The Dead Girls Club

by Damien Angelica Walters

  “I have to pee,” I said.

  “Come on in. You won’t bother me.”

  When I finished, she moved aside so I could wash my hands.

  “You okay?” she asked. “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, looking down at the water in the sink, not at her.

  “All right. Hey, next weekend we’ll go school supply shopping.”

  “Ugh.”

  “And after, we can stop at Friendly’s and get ice cream sundaes, like we did last year.”

  But it wouldn’t be like last year. Becca had been with us then, and we’d eaten so much ice cream our stomachs hurt for hours. My mom probably wanted to wait until after payday, but I wondered, too, if she wanted to give me more time, in case I wanted to ask Becca to go. I thought about her bruises. Wondered if her mom would take her shopping or not.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “I …” Pain darted my side, one fast jab gone almost as quick as it began. I swallowed hard. Turned off the faucet. “Never mind.”

  She passed me a towel. “If you want or need to talk to me, I’m here. Oh, and before I forget, your dad will be working late for the next couple of weeks because they’re running behind at the job site. They still haven’t even filled in the hole where the other man fell. So you and I will have plenty of girl time, just in case you decide you do want to talk.”

  “Okay,” I said, hanging up the towel and going back into my room before I could break my promise to Becca, no matter how much it hurt.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  NOW

  I drive back to the office in a daze. My patient is waiting, and although I’m not even that late—it’s not my fault they arrived early—her mother gives a look so full of disapproval I feel as though I’m a student with incomplete homework. Having had no time to fully prepare for the session, I do my best to ask the right questions and listen, but when the hour’s over, patient delivered back to her mother, I sink down in my office chair.

  It’s not Lauren.

  It’s not her.

  Was it ever? I thought her timidity at the hotel was an act, but what if it wasn’t? What if she had no idea why I was there or what I wanted? What if she never did anything to me? Never did anything but try to salvage what was left of her life?

  So who’s behind it all? I’m back to square one, which is even worse now, because it made sense for it to be Lauren. Now, anyone else seems unlikely. But maybe that was my problem all along. Lauren made such perfect sense that I didn’t expend enough energy looking anywhere else. Sure, I followed Gia to the grocery store and met with Rachel, but I didn’t really do anything.

  I don’t know what to do or where to look. I feel as though I’m falling through the dark into a great gaping maw. I want—

  I scramble for my phone and dial, barely letting my mom say hello. “What are you up to tonight?” I say, summoning every bit of calm I can.

  “Not much. I was planning to go to the Avenue to do a little shopping,” she says. “Why?”

  “Want some company?”

  There’s a pause, then she says, “Sure.”

  But she doesn’t sound sure at all. I tear at a cuticle. It’s me, I know. There’s nothing wrong with her tone or her words. So I tell her I’ll meet her there, and she says that’ll be nice.

  For the rest of the afternoon, I focus on my patients. It’s a pleasant fiction, but it makes me feel better to think so. At the end of the day, I pack up and text Mom to let her know I’m on my way. I turn the music loud in the car, attempting to drown out my thoughts, but I can’t stop thinking about Lauren’s wary eyes, about someone bludgeoning her to death, about the bystander who said she deserved it. About my house with everything moved out of place.

  Mom’s waiting outside Starbucks, so I wipe away the worry, and we get coffees before puttering around Old Navy. We’re next to a display of skinny jeans in autumn colors when she touches my forearm.

  “So what’s wrong?” she says.

  “What?” I say, inspecting tags to find my size.

  “Sweetheart, I know you better than I know myself sometimes. For you to want to come shopping, something must be wrong.” She’s watching me closely, and I shrug.

  “Work stress got a little unbearable today,” I say. “But this is helping. Plus, I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

  Her gaze bores through me, and I feel caught with the cookie jar. I tug a pair of pants free, hoping they’re the right size. But I’m not lying. Not completely. Here, with her, I do feel a little better.

  After Old Navy, we grab new mascara and lipstick at Ulta, a few books from Barnes & Noble, and slices of pizza for a quick dinner. I don’t want to leave, so I order a cannoli. After I finish it, I suppress a groan and the urge to unbutton my pants.

