The Dead Girls Club

by Damien Angelica Walters

  * * *

  “Becca’s on the phone,” my mom said, peeking in my bedroom.

  I lowered my book just below my eyes. Yesterday she was talking about me behind my back and now she wanted to talk to me? Not even funny. “Can you tell her I’m taking a nap?” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I don’t feel good.”

  Her eyebrows went up, wrinkling her forehead, but she shut the door. A little later, she came back and perched on my bed. “Sit up,” she said.

  “I don’t want to,” I said. “I’m reading.”

  “But I want you to,” she said.

  I sighed, but did as she asked.

  “Move closer, please, and turn around.” When I did, she gathered my hair together and ran her fingers through it, catching on the tangles. “What a mess you’ve got here.”

  Slow and careful, she brushed the ends, working out the tangles one by one. Her hair wasn’t as long as mine, but it was thick, too, so she knew how to do it so it wouldn’t hurt too much. She didn’t talk while she brushed, but when all the snarls were gone, she said, “Now count to one hundred.”

  “Mo-om,” I said.

  “Hea-ther,” she imitated. “Count.”

  “One, two, three …”

  I kept counting as she kept brushing, long, even strokes from my scalp to the bottom. She stopped when I reached one hundred and kissed the top of my head. “Feel better?”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “Good. Counting was the only way you’d sit still when you were little.”

  “Not true.”

  “Yes, very true,” she said. “If I wanted you to sit, I had to get you to count.”

  “How come you’ve never told me that before?” I said.

  “Pretty sure I have.”

  “I would remember.”

  “Hmph,” she said. “Not if you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t.”

  “Hmph,” I said, and she bonked my shoulder.

  “What’s that on your finger?” she said, pointing to blue smears on my index finger.

  “I don’t know. Ink, I guess. Next you’ll tell me how I used to draw on myself.”

  She gave a little laugh. “And how you did. Luckily only once with a permanent marker. And I know I’ve told you that story.”

  “Yeah, I remember that one.”

  “See? All right, I need to throw some laundry in. Your dad’s out of underwear and we don’t want him running around the house naked.”

  “Mom! That’s gross.”

  She took my hand again, and I tried to curl my fingers in so she wouldn’t see the ragged cuticles. She didn’t speak, just kissed them one by one, as if she was wishing away the hurt, and I did feel better, a little.

  * * *

  The phone rang while my parents were grocery shopping, and L. THOMAS flashed on the caller ID. Was Becca going to call me every day until I answered? Were her and Rachel and Gia giggling and calling me names, waiting for me to pick up? But I did anyway, waiting until the fifth ring. “Hello?” Everything was quiet on the other end, and I said louder, my stomach tight, “Hello?”

  “Heather?” Becca said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Um, I … can I come over? I …”

  Her words melted into a puddle of sadness. Yes rolled on my tongue, but I shoved it between my cheek and teeth, remembering the way she looked at me, the way she didn’t defend me. The lava boiled to the surface again, so hot it scorched my throat.

  She kept sniffling.

  “Please,” I said. “You’re so faking. Is this supposed to be a prank call, because hello, it’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. I swear I’m not.”

  “So why don’t you call Rachel or Gia?” I said. “They’re your new best friends now.”

  I could be cruel, too, but the words hurt me deep inside.

  “Please be kind,” she said.

  And rewind, I mouthed, but hung up before I could say it aloud.

  I started jumping every time the phone rang. I wasn’t sure if I’d talk to her if she called again, but I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t either, even if it was a trick or if all she wanted to talk about was the Red Lady.

  I missed my best friend so much that after brushing my teeth one night, I put the necklace back on as though I could magic our friendship back together via the heart.

  Propped up with my pillows, I opened The Dark Half, the last book from the used bookstore I had to read. On the first page, the words HELP HER were written in the margin. It wasn’t the first used book I’d found with writing in it. Most of the time it was jokes or doodles, and once a note said THIS BOOK WAS TERRIBLE. DON’T READ IT. I flipped through the rest of the pages, but there was nothing else.

