The Dead Girls Club

by Damien Angelica Walters

  “Get what?”

  “Becca’s necklace,” I say. “And her drawing and the ribbon. Where did you get them? How did you get them?”

  She purses her lips. “When I went to her house, there was a backpack on the porch and her stuff was inside.”

  Becca’s things … and the stolen money. That part makes sense. If Sarah was using, the cash would’ve been impossible to resist. But how did the necklace get in the backpack? How did the backpack get on her porch? Something’s missing. Something’s wrong.

  Sarah snaps her fingers. “Earth to doc, come in, doc. We’re not talking rocket science here.”

  And something else pops to the forefront of my mind. “But why send them to me? If Becca meant so much to you, wouldn’t you want to keep them?” I say. I know I shouldn’t make her angry, but I can’t help it. Hands on the chair’s arms, I set my feet firmly on the patio, once more gauging the distance between me and the door.

  “Never been arrested, have you?” she says. “Ever seen a cop show?” At my confusion, she rolls her eyes. “Jesus. See, if the cops have evidence and want to find out if you know anything about it, sometimes they’ll have you in a room and bring it in, see what you do. It’s a good trick, yeah? And it works most of the time.

  “Besides, I didn’t really have a whole lot of other options. If I’d just asked, would you have told me the truth? I kinda hoped Lauren was right. But it was pretty obvious you knew something. And when I put the ribbon on your car, I saw how afraid you were. So, what are you hiding?”

  I am not telling her a damn thing. She has no proof that I did anything wrong.

  “Was it you that night in the rain? In the old Chevy? And outside the apartment?” I touch the bandage on my wrist.

  She smirks. “That’s not really important right now.” She opens her messenger bag, withdraws an envelope, and every muscle in my body tenses. “But this might be.”

  Out slides a knife I wish like hell I didn’t recognize. I press the back of my hand to my mouth. The handle, once a uniform shade, is bleached gray in some spots, oily dark in others. Time has pocked the blade with speckles of rust, and dirt crusts where metal meets wood. It’s a paring knife, the blade only about three and a half inches long, so much smaller than in my memory. Impossible as it seems, it still appears sharp. Becca didn’t stand a chance.

  I feel Sarah watching me and my hand drops. I try to appear calm, but it’s too late.

  “I wondered what you were doing in the field,” she says. “What you were looking for. When I found it, I knew. So it’s real easy. What did you do to her?”

  No, no, no. I am not doing this. I’m not admitting anything. I do that and I’m as good as dead.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I say. “You show up at my house, pretend to be my friend from thirty years ago, and pull a knife? You think my acting strange after you left something on my car means I’m somehow guilty? Who wouldn’t be freaked out by that? You need to go. Right now.” I stand up fast and she does the same, grabbing my arm.

  “What did you do to Becca?” she says.

  She’s stronger than she looks, and I can’t tug free. “I didn’t do anything. Your sister killed her.”

  She pulls me kissing-close, then pushes me away. The backs of my legs hit the chair, and I pinwheel my arms to stay upright.

  “My sister was nothing like me. She couldn’t kill a spider, let alone a person,” she says. “She used to cry when we passed dead animals in the road.”

  “After I went to see her at the hotel, did she tell you to leave me alone?” My words are soft. “Is that why …”

  Her eyes are flint. “What happened to my sister was an accident. She fell. But she died thinking she killed Becca. Even after I showed her the knife, she said you wouldn’t have hurt her. She died defending you. How fucked up is that? But she was weak and stupid. Now tell me the truth. What the fuck did you do to my little girl?”

  Anger pumps through my veins, and I realize that not only is she unstable, she doesn’t really care if I’m guilty or not.

  “Your little girl?” I say, my voice ice. “How dare you. Where were you when she needed you? She called you for help, and you said no!”

  She puts a booted foot on the edge of the fire pit and shoves it in my direction. The logs, still aflame, roll every which way, one landing near the partly open French doors. Sparks dance across the stones.

  I run for the house.

  Just inside the family room, Sarah grabs my shoulder, yanking me back. Curled fingers dig into my upper arms, and she flings me against the perpendicular wall. My teeth snap together with a painful, audible click. My wrist shrieks.