  “So how did Ryan’s meeting go?” Mom says.

  “His what?” I say, head cocked to one side.

  “His meeting last Wednesday.”

  Did he have a meeting? I don’t remember that at all. “I … have no idea,” I say, pinching crumbs between my fingertips.

  “Oh, when I ran into him at Grinds—I was meeting Cathy there—he was wearing a suit and said he had a meeting. Didn’t he tell you he saw me?”

  “No,” I say, but hasten to add, “Work’s been busy, and he’s been getting home late.”

  I don’t recall him wearing anything to work recently other than his usual jeans, T-shirt, and boots. I catch the sidelong look Mom is giving me, but the waitress interrupts with the check.

  As we approach her car, I say, my voice as bland as I can make it, “Did you happen to see the news?”

  She stiffens. “Sure, why?”

  “Did you see that Becca’s mom died? That she was killed?”

  She says nothing, puts her bags in her trunk, and turns, face tight. “Is that the real reason you wanted to come with me? To talk about this? Still?”

  “No,” I say. “Not at all. But I saw the news, and someone killed her, Mom.” And someone’s coming after me.

  “So it’s over and done with, then.”

  “But—”

  She stalls my words with a chop to the air and slams her trunk shut. “Stop this, I mean it. I don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself. It isn’t good for you, you know that.”

  My thumbnail finds the skin of my index finger. Begins to scrape. “I’m not doing anything, Mom.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, sweetheart. Always have been.”

  How wrong she is.

  She presses a quick kiss to my cheek and says, “Let it go.”

  I give her a half-hearted wave as raindrops start to spatter. So much for the nice weather. By the time I get on 97, it’s raining in earnest and visibility is nearly nonexistent. People drive like assholes: going too fast, tailgating, or zipping around people who’ve slowed down. It’s like no one ever took a driving lesson. But having to concentrate on driving and the rhythmic thump-thump of the Jeep’s wipers help keep the thoughts out of my head.

  Not far after the Veterans Highway exit, visibility goes from bad to worse, forcing everyone, even the assholes, to slow down. An old grayish-blue car pulls into the middle lane behind me, drawing too close to my bumper for comfort. I try to keep distance between us, but it keeps edging close. As soon as space opens in the left lane, I scoot over. Being rear-ended is not on my agenda. A quarter mile later, the old car, a Chevy, pulls behind me again. Again, it moves too close.

  I have the chance to pull ahead, so I do. A silver Beetle sneaks between me and the Chevy. I cringe, waiting for the squeal of brakes and the crunch, but it manages to avoid us both. A minute later, the Beetle changes lanes again. The Chevy draws way too close, our bumpers almost close enough to tango.

  It’s too dark to make out the driver, too dark to make out the license plate number either, but it’s a Maryland tag. At least I think so. The car seems familiar. I rack my memory and it hits me. I think it’s th
e same one I saw outside the townhouse where one of the wrong Laurens lived.

  Speeding up again, I angle into the next lane, even though the spacing makes it closer than I’d like. When I do the same to get to the far right, the Chevy moves into the middle. A minute later, directly behind me.

  “Go away, go away, go away,” I say.

  Palms clammy, I hold the steering wheel tight. Flick my gaze from road to rearview mirror and back. The rain lightens a bit, and traffic begins to open. I slowly increase my speed. The Chevy sticks with me, only one car length between us. I reach into my purse, rooting for my phone, cursing myself for not putting it in the cup holder the way I usually do. To my left, a car lays on its horn, and I swerve back into my lane.

  The Chevy edges even closer. Half a car length away now. What the fuck? I refuse to get any closer to the car in front of me, and there’s a car next to me in the lane on my left. To my right is the shoulder where cars sit periodically, waiting out the storm. The Chevy draws even closer. The grille looms in my mirrors; lights strobe the interior. The deluge begins again, killing all visibility in front of me and wrecking my chance of gunning it. The Chevy is so close now, I’m sure our bumpers are only inches away. I speed up a little. The Chevy does the same. Brake lights flash, dim, flash again. Horns blare, bleat, cheep. My wipers slam back and forth, offering scant glances of the road between slashes. In front of me, brake lights turn the world red. I slam on mine. Behind me, the Chevy’s does the same, but they’re so close I can’t even see the grille. A fluttery feeling creeps beneath my skin.

