The Dead Girls Club

by Damien Angelica Walters

  He’s in the family room, drinking a beer and channel surfing. I drop the mail on the coffee table, enjoying the wince it brings. I remain on the other side, arms crossed.

  “I talked to Nicole this morning.”

  “Uh-huh. Hi to you, too.”

  I ignore the barb. “What did you think you were doing, talking to her about me? About my old friend? It wasn’t something for you to run around telling everyone.”

  His face contorts briefly, then arranges itself back again. “First of all, I didn’t run around telling everyone, and I didn’t know it was some great secret. I just assumed Nicole knew. And second, I talked to her because I thought she might know what was going on with you. You won’t talk to me, so what else was I supposed to do?”

  “If I’m not talking to you about it, then there’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Or nothing you want to talk about.”

  “The proper response would be to let it go then, not sneak behind my back with my best friend.”

  “I was not sneaking,” he says, rising to his feet and circling the table to cup my upper arms. “I love you and I’m worried. She is, too. It feels like there’s more going on, more than just a patient who reminds you of someone you once knew. Could you talk to me? Please?”

  Although there’s a haze of anger in the air, there’s nothing on his features. I could tell him everything. I could tell him what’s happening to me. I could tell him the truth.

  Fuck. That.

  I pull free from his grasp. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  He says nothing, but it doesn’t matter. I’m already walking away.

  * * *

  The hotel where Lauren works in downtown Baltimore is easy to find, and there’s plenty of available parking in the garage below. My heart’s already pounding, and despite the fact that it’s cold enough for a light coat, sweat glues my shirt to my back. I tie a navy-blue scarf around my head a la Audrey Hepburn before I get out of the car. Not much of a disguise, but it’s the best I can do. I’m not planning on getting too close. I just want to see her before we meet tonight.

  Once I reach the hotel’s lobby, a modern open space, all gray, black, and glass, I press the button for the elevator, peeking around while I wait. A businessman waiting at the front counter. A clerk with an ornate updo. Another with winged eyeliner. A man in cook’s whites crosses the lobby, entering the restaurant off to the side. A middle-aged security guard in a crisp uniform, military haircut, arms crossed over a broad chest. I smell coffee and furniture polish, a not-unpleasant combination.

  The car arrives with a cheery bing that makes me jump, and I ride to the top floor—the twelfth—alone. The hotel is shaped like a large rectangle with a center hallway running the length. Easy to see from one end to the other. There are no housekeeping carts on this floor. Only closed doors and quiet. Old nicotine ghosts cling to the air.

  Down to the eleventh—one cart. A too-young-to-be-Lauren housekeeper. Gray uniform shirt with the hotel’s logo on the left side, black pants. No old-cigarette smell, only lavender air freshener.

  No carts on the tenth floor, but there are two on the ninth, with two housekeepers about my age chatting beside one.

  One cart on the eighth floor, the housekeeper out of sight. I pass by and peer into the open door. A woman emerges holding a bottle of cleaning fluid. She’s older, thin, short, with salt-and-pepper hair, but she has dark eyes. Wide hips. Not Lauren.

  “Do you need something?” she says.

  “Oh, no, thank you,” I say. I scurry down the hall toward the elevator, feeling her watching the entire time. When I get on the car, I catch sight of myself in the mirrored front panel—my skin is blotchy, my eyeliner has smudged. I force myself to calm down, but I‘m running out of time. If I don’t find Lauren soon, this was a wasted effort.

  I step out of the elevator on the seventh floor, but there are no carts here. I’m back in the car and the doors are halfway shut when an arm halts their movement, an arm belonging to the security guard I passed on the way in. There’s a half smile on his lips, but it stops there. His stance is solid, feet wide. His gaze sizes me up from head to toe, not in a sexual manner. I fight the urge to smooth my hair, stand straighter.

  “Are you okay?” he says.

  I swallow hard and say, “I’m fine. Just late for a meeting and I got turned around somewhere. I’ve never been here before.”

  He nods and joins me in the elevator, tipping his head toward the number panel, where the six is illuminated. “The meeting rooms are on the second floor.” He even pushes the button for me.