  I tried rubbing the words off, hoping they were pencil, but no such luck. Then I rolled closer to my nightstand lamp. The writing was sort of wobbly, but the loops on the h’s were squishy and fat the way I wrote mine, and the rest of the letters were messy. My teachers always said my penmanship was terrible. Yet I knew I hadn’t written this. HELP HER. I traced my thumb over the words again and shivered, even though I wasn’t cold at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  NOW

  When Ryan gets home that night, I’m in the bathtub, the water hot enough to turn my skin scarlet. Thanks to a third glass of wine, I’m feeling fuzzy around the edges. Sinking deeper in the water, I mull over a movie for Ryan, desperate for routine and normalcy. Yet my mind returns to what Mikayla said, to Lauren arguing with someone. The other woman who was looking for her? Is she involved, too? Or is she trying to make Lauren stop?

  I promise I won’t tell.

  I drain my glass and the water and wrap myself in a robe. I can’t think about this any more tonight. My head hurts. I’m tired.

  Ryan’s in the family room, pacing, cell phone to ear. I watch from the doorway.

  “Maybe it would work, I don’t know. We have to do something. Heather’s—”

  I jolt, my glass clinking against the doorframe.

  Ryan turns and his face shifts into a grin, but it’s a little too wide, with too many teeth. “Hey, can I call you back later?” He doesn’t say goodbye.

  “Everything okay?” I say.

  “Uh-huh,” he says. “What about you?”

  I hold up my glass. “It would be better if I had another.”

  “I think we need some food, too.”

  “Sure. I think we have enough leftovers. Or we can order in.”

  “Okay,” he says, but the way he’s looking at me feels close to an inspection.

  “Before I forget,” I say, aiming for the cinematic. “In a world where the impossible becomes fact, an offhand prophecy comes true, and a hunter becomes the prey.” The clue might be too vague, but I have faith he’ll figure it out. He always does.

  “Finally she remembers,” he says, eyes lighting up. He stares off in the distance, then nods. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to think about it a bit.” Something else flashes across his face, too fleeting to settle.

  While we make dinner, we talk about our days and a video he saw on YouTube, and although he seems fine, there’s something I can’t put my finger on. Some sort of tension between his words. I tell myself it’s the wine, the visit to Lauren’s apartment, what I said to Mikayla. And who knows? Maybe I’m right.

  After the day I’ve had, it’s no surprise that my sleep is restless and I’m wide awake when the corners of the room begin to lighten. My mouth tastes sour, and there’s a small ache behind my forehead, but my thoughts are clear. In my dream, I was in a hole, shoveling the dirt out while someone unseen shoveled it back in.

  Ryan rolls onto his stomach. Over his shoulder, I spy his phone on his nightstand. He didn’t make any other calls last night, nor did he receive any. His call, his mention of my name, was nothing, I’m sure. But why the quick hang-up?

  I try to banish the questions but end up tiptoeing to his side of the bed. The name of his last caller isn’t one I’m e
xpecting at all: NICOLE. A hundred questions flood my brain, and though I’m tempted to wake him up and ask, I return the phone and get back in bed.

  Why are they talking? What are they talking about? I heard my name, but there’s no way either of them is involved in this. They never knew Becca. Never knew a thing about her.

  Are they having an affair? That’s laughable. But I get back out of bed and check his phone again. No texts between them, but there were two other phone calls. Also a few calls from local numbers I don’t recognize. Ryan sighs and I freeze. I wait a few seconds, then replace the phone.

  * * *

  Pretending to be a guest, I call the hotel where Lauren works. On the verge of gushing, I say that Lauren did a wonderful job cleaning my room. The clerk on the phone says she’ll pass along the message. Then I ask to speak with Lauren to tell her myself. There’s a heavy pause, then she says it’s hard to find the housekeeping staff. I say I understand. Smart woman. I could be anyone.

