The Dead Girls Club

by Damien Angelica Walters

  I shook my head so hard my ears rang. She was serious. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a game. “I can’t.”

  “You have to. You promised you’d help me. She said you would.”

  “No! I didn’t promise to do this.” I bent over her, punching the floor next to us. “Please, you don’t need her. You have me. I can help you. We can go talk to my mom.”

  Indecision flickered across her face. Her mouth worked and tears glittered.

  “I can help you,” I said, pounding the floor again.

  She swiped at her eyes with angry hands. “You can’t. It’s too late. No one can help me. No one but her.” She grabbed my wrist. “Don’t worry. She promised everything would be okay.”

  I shook my head, unable to speak, and jumped up. Running, I made it upstairs, down the hallway, to the front door, but as my fingers met the doorknob, a pain in my side drove me to my knees. It was fire and ice, and I couldn’t think, couldn’t move. It went on and on and on, and when it faded, I was curled into a tiny ball, shaking all over. She wouldn’t let me leave. Not until I did what she wanted. Not until I helped Becca.

  With quicksand feet, I returned to the basement. Becca hadn’t moved.

  “I knew you wouldn’t leave,” she said. “Best friends forever, right?”

  I thumbed the pendant. “Best friends forever.”

  “Don’t worry.” She held out the knife, and this time, I took it. “This is the way it has to be,” she said. “It’s the only way it’ll work. And you can never tell anyone about tonight. Not ever. Not even when you’re an old lady. Promise?”

  “I promise.” My voice didn’t even sound like mine.

  “She’s here with us,” she said. “Can’t you feel her? She’ll help you do it the right way.”

  But I felt nothing and no one but Becca lying on the floor and me sitting beside her. Just the two of us. The way it should be.

  Then I felt a hand, warm and light, on my shoulder. I moaned but didn’t pull away. No one was there, only the air in the basement, but it felt real. It felt more than real. I sniffed back a sudden gush of salty snot.

  “See?” Becca said. She sounded birthday-party happy, and it cut me into ribbons. I didn’t want to be here anymore. Didn’t want to feel the hand on me. She wasn’t supposed to be real. I leaned back, away from Becca. The hand on my shoulder pushed me back into place. Snot ran over my upper lip and I shouldered it away.

  “Becca, I can’t,” I said.

  “Yes, you can,” she said, as the unseen hand moved down my arm, guiding it where it needed to go. “That’s it. Now.”

  “I can’t,” I said. But I did. I did because the Red Lady made me do it. Because Becca was sure everything would be okay. Because if I didn’t, Becca would never be my friend again. There was a pinch of resistance, then the knife slid all the way in. Becca’s eyes got wide and she groaned. I did, too. When I pulled the blade free, she blew out all her air. A thin line of blood trickled down her side, the wound an almost-closed mouth smeared with red lipstick. Nothing serious. It only needed a few stitches. I dropped the knife on the towel and started crying because that was a lie. I’d cut her. I’d cut her skin and her insides.

  She coughed a little. “It doesn’t even hurt. Stay with me, okay? Don’t leave me alone. Promise me.” She pulled her shirt down to cover the wound, and blood seeped through.

  “I won’t,” I said, clutching her hand. “I promise. I’ll stay the whole time. I’ll be here when you come back.”

  “No,” she said. “The dirt. Get the dirt.”

  I pulled the baggie close. “Okay. I have it.”

  “You have to put it in my mouth. Not yet, but when it’s done. And then you have to go.”

  “I—but …” I glanced at her side, at the blood, and felt like I was going to throw up.

  “Don’t worry. It’s how it’s supposed to be. I’ll be okay,” she said, linking her fingers with mine. “Tell me about when we met in kindergarten.”

  So I told her the story of how I saw her playing by herself. How nobody else wanted to play with her, but I did. How she asked if I would be her friend and I said yes. I was at the part where I introduced her to Rachel and Gia when she said, “Don’t forget to put the dirt in my mouth.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I knew you’d help me,” she said. “Please be kind.”

  “And rewind,” I said.

  Her eyes fluttered shut and her grip loosened.