  I can smell the mint mouthwash he recently used. Can he smell the bitter adrenaline spiking in my veins? Hear the pounding of my heart? Is his showing up simply a bad coincidence on my part? Or did someone call him to investigate a panicky woman running from floor to floor? But I can handle this. I’ve done nothing wrong.

  “My boss is going to kill me,” I say, glancing down at my feet as I Marilyn Monroe my voice. “And it isn’t even my fault. He didn’t tell me where the meeting was. His assistant did and she told me the wrong floor, and I can’t lose this job. I just can’t.” My act has the intended effect. He shifts his weight, leaning away from me. His jaw relaxes. And when the doors slide open on the sixth floor, there’s not much I can do. I stay put, making a show of looking at the time on my phone. When we reach the second floor, he remains inside the elevator.

  “Hey,” he says, hand on a door to keep it from closing. “Are you with the health care guys or the lawyers?” His voice dips just a touch on the last word.

  “The lawyers,” I say, adding a wince.

  “Good luck,” he says.

  “Thank you.” I dash away as the doors shut.

  I race for the stairs at the far end of the hallway, passing a group of thirty-somethings in business casual who watch my progress with amusement. Two at a time, I take the steps. By the time I reach the sixth floor, my lungs are shrieking in protest.

  The hallway here is empty. Back to the stairs I go. There’s one cart on the fifth floor, at the opposite end of the hallway. No housekeeper in sight. I’m about ten feet away when a uniformed woman emerges from a room. Pale skin and hair, small stature. She grabs a roll of toilet paper from her cart and disappears again. I step closer.

  She returns to her cart. This time, she sees me. “Did you need anything?” she asks. No smile, but a helpful mien.

  And it’s her. It’s Becca’s mother. Here, only six feet away. Her hair is white now, not blonde. Her skin holds a prison-pale luster, the wrinkles faint. In spite of her hair, she looks much younger than I expected. There’s something in her face, something sad and tired and … broken. She’s a far cry from the woman who staggered into the kitchen while Becca and I made ice cream. The woman who scared me with her slurred speech and the way she touched my hair. But she’s here, doing her job like nothing’s wrong, like she hasn’t turned my world upside down and inside out, like she doesn’t even know who I am.

  “Why?” I say, the word tumbling like a brick from my mouth.

  Her brow creases. “I’m sorry?”

  Breath coming too fast, I tug the scarf from my head. “Why did you send me the necklace? The picture she drew? Why did you leave the squirrel in my mailbox?” My voice isn’t as strong as it should be, but it’s as strong as I can manage.

  Lauren’s lips part. Her eyes widen. She’s a rabbit in disaster’s headlights, but I know she recognizes me.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I say. “What do you want?”

  “You need to go now,” she says. “Please. Not here, not now.” She glances around, takes a half step back.

  This isn’t going the way I thought it would. She isn’t acting how I imagined she would. Why isn’t she sneering? Why isn’t she threatening me with worse? Why isn’t she demanding to know what I did to Becca? Or revealing that she already knows?

  A couple emerges from the elevator, dragging their wheeled suitcases and loud co
nversation toward us. Lauren moves her cart aside, still not looking at me.

  “Please go,” she says.

  “Fine, but I’ll see you tonight,” I say, not waiting for her reply.

  * * *

  Google didn’t reveal that the business park is abandoned. The five buildings, all four stories with narrow windows, some broken, others pocked with bullet holes, appear as though they’ve not had tenants in ages. Graffiti streaks across the brick and concrete. Weeds jut from cracks in the parking lot asphalt like deformed Chia Pets. There should be security fencing, but there isn’t. Half the lights are burned or maybe shot out. The whole place feels like a set from an apocalyptic movie. Maybe one with zombies.

  I navigate an obvious pile of shattered glass and pull into a parking space in front but leave the engine running. I drain half my water bottle, but my mouth is still parched. No way am I getting out of the car until Lauren’s here.

  I’m five minutes early, but I check my email, just in case. Nothing new. I pull my coat tighter around me. As far as Ryan knows, I’m downtown meeting Gia for drinks. I trace the edge of the steering wheel from top to bottom. When I saw Lauren at the hotel, I was all panic and surprise. Tonight, though, I’m prepared. I’m going to stay calm and not ask questions. I’m going to let her speak first. And if she tries the timid-old-woman act again, I’m going to call her out on it. Because it had to be an act. And it was good, I’ll give her that. It almost had me convinced. But I had her cornered at her job, a job she can’t afford to lose with her prison record, so what else could she do? Alexa Martin can only pull so many strings.

