts the dishwasher with a thud, and I follow her into the living room. The furniture has changed since I was kid—gone are the floral prints, swag curtains, and overstuffed sofa—but the layout is exactly the same.

  “Do we really need to talk about this?” she asks.

  I want to say no and change the subject, but I say, “Please.”

  “I was—we were—shocked,” she says, sitting on one end of the sofa. I take the other, nudging a striped throw pillow out of the way.

  “And?”

  Her lips pinch tight. “We didn’t know about her mother. Becca seemed like a normal happy kid, like you and the rest of your friends. If we’d known how bad things were, we never would’ve let you spend the night there. Never.” She practically spits the word. “Nothing ever happened when you were there, did it?”

  I blink, and in the brief darkness see Becca spitting into an open bottle of wine.

  “No,” I say. “Her mom stayed out of our way.” I tuck the pillow in my lap and wrap my arms around it.

  “We did everything we could for you. You know that, right? Do you remember Dr. Sakalauskas?”

  “Yes,” I say, remembering a kind, calm woman with a slight Eastern European accent. I remember knowing I couldn’t tell her what happened, so I pretended to know nothing. I also remember months with a tutor instead of school, my parents trying extra hard to act normal and me doing the same until eventually things … settled. I learned how to hide the guilt, shame, and distress. By the time I went back to school, I appeared to be myself again. At least on the outside.

  None of which matters now.

  Mom shifts on the sofa. “Did I tell you I bought a new—”

  “Her mom’s out of prison,” I say, my arms tightening around the pillow.

  She stares down at her hands, gives a small shake of her shoulders. “Okay,” she says, rising to her feet, cheeks flushed. Upset, yes, but not surprised. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It isn’t healthy.”

  “You already knew, didn’t you? Mom, I—”

  “No. Find some other way to help your patient. I’m sure you can. What happened was a long time ago. Best to leave it in the past.”

  I wish I could.

  “Okay,” I say, raising both hands. “But before I forget, can I look though the old photo albums?”

  Her eyes pinch at the inside corners, her lips thin, and I swear she’s going to say no, but she waves toward the stairs. “They’re up in the middle bedroom.”

  She doesn’t come with me.

  My old bedroom is now a craft space slash reading nook slash home office. Inside the closet, the albums are side by side on the top shelf. All are labeled on their spines, so 1990/1991 is easy to find—Mom is nothing if not organized.

  The photographs are tucked into plastic sleeves, three to a page with a paper margin filled with notes in my mom’s delicate handwriting. SO MUCH SUN! Me in a tank top, my shoulders vivid red. SOMEONE IS ANGRY! Me again, sulking in a chair, not looking at the camera. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Dad and I at the dinner table, a huge cake in the center.

  One picture shows Becca from the back, her hair unmistakable, and another’s too filmy to see her face. My heart sinks as I turn the pages. I’m more than halfway through when I find what I’m looking for.

  We’re on my front lawn. Shorts and T-shirts. Arms linked. Chins up. Wide, happy smiles. My hair in a braid looped over my shoulder, the tail resting near my waist; hers is hanging free. This is the Becca I remember the fiercest. From the lighting, it must have been early evening. I slip the photo from its protective sleeve. More of my mom’s writing on the back: JUNE 1991. This picture was taken not long before our big fight.

  Footsteps approach. From the doorway, Mom says, “I forgot how long your hair was.”

  “Too long. She loved to braid it. And unbraid it, too.” Savagely, I blink away tears. “You never have friends like you do when you’re a kid,” I say, once I’m sure my voice won’t quaver. “I think I read something like that in a Stephen King book.”

  “I’ve never understood why you read those.”

  “Kids like scary things. I wouldn’t read one now if you paid me, but anyway,” I say, drawing out the word as much as I can, “it was your fault for letting me.”

  Her brows arch. “Let you? The first time I caught you with one, you’d snuck it out of our bedroom.”

  “What? No, Dad lent it to me.”

  “No, he did not. He left it on our nightstand and you took it without asking. When he realized it was gone and you had it, he and I had a very tense discussion because I thought you were too young. You were only about ten, I think, maybe even nine. By then you’d read more than half of it, so he thought we should let you finish and if you got scared, so be it.”<
br />
  I rub my forehead. I clearly remember my dad giving me Carrie and telling me I might like it. It was the first adult horror novel I’d ever read. I wouldn’t even have considered it if not for my dad. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  My fingers curl the photo, but I catch myself before it creases. “Can I keep this?”

  She blinks twice. “Take whatever you want.”

  “This is enough.” I flick the picture against my thumb. “We were so silly, weren’t we?”

  The front door opens, and my dad calls out, “Barbara, I’m home!”

  “We’re up here,” Mom says.

  Dad thumps up the stairs. “Hey, bug.”

  I wrinkle my nose at the nickname and hug him in return. He smells faintly of cigarettes, a habit he’s been trying to break for years.

  “Did you have fun?” Mom says.

  “Yeah, Dad, how was golf?”

  “You two. It wasn’t that bad. I may have even had fun,” he says. “But the storm’s finally rolling in. They’re calling for thunder and lightning, maybe even some flash flooding in your area.”

  “I should head out then,” I say, sliding the photo into my pocket. “Ninety-Seven is a bitch when it rains.”

  “I’ll fix up a container of pasta salad for you to take home to Ryan,” Mom says. “I promise I’ll be quick.”

  When I leave, with repeated admonitions from both of them to drive safely, the sky is gunmetal, air thick with the scent of the impending squall.

  Becca always loved the rain.

  I push the thought away and get in my car. Turn at the end of my parents’ street and pass the field, but instead of continuing straight, I make another turn. At the end of the street, I pull to the side with the engine running.

  The house looks completely different. For one thing, it’s visible from the street now; the hedges are gone. In their place is a low border of hostas. No room for kids to hide. Without the heavy greenery, the stone appears lighter. Then, the porch was fairly small; now it spans the length of the facade, with a white railing and squared columns supporting the roof. Wicker lawn furniture with flowered cushions sit on either side of the front door. That’s been changed, too. Once solid wood, now it has an oval of etched glass in the center.