  Tiny flames are creeping near the doorway, licking toward the floor mat only a few inches away. I freeze at the sight. We have a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall in the garage. I need to—

  Sarah grabs me again and drives me farther into the room. I clamber over the sofa as she comes around, wielding the knife. My phone is on the coffee table between us, but before I can get it, she hurls it away with a swipe of her arm. The knife goes flying, too. With the table protecting me for the moment, I move as fast as I can. If I can get to the front hallway, I might be okay, but I have to get away from her or she’s going to—

  She kicks me in the back of my knee and I shout, falling forward, still in the family room. I roll onto my back and prop myself up on my elbows, ears ringing. She looms over me, and this close, I see the lines grooving her mouth into a puppet’s. Her eyes are slits, her jaw tight. I smell the rage on her skin, sour and bright.

  There’s another smell in the room now: smoke. And a low popping. Oh no. Please, no.

  “Can’t you smell that?” I say. “We have to—”

  I rear back just fast enough to keep her fist from slamming into my nose, and the blow glances off my cheekbone. I scramble to my feet. There’s no getting away from this, from her. Bracing myself with bent knees, I punch her in the face. I’ve never hit someone like this, and the impact of my fist on her cheek is like nothing I’ve imagined. For one thing, it hurts. I cry out as my injured wrist goes hot and cradle it to my chest. She reels back. And she smiles.

  We’re about three feet from the hallway now. Behind us, an orange glow. A soft push of heat. A low purr. A gray haze hovering near the ceiling.

  She charges. Her head strikes me in the sternum, driving me back against the wall. One foot against the plaster for leverage, I shove her away. Her head hits a framed photo, sending it to the floor in a shatter of glass and splintered wood. She growls like a caged animal. Charges again. This time I bring a knee up, catching her in the belly. She staggers back with a shout. Yet another charge, this one so fast I can’t do anything. Her fists pummel my belly, my sternum, my ribs. I grab one of her wrists; she breaks free with ease. She’s too strong. Too determined.

  The low purr grows louder. The air is heavy with heat and I smell the burning. Flames are licking the French doors, turning the exit into a devil’s mouth. Fire is consuming the sofa, devouring the rug.

  “Can’t you tell the house is on fire, you fucking bitch!” I elbow her sideways, catching her off guard, and bolt for the hallway. She hooks the edge of my hood, catching my windpipe. Her fingers twist in my hair, nails scraping channels in my scalp as she drives me to the floor.

  “I don’t fucking care!” she hisses in my ear. “Tell me what you did!”

  I land on my chest with a grunt, hands coming up in time to keep from kissing the wood, palms stinging from the impact. I flip over, kicking out once, twice. The second lands above her knee; her leg slides out from underneath her and she tumbles.

  I run into the hallway. Her footfalls go the other way. The door is six feet away when she hurtles into me, launching me forward. I slam into the floor, wheezing a scream. Turn, fists up. And she has the knife again.

  She grabs a fistful of hoodie and flings me into the wall, but I hook her ankle, dragging her down with me. She drops the knife. Usin
g her hair, I lift and drop her head, hoping it works like in the movies, hoping it’ll knock her out.

  It doesn’t.

  I jerk to my feet. She follows suit. We’re both openmouthed and panting. I don’t want to do this anymore. It has to end. The knife is beside us on the floor. Closer to me. I snatch it up and hold it high. But her back is to the front door, mine to the family room. And the fire.

  “So now what are you going to do?” she says.

  Before I can think, she tackles me, and it’s like being struck by a school bus. I shout as we collide with the floor, the knife flying. She pins my arms to the sides with her knees. Lowers her face to mine.

  “Tell me what you fucking did to her!”

  Then her hands are on my neck, squeezing. I wrench my right arm free, try to pry her fingers back, try smacking her wrist, pounding her forearm, but nothing works. I can’t pull her off. Can’t get up. Can’t breathe.

  My head gets swimmy and everything starts to fade. I spider my fingers along the tile for something, for anything. My fingertips meet something hard—the knife handle. My wrist screams in pain when I grab it, but I hold tight.