  My day is a busy one, and I arrive for my four thirty meeting with Rachel with only five minutes to spare. Once the receptionist shows me to a small conference room, I tap my foot on the floor. Is this a mistake? Will I be convincing? Should I pretend to be pissed off? Should I cry? How do women on the verge of divorce act? The urge to bolt is strong. Wouldn’t take much. The door isn’t even closed. One quick right, then past the front desk. I wouldn’t even have to run. Could say I got an urgent call, will reschedule. No one would be the wiser.

  Rachel walks in, banishing any thoughts of escape. Her hair, a little more red now than blonde, is fashioned in a tight bun. Gray pants today. Pale-blue V-neck. The professional, confident walk. Moleskine notebook and Cross pen. A polite expression, then recognition. I rise from my seat, but instead of moving in for a hug, she extends a hand.

  Once seated, she says, “I thought the name looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure. You kept your maiden name.”

  It isn’t a question, but I say yes anyway.

  “It’s been a long time,” she says.

  “Very long. How have you been?”

  “I’m well, thank you, and you?” she says.

  “Good. Well, mostly.”

  “How did you find me?”

  The phrasing throws me off, but there’s no menace in the words or on her face. “When I was looking for an attorney, I saw your name and …” I shrug. “I thought I might be more comfortable talking to someone I know. Or knew.”

  She tips her head and glances at her watch. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  We go over details small and large—mortgage, bank balances, property, cars—and by the time we’re finished, I’m mentally exhausted. The notebook is filled with pages of figures and notes, her handwriting heavily slanted to the right, the letters getting messier as the appointment went on. Not a match to the envelopes.

  She caps her pen. “This all seems quite straightforward. As I mentioned, if you can agree on property division, it will make it much easier. Once you’ve collected all the documents I mentioned earlier—and we’ll email you the list if you like—we can start on the paperwork. I don’t see anything that will cause any difficulties.” She splays her fingers. “Of course, it’s hard to predict how a spouse will react, so you might want to prepare yourself for the possibility that things won’t go as planned.”

  “Thank you. I will. So other than helping people through their divorces, what have you been up to?”

  She gives a smile that isn’t one at all. More like a cringe. “I’m married, one child.”

  There’s an awkward silence where typically she’d ask the same of me.

  “Do your parents still live in the old neighborhood?” I say.

  “No, they split and sold the house right before I left for college.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What about your brother and sister? Are they still local?”

  “Yes,” she says, the word terse.

  “You’ll never guess who I ran into recently. Gia, of all people. She’s living in Annapolis now. Small world, right?”

  For the first time there’s a softening to her features.

  “We ran into each other at the bookstore, of all places,” I say. “We got to talking about the old days. Remember the house and the club? All the stories we told?”

  Her face stills. She doesn’t blink. The temperature in the room changes. Then she says, peeking at her watch, “Only vaguely. It was a long time ago.” She rises from her seat.

  I get the point and stand as well. “It was good to see you again.”

  “You, too.” She clasps my hand for barely a second, doesn’t even look at me as she speaks, and walks me to the front with quick steps.

  I tell her I’ll be in touch, and she says okay, already moving away. She most definitely didn’t want to talk about our past. But does that really mean anything? Maybe she wants to keep the relationship strictly professional and doesn’t want to be overly friendly. The way she acted doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t not have to, either.

  * * *

  I don’t forget to pick up Starbucks on my way to Silverstone, and when Nicole sees the cups, her eyes moon and she finger-claps. Doesn’t look like an act, either. I don’t wait for an invite to sit. Her sage-green blouse highlights her eyes, the color a near match for the pinstripes in my button-down.

  After a few sips of coffee, she says, “Did you have a good week? I texted you a couple times, but …”

  “Sorry, it was busy.”

  There’s a strangeness in the room between us. Not quite tension, but an awkwardness I can’t remember ever feeling with her. Did I even see her texts this week? Did I truly not respond? It seems strange that I wouldn’t, but I honestly can’t remember.

  “Doing anything fun tonight?” I say.

  “I don’t know yet. You?”

  “No plans as of yet. If we go out to dinner or anything, I’ll let you know?”

