The Good Girl

by Barritt, Christy

  Home. Was that Florida? Was I ever really going to go back there? Was there any place I’d truly ever feel safe and comfortable again?

  The old Tara would have said no to Ghost Chasers. My new Bad Girls Rule echoed in my mind. Which led me to Rule #2: If in doubt, do it. “He can come. Do the tests and see what happens.”

  “Really?” She squealed. “He’s not like one of the main guys on the show. He’s actually one of the technicians, but he knows how to use all of the equipment. Can I film it for my YouTube channel?”

  “As long as I’m not on the video.” Me showing up on the Internet was the last thing I needed. If the angry mobs knew where I was, they might show up at my door with pitchforks in hand. Maybe not pitchforks, but, at the very least, they might have restraining orders or a big, fat Scarlet Letter to strap across my chest.

  “It’s a deal!”

  I sighed. Was this one deal I was going to regret?

  ~*~

  Candy left an hour later, and I sat alone in my eerie little abode. My gaze fixated on the windows and wondered if someone was watching me. I stared back.

  Until I remembered the creepy guy across the street.

  I should have called Cooper and taken him up on his offer to replace those locks and install a security system, but my pride stopped me. He wouldn’t be over here tonight, sleeping on my couch. It would just be Gaga and me. How was I ever going to get any sleep?

  I reached into my purse and pulled out a Glock. Yep, a gun. I’d filled out an application down at the police station. I didn’t have a right to carry this anywhere, but I did have a right to keep it in my house, right beside my bed. I’d been all set to go to the gun shop and purchase something, but Candy said I could borrow hers.

  I stared at the black metal and ran my hand down its smooth edges. I guess I should learn how to shoot. Ghosts were pretty bulletproof, but intruders weren’t. This was how I was going to sleep tonight.

  In theory, at least.

  I stood and started toward the hallway, bypassing my own bedroom in favor of the spare. I sat down at Lana’s computer and pulled up the Internet, doing a quick search for Candy Cornelius. Pages of results popped up.

  I clicked on a few of her videos and smiled at what I saw. Candy doing random man-on-the-street interviews. Candy videoing herself on a roller-coaster. Candy not caring what anyone thought of her. People loved it. Some of her videos had more than a million hits.

  My fingers hovered on the keyboard. Don’t do it, Tara. Don’t do it.

  I did it anyway. I typed my name into the search engine, something that always caused my emotional state to be declared a disaster area for days afterward.

  Pages of articles appeared.

  Against my better judgment, I clicked on the first one. The story was called “Saint Turned Sinner,” and it detailed my life growing up as the daughter of a prominent mega-church pastor. It highlighted all of the accomplishments of my past and how I’d taken a job at the Christian school affiliated with my father’s church. It mentioned my marriage to a respected man in the Christian community.

  Then it showed my mug shot, the picture taken when I was arrested for taking indecent liberties with a minor. The image still crushed my heart. When I thought of the blatant lies said about me, tears pushed their way out.

  Not only had one of my seventeen-year-old students accused me of having an inappropriate relationship with him, but the firestorm that had erupted afterward broke my heart and my spirit. My dad’s church nearly split over it. Those who didn’t believe I could have done it stayed. Those who thought I was a child molester had left.

  I felt like the main character in a million different Bible stories. I was Job facing hardship after hardship. I was Daniel in the lion’s den. I was David, staring down my own Goliath.

  The difference was that the people in the Bible had conquered their trials. I’d been stoned and died. I’d tried to walk on water but sunk. I’d looked back and turned into a pillar of salt.

  People had either believed me or they hadn’t. Most of what I said didn’t have any affect. People’s minds were already made up. It’s always the sweet ones you have to watch out for. You never know what a person’s really like. Even her husband thinks she’s guilty. I’d heard the whispers.

  Even though there had been no evidence to convict me, I’d been deemed guilty by the community. My face had been splashed on newspapers all over Florida. One national news show had even picked it up. Websites that profiled women pedophiles listed me.

  The strain the scrutiny caused put a burden on my marriage. I could have done better. I should have done better.

  People saw Peter’s departure from my life as more evidence that I was indeed guilty.

  I knew I wasn’t guilty, but I still felt guilty. I still felt like I’d done something wrong.

  Zack Morris was seventeen years old. He was able to enroll at the Christian school on a need-based scholarship. He had a single mom who didn’t make much money. His mom, his younger brother, and Zack had moved to Florida from the Midwest after the divorce.