  Her email said she wanted to talk about Becca, so we’ll talk about Becca. But I don’t care if she reveals she made herself invisible and was in the basement with us that night. I’m not going to admit a damn thing. Besides, if she thinks she knows, why hasn’t she gone to the police? Why this game?

  The minutes tick slowly by. At nine, the parking lot’s still empty. Five more minutes pass. No Lauren. I worry the steering wheel over and over again. At quarter after, I open my car door, swinging one leg out.

  “Hello?”

  The word echoes on and on. And there’s not a sound in return. I don’t understand. Why set up a meeting and not show? I told her at the hotel I’d see her tonight. Did she change her mind? Is she watching me from somewhere? Maybe she’s in one of the buildings. But I’m here, so why isn’t she coming out?

  I step all the way out but leave the door open. Stand with arms akimbo, fingers wide. Spin in a slow circle, aiming for nonthreatening. Here I am. Come and get me.

  I sense movement behind me and spin around. There’s someone standing at the window. Someone on the side of the building. I look closer. Only shadows and nothing more. More movement, behind me again. The suggestion of a shoulder, of an arm, hiding behind the front door of that building? My skin prickles with goose bumps.

  No.

  This is my imagination running wild in the darkness. There are too many gaping windows. Too much broken glass. This was pointless. No one’s here. It’s twenty after nine. She said nine o’clock. I’m not going to sit here all night. Fuck that. Fuck her.

  Back in my car, I slam the door. My heart is racing; my mouth is filled with bitter panic. I tap the side of the phone on my lower lip. Should I email and ask where she is? Why she isn’t here? Is this a new game or part of the same? Does she really think I’ll wait forever?

  More movement to my left, but it’s nothing. A whole business park of nothing. My tires kick arcs of pebbles as I drive away. Before I turn out of the lot, I give it one last scan. No Lauren. No one at all.

  * * *

  I call the hotel first thing but hang up before anyone answers. I’ve already called twice. Sure, I got lucky because I called on different days and spoke with two different clerks, but I doubt people call about the housekeepers on a regular basis unless it’s to bitch about something missing from their room or not enough towels during their stay. And I sincerely doubt they call about specific housekeepers.

  Instead, I send Lauren an email: I WAITED FOR YOU, BUT YOU DIDN’T SHOW UP. By the end of the day, there’s still no reply.

  It’s Ryan’s turn to meet with someone tonight—his brother—for drinks after dinner. Or maybe this is our new code for lying about our evening plans. Pot, this is kettle. I pick up dinner from Panera on my way home.

  In the kitchen, I set the bag on the counter in front of the toaster oven, our usual spot for takeout. The bag slips off the edge. I grab. And miss. There’s a liquid thud, and the side of the bag goes dark. Goodbye, French onion soup and Greek salad. Hello, whatever I can scrounge from the cabinets and fridge. A wad of paper towels later, I figure out the reason behind the mishap: the toaster’s about six inches away from the wall.

  Thanks a lot, Ryan.

  He also pulled out the fruit basket and the coffeemaker. I don’t see anything different with the backsplash or the counter, and I think he would’ve mentioned a problem he had to repair, even with the way things are between us right now. Unless he just forgot.

  But upstairs in our room, one side of my dresser is tugged forward an inch or two. The same with my nightstand. The comforter on my side of the bed is folded back. Yet I made the bed neatly this morning.

  The clothes in my top dresser drawer seem fine, but in the second drawer my T-shirts are leaning toward the center, as though someone placed a hand there and whisked it around. The clothes in my other drawers show signs of being touched as well. Everything is in its place in my jewelry box, even my half of the heart necklace. But the chain looks different, in a messy pile whereas I had it coiled. I step back, fingers quivering.