  “I’d like that.”

  I get up to leave, but halt with one hand on the doorframe. “Hey, have you talked to Ryan lately?”

  “No,” she says. Her brow doesn’t crease, eyes don’t veer off to the side. “Why?”

  “Oh, I thought you two were on the phone the other night.”

  “Wasn’t me,” she says. “Must be the other Nicole.”

  “My mistake, then. Time for me to get to work before the boss notices I’m slacking.”

  “Thank you for the coffee.”

  “Of course,” I say on my way out. She’s almost as good a liar as I am. But not quite.

  In my office with the door closed, I scroll through my phone. Two texts from Nicole I don’t recall reading, although they both say READ. One missed call as well. Huh. Maybe I didn’t have my phone close when she rang. Maybe that’s why she called Ryan? But why lie? You only lie when you have something to hide.

  My phone chimes with a new text. From Gia: BEFORE I FORGET, WE’RE HAVING A PARTY NEXT SATURDAY AROUND 7-ISH. NOTHING FANCY. A FEW FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS. PLEASE SAY YOU’LL COME!

  Say no, I tell myself, but I write back, with little hesitation, SURE. CAN I BRING ANYTHING?

  A BOTTLE OF WINE? AND YOUR HUSBAND, TOO! WE’D LOVE TO MEET HIM!

  WILL DO, I text back. Whether or not I really do remains to be seen.

  My sessions at Silverstone run smoothly—no problems with Samantha or anyone else—and the same goes for my private patients. Once Ellie’s left for the day, I lock my office door, mute my phone, and bury myself in paperwork. Ryan’s having dinner with his brother, and I plan on eating leftovers or grabbing something on the way home.

  I’m not sure how long I’m sitting there before I hear the hum. It’s low. Rhythmic. I stand in the middle of my office, head cocked to one side. The building is old, and we’ve had issues with odd sounds carrying from floor to floor through the ventilation system. But this sound isn’t mechanical. It rises and falls. It whispers.

  My arms go all-over goose bumps. Now that I hear it, I can’t unhear it.
It’s a voice, soft and barely audible, but a voice nonetheless. And I can’t tell where it’s coming from. It’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. Blood rushes in my ears. One hand skitters to my chest. I peer into the hallway. No one’s there, but still the whispers continue.

  I fumble through the papers on my desk for my phone and keys, finding neither. And all I hear is the voice. It isn’t right, it shouldn’t be, but it’s growing louder. I dig in my bag; same result. Press fingertips to my temples. No one’s in the office save me. Ellie said she’d lock up when she left. I pat my pockets. Empty.

  The voice gets louder still. And it’s not human.

  Does the air smell of smoke and candle wax? I spin in a circle. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide in my office. I shake my head, a shriek clamped tight behind my clenched jaw. But it doesn’t matter, because there’s someone here with me and I have to get out, get away. I shove a small pile of papers, and as they cascade to the floor, my keys catch the overhead light. Another paper dislodges, revealing my phone. Both go in my pockets while I unplug my laptop, eyes on the door.

  Did I relock it? I can’t remember. When I pass beneath the air vent, the voice rises in pitch. I stagger to a halt, neck craning.

  Heather.

  I run, my fingers fumbling as I try to lock the door. And from behind me, someone says, “Heather?”

  I spin with a shriek. And there, peering out from her own office, Christina.

  “Are you okay?” she says.

  “I heard something,” I say, verging on hysterical.

  “Oh, crap. Was it me? I had Netflix on while I was working,” she says, flicking her fingers open beside her head. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

  Netflix? What I heard wasn’t a movie. It wasn’t.

  “I heard it in my office,” I say, aware I sound utterly unlike myself.

  “I did have it fairly loud. I’m sorry.”

  She’s wearing a touch of embarrassment, a pinch of amusement. I curl my fingers until my nails dig into my skin.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I feel incredibly foolish. I thought … well, I don’t know what I thought, but I was afraid since I was alone …” It’s my turn to lift a hand.