  “Becca?”

  The room was so quiet, it hurt my heart. So heavy it pushed my head forward. Still holding Becca’s hand, I tucked my knees to my chest. My pulse was thready, breath coming in little gasps. I wanted to disappear. Wanted to shatter into a million pieces and blow away.

  But she’d told me I had to put dirt in her mouth, so I pinched a little bit from the bag, sprinkled it in her half-open mouth. Because I was shaking so bad, some got on her cheeks, too, the red dark against her skin. I wiped it away and tossed the bag near the knife, but I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave her alone. I wanted to be here when she got back.

  I held her hand again; her fingers flopped against mine. “Becca, come back. You said she’d bring you back.”

  The warmth left her body in slow degrees. I sat with her and waited. And waited.

  I bent close to her ear. “You have to come back now. Please. Please come back.”

  Then you have to go, she’d said. After the dirt, I was supposed to go. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t awake yet. I didn’t want to leave her, but I said, “Okay, I’ll go. But I’ll come back. I promise.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  NOW

  I’m holding two bottles of wine—one red, one white—unable to decide which to take to Gia’s party. I don’t even really want to go. Last night I slept poorly, and my head’s still full of fading images of falling into a hole with Becca standing at the edge. There was another dream, too, of the two of us in a shadowy basement, but the less I think about that, the better.

  With the bottles left on the kitchen counter, I pad upstairs, intent on removing my makeup and donning pajamas. Ryan will understand. I’ll tell him my wrist hurts. Or that I’m still upset about the altercation at Silverstone. Guilt twists in my gut. He knows there was a fight, but not my part in it. He doesn’t even know yet that I won’t be working there for the time being. At least not from me.

  He isn’t in our room, but his office door is open a crack. I stand close.

  “No,” he says. A pause, and, “It’s taking longer than expected.” Another pause. “By the end of the week.”

  The door opens.

  He looks down as he slips his phone into his pocket, and when he looks back, his lips are set into an easy smile. But worry nestles in his eyes.

  “What’s up?” I say.

  “Just work stuff,” he says, kissing my cheek. “You look beautiful.”

  I’m wearing my new forest-green skinny jeans. A black V-neck. Suede peep-toe ankle boots. Crimson toenails. A ton of concealer to hide the dark circles.

  The worry remains, though, and I feel an accusation building. Not that I have a reason or any idea of what to accuse him of, but tension gathers inside me like a storm. I might not want to go to the party, but I don’t want to stay home either. Not feeling like this. I’m tired of fighting with him. And with Lauren dead, Gia’s back on the suspect list, as ridiculous as that seems, so I can’t squander tonight’s opportunity.

  “Should we take red or white?” I say.

  “Red.”

  We’re halfway to Gia’s house, Ryan driving us in his truck, when he says, “Can I get a hint?”

  “A hint for what?”

  “How quickly she forgets,” he says, pressing our linked fingers to his chest. “A movie hint, for the one you gave me?”

  My mind goes blank. I know I came up with something, but … I run my tongue along my bottom teeth. It seems like something I said a lifetime ago. The movie comes back to me, but I’ve no idea what else t
o say. I think of various scenes, discarding the obvious choices of electric fences and green Jell-O, and say, “Vomit.”

  “Vomit?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You might stump me this time.”

  “That’d be a first,” I say.

  When we get close to Gia’s, I flip down the visor. My makeup looks as it did when we left. Of course. I slide my hands under my upper thighs. Nip the inside of my lower lip between my teeth.

  “You okay?” Ryan says.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You seem nervous.”

  “Maybe a little anxious. We won’t know anyone. What if they’re all boring or heavily opinionated or drunk and belligerent?” I add good humor to my voice.

  “If they’re terrible, we’ll leave. Sound like a plan?”

  It does. But my fingers dig into the backs of my legs.

  Gia’s curtains are open, lights bright and welcoming, matched by the cheery message on the mat. I square my shoulders as I knock. A stranger opens the door, and Gia comes running, giving me a hug first, then Ryan. She’s in dark jeans and a paisley shirt. Flats with lacing at the ankles. She turns to the room, to the dozen people milling there. “Everyone, this is Heather, who I’ve known since we were kids, and her husband, Ryan. Ryan, Heather, this is everyone.”