  And the dark shape behind the wheel seems to grow even larger. A presence so large I’m too scared to look close, too terrified to look away. It’s her. The Red Lady. She’s here and she’s real and she’s come for me. After all this time, she’s come back. I choke back panic. Shake my head hard. No. She isn’t real. It isn’t her. No matter what, no matter who.

  It. Isn’t. Her.

  The car in front of me starts moving faster. I do, too, getting too close to their bumper but opening space between the Chevy and me. Not for long, though. It gets closer and closer, then scoots into the middle lane and slows down. A horn chirps, but the Chevy keeps slowing, keeps falling back.

  Lights brighten my side mirror as it surges forward. Then it starts pushing into my lane. Shouting, I pound the horn, and they edge back. They scoot up again and we drive side by side. No matter how many glances I snatch, I can’t see anything other than an amorphous shape in the driver’s seat.

  Then the car pushes into my lane, so fast I can’t hit the horn, can’t do anything but yank the wheel to get away. My tires slide and I cry out as the wheel skids from my grip. The car judders to the right on the shoulder and I jam on the brakes, slamming my body forward in the process. There’s a dull metallic crunch as the Jeep meets the guardrail, a second jerk of my body, the seat belt yanking me back tight and tearing the air from my lungs. Pain flares in my shoulder, my hip, my wrist.

  The Chevy is still moving ahead, but in moment or two, its lights are swallowed by the rain.

  “You fucking bitch!” Sweat beads my forehead, my back, between my breasts. My vision turns hazy. My heart is racing so fast it feels as though it’s not beating at all. And the air is thick and viscous. They ran me off the road. They wanted to hurt me. Or worse.

  Car in park, I cup my face. Slowly—too slowly—my world stops shaking. And I shriek at the windshield as loud as I can, rage and fear turning my voice hoarse, collapsing against the seat when I’m done. I feel like a coward. I feel weak. Incapable. And it feels like hell.

  I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough for the shock to turn to numbness, long enough for the rain to cease and traffic to begin moving at a normal pace. My right wrist throbs, but I can still move it. My left shoulder aches, and I can already see the mark of the seat belt stippling my skin. My hip is sore.

  I get out to inspect the damage, and the right side of my car is scraped and dented from the driver’s side door back. With a shaking hand, I call Ryan, and flashing lights appear behind me the same time he arrives. I give the officer and Ryan the same story—I slid in the rain.

  “So no one else was involved in the crash?” the officer says. “The person who called it in said there were two cars.”

  Here’s my chance. All I have to do is say yes. It’s provable now. There’s a witness. But I’ve told so many lies, I’m not sure how to untangle myself. And Becca’s death sits at the very heart. One misguided yes could become the end of everything. I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.

  “No,” I say. “They were wrong. It was just me. My tires … The rain …”

  She finishes writing up her report and gives me a copy before leaving.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the ER?” Ryan says. “Get some X-rays of your wrist?”

  I shake my head. “I’m sure. The ER will be a waste of everyone’s time. I can tell it’s not broken. I’ll wrap it once we get home.”

  “All right. Stay in the right lane and I’ll follow you.”

  We make it back home without incident. On the kitchen counter is a vase with sunflowers, orange lilies, red roses, and the many-petaled flowers that resemble daisies but aren’t. The sight of them hurts. He comes behind me, circling my waist with his arms. I make myself relax as I lean against him.

  “I bought them before you called me,” he says. “I’m sorry I talked to Nicole. I shouldn’t have, but I thought she’d know what was wrong. I wanted to help, that’s all.”

  Once again, the story pushes at my lips, wanting out, wanting to be told, but I can’t do it. Not to him, not to anyone. I wiggle free from his grasp and give him a quick hug.