  Holding the railing tight, I run back downstairs. In the family room I stand with hands on hips and look. Really look. The coffee table is angled, revealing a divot in the rug below. Same with the sofa, the throw we keep draped over an arm unfolded over the cushion. In the breakfast nook, the table’s been pushed back nearly a foot. The napkin holder in the center is no longer parallel to the window but perpendicular. In the dining room, the chairs are pulled out from the table, and the glass bowl in the center sits off to the left now. In the formal living room, the front corners of the end tables are angled toward the sofa. Several books in the bookcase are turned spines in. Every change is slight, easy to miss. If it had been only one thing, I probably would’ve. But this is calculated. Not noticing is impossible.

  I push my hair off my forehead. Toe the floor.

  Someone’s been here. In the house. And they wanted me to know. No, not they. She. She wanted me to know. I scrunch my toes, curl my fingers. She was in my house. Sweat pools between my breasts. I pat my pockets, but my phone isn’t there and I can’t remember where I left my bag. I scrub my face, smearing the last traces of the day’s makeup. I need to call the police. I need to file a report and—

  I can’t. A report will lead to an investigation. And then? Maybe eventually to Becca. To the truth. I’m trapped and she knows it. My knees lock. So what the hell am I going to do? A voice of reason slips in. Straighten up before Ryan gets home. Put everything back. Do that first, then take it from there.

  Like a spider on fire, I scurry through the living room. End tables. Coffee table. Books. It doesn’t take long. In the dining room I stub my big toe on a chair leg and stork-stand until the throbbing ceases, attempting to blink away tears. They’re still falling even after I check the kitchen—in the cabinet, the canned goods were turned so the labels faced the back—and the nook. By the time I head for the stairs, they’ve progressed into hitching sobs I can’t stop.

  Halfway up, I stumble, yelping as I bang a shin against the tread. I crouch with my back against the wall and pour my fear and rage into my palms. I can’t do this. I can’t do any of it anymore. It’s all too much.

  How the hell did she get in? We have solid dead bolts. We keep the doors locked. There was no broken glass. Sometimes we forget to lock the door leading into the house from the garage, but we’ve nev
er had a problem before. It would take a Herculean effort for someone to physically raise the exterior garage doors. And Lauren is small. So how did she get in?

  I don’t know how long I sit there, but when the sobs reduce to quiet sniffles and my skin is sodden and snot-sticky, I trek the rest of the way upstairs to wash my face. A stranger peers back from the mirror. Eyes purpled with fatigue. Hollows beneath the cheekbones. Skin ruddy with anxiety. She isn’t me. She isn’t anyone I know. I rest my hand atop the reflection, one eye visible through the gaps in my fingers.

  Red Lady, Red Lady.

  Don’t look in her eyes!

  Arms at my sides, I stomp into Ryan’s office. My childhood wraith isn’t the issue here. His pens have been removed from the mug in the corner, strewn like pickup sticks atop design sketches. My office has fared worse: my papers have been rearranged higgledy-piggledy, so I gather them into a neatish pile for later. Even the bathrooms—shower curtains opened, towels puddled on the floors, toothbrushes left in the sinks—were touched. Instead of replacing the brushes, I toss them out.

  Once again I stand in the middle of the family room, searching. If I miss something small, Ryan won’t notice. Hell, he might not miss something large, but I will. I go from room to room again, fingertipping every piece of furniture. Once I’m sure I’ve fixed it all, I run upstairs and strip the bed. Throw the sheets in the washer with extra detergent. Then I scour all the flat surfaces with disinfectant wipes. When I’m done, the house smells of lemon cleanser and dryer sheets. I stink of sour sweat.

  My stomach growls, but the thought of food makes me queasy, so I drink a glass of wine. A brilliant move. Once it hits my empty stomach, it makes a reappearance in no time flat. I don’t try anything else, just brush my teeth with a spare I found in the closet—safe in its packaging—and climb in bed.

  I checked the French doors, didn’t I?

  But when I planted the flower bulbs on Sunday, surely I locked the doors when I came back in. That was five days ago. I don’t think I’ve been out back since. Has Ryan?

  I slip out of bed and tug on my robe, tying it tight. Down the stairs one at a time, mouth dry. What if the doors are unlocked? What if she’s out back, waiting for me to realize that? What if she’s hiding somewhere in the house?