  She might be stronger, but I’m taller and heavier. I thrust with my hips and twist my chest, and her grip on my throat breaks. Sucking in air, I roll, and the momentum carries us both over. Fury has twisted her into a nightmare. Clutching the knife two-handed, I raise it high overhead and slam it down as hard as I can.

  Her eyes widen, holding my gaze. I go cold all over, down to the marrow, and scrabble off, skidding away. Her hands twitch toward the knife, nestled between her breasts in a Rorschach blot of red. She opens her mouth, but nothing emerges. Then she stills.

  What have I done to her? What have I done?

  More smoke, darker now, wisps down the hallway, turning the air caustic. The heat from fighting, from the growing blaze, slicks my skin with sweat. The family room is impassable and flames dance along the walls of the hallway.

  I stumble to the front door and yank it open. Run to the front lawn and fall to my knees, wheezing, my chest and throat aching from the effort it takes.

  From ground to roof, the house is destruction. Shingles tumble like dying birds. Broken glass glitters. The fire roars. I curl into a ball and rock back and forth. I’m numb. Terrified. Nothing and everything and all that’s in between. I ache from neck to belly to wrist. I ache even more inside, where no one can see. Voices rise and fall, say my name, tell me help is on the way. The wail of sirens pierces the night.

  “I killed her,” I say, but the words are lost to grief. When the first responders arrive, I’m still crying.

  And the house continues to burn.

  EPILOGUE

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  I dream about Sarah, about sliding the knife into her chest, how dreadfully easy it was. I wake, fall back to sleep, into a different dream: Becca and I in the house holding hands and chanting Red Lady, Red Lady. When I wake again, I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for the sun to rise.

  After it does, I send a text, receive a brief one in response. Traffic is heavy, but not horrible, not until I get to 695 anyway.

  Her eyes wary, my mom opens the door before I can knock. Two mugs wait on the kitchen table, curling steam into the air. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to make breakfast,” she says, “but I have blueberry muffins if you’re hungry?”

  “No, I’m fine,” I say, sitting in the closest chair, the one that was my spot when I was a kid. “Where’s Dad?”

  She sits, cupping her mug. “He’s with a friend. I told him you wanted to come over and talk.”

  “Does he know why I’m here?”

  She winces and looks away. “No, he doesn’t.”

  I sip my coffee. Beneath the smell, there’s another lingering in the air: the sour bite of anxiety. Of fear. When Mom asks about the house, about Ryan, we both know what—who—waits in the pauses between. I don’t want to have this conversation either, but I want it all to be over. Inasmuch as it can be.

  I rub the cast on my wrist. I spent the night of the fire in the hospital, but there was no permanent damage to my lungs or throat. In addition to the hairline fracture, I’ve a map of fading bruises and a stiffness in my lower back when I turn the wrong way. It could’ve been much worse.

  I tried calling Ryan that night, but he didn’t answer. He showed up at the hospital the next morning, though, but it wasn’t a tear-filled reunion with hugs and promises of forgiveness. That only happens in the movies. It was strange and awkward and it hurt, but we spoke, mostly about what happened that night and the events that led up to it, not including what really happened to Becca. We’ve talked several times since then and even met for dinner two nights ago, but what’s between us is a fragile sort of peace. He’s still angry, understandably so, that I didn’t tell him what was going on, but there’s still love there, too. And concern. But right now he’s staying with his brother while I’m in an extended-stay hotel near my office.

  After dinner we kissed and I came very close to asking him to come back to the hotel with me, but I was afraid he might say no. I will next time, though. I’d like to think we’ll be okay, eventually, even if the road there is rocky. We’ve been together a long time. You don’t just throw something like that away.

  In spite of the firefighters’ best efforts, our house is gone. I’ve driven past it twice, and the haphazard pile of charred timber doesn’t look like it could ever have been anything else. I know it’s replaceable, but it hurts more somehow than the bruises on my skin.