  People say hello or wave and Gia leans close. “I’m sorry I’m not introducing them all individually, but I can’t remember some of their names.” She points toward a table in the corner topped with a collection of liquor bottles. “Trying not to create too many bottlenecks, so mixers are there, and there’s beer in a cooler on the back deck.”

  I try to picture this woman behind the wheel of a battered Chevy and fail. I try again. Fail a second time.

  Ryan holds up the wine.

  “Wine’s in the kitchen. Follow me,” she says over her shoulder. “And you can meet my husband, Spencer.”

  The downstairs layout is fairly simple—living, dining, kitchen, small family room in the back, half bath. A staircase to the left of the front door. No basement, common in houses in Annapolis. It’s decorated in shades of gray with bright splashes of color—teal throw pillows; sea-glass-green tablecloth in the dining room, almost completely covered with bowls and trays of food; a glossy red Keurig on the kitchen counter.

  I recognize her husband from the Facebook photos as he extends a hand. Gia gives us two wine glasses and leaves us in the kitchen while she greets another arrival. Spencer tells us to please eat, so we wander into the dining room, where other folks are piling food onto heavy-duty paper plates. Deli meats, baked ziti, Caesar salad, fruit salad, Caprese skewers. Tortilla chips, salsa, guacamole. A massive charcuterie tray. And a sideboard filled with a whole slew of desserts.

  Ryan and I eat and exchange pleasantries with the other guests. Most are coworkers. One couple lives next door. The conversation rises and falls, a roller coaster of thoughts, opinions, and random observations. Expressions hold polite interest. I visit the half bath, which is clean enough to dine in, and peek in the cabinet under the sink. Extra rolls of toilet paper, bowl cleaner, a packet of what Ryan calls butt wipes. Advil, Band-Aids, tweezers, and Neosporin in the medicine cabinet. I soap off the guilt. Even if Gia’s the least likely suspect, there’s no harm in looking.

  When I return, Ryan’s nowhere in sight, and I wander around until I catch sight of him through a sliding-glass door. He and Spencer are chatting up a storm, so I refill my wine glass and step out a side door to a small empty porch with three steps leading down. The closed door dulls the hum of voices. It’s verging on cold tonight, but I don’t mind. Out here I don’t have to feign good nature. Only a few minutes pass before Gia comes out with a glass of her own.

  “An escapee!” she says.

  “Catching some air,” I say.

  She plants herself on the middle step. “Yeah, more people came than expected, even a bunch who said they weren’t coming, and it’s getting crowded.”

  When I sit, she scoots even closer so we’re crowded together like kids. I want it all to be real. Our reconnecting. Our growing friendship. It has to be. She couldn’t fake the sort of kindness she’s shown. Something would give it away. Leaning against each other, we sit for a time talking about Annapolis and such, and then, her glass empty, she says, “I’d better get back in before Spencer comes to find me.”

  After a few minutes, I return myself. Don’t want to be too conspicuous with my absence. The conversations seem louder, the cheer more boisterous. I leave my glass on the counter. Weave through the rooms to the staircase. The bathroom on the second floor is done in black and white, and all the bedroom doors are open, which makes finding the master easy. Shoving my guilt into a small, dark place inside me, I close the door almost all the way, blocking the view from the hallway. The tops of the dressers are uncluttered. The nightstands as well. There are two closets. Men’s clothes, men’s shoes in the first. In the second, Gia’s. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

  I hear voices, flick off the closet light, and position myself behind the bedroom door. I keep still, but it’s only a few people waiting for the restroom. Doesn’t take long for them to finish. The doorbell rings as I’m halfway down the stairs, and in steps a gray-haired man. The same man who knocked on my car window when I came to Gia’s neighborhood. I swear he’s even wearing the same blue polo.