  “They’re beautiful, thank you. I’m going upstairs to take a couple Advil and go to bed.”

  “Want me to bring you anything?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m good.”

  I hold tight to the railing as I ascend, feeling his attention on my back the entire time.

  * * *

  After Ryan leaves for work, I stand beneath a hot shower, soaking some of the stiffness away. The marks on my shoulder and upper chest are a livid shade of purple-red. The one on my hip, too. My wrist is a touch swollen and sore, but I’m still positive it’s not broken.

  In our walk-in closet, I stand in front of Ryan’s clothes. He has only one suit—a charcoal-gray all-weather we picked out together a few years ago for a wedding. I reach for the jacket sleeve and pause. I know my mom wouldn’t lie, but …

  With one fluid movement, I tug the jacket free and press my face to the fabric. I smell, or at least think I smell, coffee. A fresh smell. No perfume, no lipstick on the collar. Nothing in the pockets.

  There’s probably a simple explanation. Maybe he met with a potential client he wanted to impress. Didn’t say anything to me because the client hasn’t decided yet, or worse, decided to go with someone else.

  My fists clench, balling up the fabric, my right wrist giving a twinge of pain. All I have to do is ask him who the meeting was with, but I’m afraid he might not answer the way I want him to and it’ll turn into another argument. I’ll unleash all my frustration and anger about the Chevy, the person in our house, the person who wants to hurt me, on him, and I won’t be able to take it back. I feel it all, a huge weight atop me, a mound of dirt, pressing me down. I’ll say things I’ll regret. Or I’ll say something I should keep to myself. I shake out the jacket and return it to its hanger, making sure it’s in the same spot it was before, then move to my side of the closet.

  My Jeep looks even worse in the daylight. I follow the speed limit, checking my mirrors frequently, eyeing every grayish-blue car, hands like vice grips on the wheel. No cars follow me or get too close, but I drive a wide circle through the neighborhood around Silverstone before pulling into the lot and I practically run to the door. They sky is still overcast, but there’s a brightness at the edges hinting at a clearing in the near future.

  Nicole’s office door is shut,
thankfully, and I’m unlocking mine when my phone rings. Alexa. My mouth goes dry. I think about letting it go to voice mail, but not answering will look more suspicious.

  In lieu of a polite greeting, she says, “Did you see the news about Lauren?”

  No point in pretending. “Yes, I saw it. Regardless of what she did, it’s awful.”

  She makes a sound I can’t decipher. I lock the door behind me and set my bag on the floor beside my desk.

  Another sound, this one her throat clearing. “What were you doing at my office?”

  I steady myself with a palm on the wall. A three-second blink. “I stopped in to see you, that’s all.”

  “While I’m in Florida.”

  “I know, I completely forgot,” I say. I try to make my words convincing, but I’ve a suspicion I fail. This is Alexa, after all.

  “It’s a little strange, don’t you think? Your visit and then Lauren dies?”

  My knees feel like marshmallow and I stumble to my chair. She can’t possibly think I had something to do with it. She knows me. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything, hopefully, only that the timing seems strange. Strange, too, Corinne finding one of my filing cabinets unlocked.”

  “Alexa,” I say. “How would I unlock your cabinet?”

  Silence on the other end. If she knows about the lock defect, my comment is a moot point, but either she doesn’t know or doesn’t want to say it aloud.

  The anxiety I’m feeling gives way to a rush of hot anger heavily laced with guilt. “If you want to know if I hurt Lauren, why not just ask?” I say, unable to keep out my emotions. “Here, let me state it for the record. I. Did. Not. Hurt. Her.”

  “Heather—”

  “No,” I snap. “That’s what you wanted to know, so now you do. And if that’s all you wanted, I have to get ready for my patients.”

  As soon as she says a weary goodbye, I disconnect the call. Is she going to contact the police? Is Corinne? If either one mentions the unlocked cabinet, the cops might decide I’m a serious suspect. And if they contact me, what will I say? My fingers dig into the chair’s arms. I’ll tell the fucking truth. I did not kill her.