  The official story: Sarah was stalking me and I didn’t tell anyone because I thought it would make it worse. She showed up at the house and attacked me, the house catching fire sometime during the struggle. I had bruises all over my body and finger marks on my throat. She had a history of drug abuse and assault. They also matched her DNA to the crime scene at Lauren’s apartment. There was a blip in the paper, the sort of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it write-up.

  Nicole saw it, though, and called me. Alexa did, too. I haven’t called either one back yet; I’m not quite ready for that. Maybe it’s because of everything that happened, everything I did. Maybe it’s because of the genuine concern in their messages. Alexa even apologized for accusing me of doing anything wrong. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look her in the eye again. And even if, out of pity, Nicole asks me to come back to Silverstone, I’ve decided to resign there and focus solely on my private practice and my patients. If she and I don’t work together, maybe we can salvage our friendship. I hope so, anyway.

  This week I returned to work, and I took more notes than I can remember taking in a long time. I listened to my patients, too. Really listened. I’m grateful that I have them, even if everything else falls apart.

  I still don’t remember anything after running out of the basement that last night with Becca. I still don’t know where her body is. But now I think I might know why, no matter how improbable.

  “Were you there that night?” I say finally. “Did you see what happened to Becca?”

  “No.” The word is barely audible, and she clears her throat, her attention still on the table. “No,” she says, louder this time. “I heard you sneak out the first time, and the second, when you came home, you were crying. The third time, I followed you—you were sick that night and I was worried—to the house. I waited outside. And after you ran out, I went in.”

  When she looks up, I see truth. I can’t believe she’s known all these years. Can’t believe I never knew she knew.

  “Mom, I—”

  “It wasn’t a secret the two of you were fighting. When I found her, when I saw, I assumed it got out of hand or there was an accident of some kind. She had bruises on her face, and I didn’t know what to think. There was nothing I could do, do you understand? She was already gone. She’d been gone for a little while.”

  Because I killed her. Not the Red Lady. Me.

  “I knew it was wrong, but I panicked. I just wanted to protect you.
That’s what mothers are supposed to do. If I’d called the police—I didn’t know her mother would be blamed. I thought people would think she just ran away. Kids do that. If I’d known what would happen, I would’ve come up with something else. I swear I would’ve. But I saw her there and I couldn’t do anything to help her and I was afraid you—I wasn’t thinking, I just knew I had to …”

  “I need to tell you what happened, okay?” I wait for her to nod. “It was a game, sort of. And it started with a story.”

  Slowly, the truth tumbles from my lips. All of it. The house. The Dead Girls Club. The bruises. Lauren’s drinking. The Red Lady. And those final nights in the house.

  When I’m finished, my chest hurts, but I feel twenty pounds lighter. Just to tell it, to let it all out. “It sounds outlandish now, but it made perfect sense then. We thought she’d be okay. I swear we did. I never would’ve hurt her, not like that. Not to really hurt her.”

  “I know.” Her voice is gentle.

  It’s a struggle to find words. “Does Dad—”

  “No, and he never will. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” I also know we’ll never speak of this again. “This might sound odd, but did you leave her bag on her porch? Her backpack?”

  She cocks her head. “I did. I accidentally left it in my car and didn’t know what else to do with it. I knew I couldn’t keep it there, couldn’t throw it out. Why? How did you know?”

  “Just a guess,” I say. “And her necklace? The half-heart? Did you put that in her backpack, too?”

  She starts and visibly swallows. “Yes. It-it caught on something in the-in the trunk, and when I went back to the car, I saw it there.” She shakes her head. “I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t thinking at all. But how …?”

  “Mom?” I don’t want to ask, but I need to know. The words are so small, but so heavy: “Where is she?”

  * * *

  The Coleman building is twelve stories of glass and brickwork. Pretty, but still functional, it sits next to an old cemetery dating back to the 1890s. I find an open spot on a nearby street, pay the meter, and walk. There’s a small park across the street from the building, and I plop down on a wrought-iron bench. It’s cold today, too cold to sit outside for any length of time, but I pull my coat tighter. Ignore the chill leaching from the metal into the backs of my thighs. The sky is an angry shade of blue-gray that can’t tell in which direction it wants to tip. I smell frying chicken from a fast-food restaurant, burgers from another.