  I will him to look in any direction but mine. Will him to walk toward the kitchen. But he remains by the front door, surveying the crowd. A few people glance at him with mild curiosity. A couple in the far corner wave. He does the same in response. Just when I think I’ve bypassed the inspection, his gaze locks on mine.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I can’t tell if that’s recognition or not. Tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, I continue down and aim for the small porch again. A few people are already there, so I wander to the larger back porch and find Ryan with Gia’s husband and several others, talking movies. There’s another smaller group on the opposite side of the deck talking politics.

  The door opens again and the man in the polo emerges. I move closer to Ryan, and he slips an arm around my waist. The newcomer joins the other group. From time to time he glances over; I do my best to look involved in the conversation. I’m about two minutes from asking Ryan if he’s okay with leaving when the man in the polo walks over. The group opens to let him join.

  Go back inside, I silently will. Leave us alone. Leave me alone.

  “I’m Gus,” he says. “I’m in charge of the Neighborhood Watch here.”

  Peachy. Just my luck. I pocket my fingers to keep them from wandering to my mouth. Everyone else does a quick introduction. Ryan takes care of us both. The conversation returns to movies; this time, horror. I do my best to tune them out.

  Cupping my elbow, Ryan leans close to my ear. “You okay?”

  “I’m a little tired,” I say. “Maybe we can go soon?”

  He looks surprised but says, “Sure.”

  Gia comes out, arms outstretched for a hug. “I’m so glad you came tonight,” she says.

  “How do you two know each other?” another woman—Eileen, Ellen?—asks.

  “We grew up in the same neighborhood,” Gia says. “And after Spencer and I moved here, we ran into each other at the bookstore. Talk about wild, right?” She beams at me.

  “Definitely wild. Hey, I’m going to get more wine,” I say, brandishing my almost-empty glass. “Anyone else need a refill?”

  I duck into the house and take my time, rinsing my glass and drying it with a paper towel before examining the bottles. I’ve finished pouring a red blend when there’s movement beside me. Gus, standing a touch too close for comfort.

  “Still thinking of moving here?” he says.

  “Excuse me?” I say, painting my features with confusion as I step back.

  “You said you were thinking of moving here.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

>   His eyes narrow. “I don’t forget faces, especially one like yours. You were sitting outside in your car a couple weeks ago and I knocked on the window.”

  I shake my head. “You have me mistaken for someone else.”

  “You drive a black Jeep, right?”

  “Whoever you’re talking about, it wasn’t me.” There’s a touch of amusement in my words to make it convincing. My palms are damp, though. Armpits as well.

  “I’m not in the business of lying.”

  “Didn’t say you were, but you’re mistaken.” I’m trying to stay calm, but there’s a quaver in my voice, and heat splotches my cheeks and sternum.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he says, moving even closer and blocking the way.

  “Excuse me, do you mind?” I lift my glass. “I’d like to pass by.”

  “I remember you, remember what you said.”

  I say nothing.

  “What kind of game are you playing?” he says. His gaze bores into mine. His foul breath pushes into my face. “I know it was you.”

  I’m so tired of it all. Tired of this man, his suspicious eyes, his reeking mouth. Tired of the bullshit and my aching wrist. Tired of everything. I step forward, forcing him to take one back. “So what the fuck if I did? It’s no crime to park on the street. Did I hurt anyone? No. So why don’t you back the fuck off, asshole.”

  He recoils, mouth working silently. He definitely wasn’t expecting that. Over his shoulder, I spy Gia standing at the entrance of the kitchen. One hand touches her lips, the other palms the doorframe. A little behind her, Ryan, his brows arced into sideways commas.

  “Heather?” Gia says. “What’s going on?”

  Fuck. How much did she hear? How much did they fucking hear?

  Gus crosses his arms. “She was sitting in her car outside on the street a couple weeks ago, right before the big yard sale. Just sitting. Said she wanted to move here. She didn’t like me talking to her, that’s for sure. Wasn’t happy to be seen, and she hightailed it out. I should’ve gotten her license plate number—that would prove it—but she drove too fast.” He points, then turns to Gia. “And now she’s here in your house? Doesn’t that bother you at least a little bit? ’Cause it bothers me.”