  Zack was always a little standoffish from his classmates. He was a good-looking boy with short brown hair and an athletic build. He’d had a steady girlfriend of four months, a cute girl who played the clarinet in the school’s marching band. Zack had always seemed like he needed a father figure in his life, and he’d struggled some with the rules of the Christian school.

  Even though I taught elementary school, I’d been asked to head up the drama club, mostly because I’d had the lead in a couple of productions when I’d been a student at the school myself. Drama wasn’t my passion, but I told them I’d do it for a year, a decision that had been pivotal in my decline. If only I could go back and say no. I’d traded my happy ever after for hopes of impressing my principal and a sad performance of The Sound of Music.

  I’d set my own boundaries about not spending any time alone with students of the opposite sex. But, unlike other parents, Zack’s mom never picked him up on time. I’d talked to her about it, and she’d broken down in tears, telling me about how hard it was to be a single mom. My heart had caved with compassion because she’d seemed truly broken.

  Even after that conversation, she continued to be late. One Thursday in May I’d been anxious to get home. The day was sunny and I had dreamed all morning of sitting in my backyard reading after I got home from work. Peter was out of town for a few more days on a business trip, so I had some time to myself. The end of the school year had been so busy and stressful, and I needed some downtime.

  All the other cast members had gone home after play practice, and I’d waited an hour for Zack’s mom to arrive. I tried to stay occupied with grading papers and organizing my desk. Zack had stayed in my classroom working on his homework. He’d seemed nervous, and I thought it was because he sensed my agitation.

  Finally, I’d offered to drive him home. We’d chitchatted about the play and school athletics on the drive home. He’d mentioned how bad things had been for his family after his dad left them—money was tight, his mom was always emotional, his brother was always in trouble. I’d felt for him. I really had. I remembered making a mental note to talk to the principal about ways we could help his family out.

  I pulled up to his house, a run-down building that needed some major TLC. There were no cars in the driveway, which didn’t seem unusual after what he’d told me. Zack had grabbed his book bag, gave me a wave, and went inside his house. I’d driven away. End of story.

  At least, it should have been the end of the story.

  The police came and arrested me two days later. Zack had told his mom that I went inside the house with him. He accused me of making advances at him, not just once but on several occasions. He even alleged I’d asked him to stay late so we could have time together. But then he changed details of his story a couple of times, which reduced his credibility.

  With Peter out of town, I’d called my parents to bail me out. My mom wouldn’t stop crying, and
my dad was even worse—he was simply quiet. We’d approached a family friend and one of the best attorneys in the area about representing me, and he’d refused. That’s when I knew I was in trouble.

  Thankfully, between the lack of concrete evidence like DNA, text messages, or pictures, the district attorney’s office couldn’t meet their burden of proof.

  It was Zack’s word against mine, which wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. But it was more than enough in the court of public opinion.

  Even with the charges dropped, there was no formal “clearing” of my name or closing of the investigation. Any day could turn up a new lead, and I could be hauled back for more questions, more accusations, and more humiliation.

  In Christian circles, there were a lot of things that merited forgiveness. Embezzling money. Divorce. Pregnancy out of wedlock. But not this.

  Even I had to admit that what I’d been accused of was heinous enough to justify people ostracizing me.

  My career working with children was now marked DNR. I knew employers would find excuses as to why they couldn’t hire me, and I couldn’t blame them. I wouldn’t even hire me, and I knew I was innocent.

  Police had searched for more victims, asking the public to come forward with information. People I’d worked with had been questioned. The media had a field day with my story when the charges became public. Reporters began camping out on my doorstep. I’d eventually sequestered myself at my uncle’s house. Lana had flown in and just sat with me for hours on end. Peter claimed he had to work, so he stayed with his mom.

  All it took was one lie, and my life had been destroyed. Why? Why had Zack made up the story? I hadn’t talked to him since that day I’d dropped him off at home. Why someone would want to ruin another person’s life was beyond me.

  But ruin he had. My dreams had dried up. My career was ruined. My husband had walked out the door. Now I had a reputation that would always haunt me.

  Where did that leave me?

  Right now, it left me with red highlights, a spray-on tan, and a nose ring. Eventually I was going to have to figure out where I was going to live, what kind of job I might take. I was going to have to figure out who I really was. This transformation seemed like a start.

  I turned off the computer.

  Right now, I just needed to go to bed.

  ~*~

  That night, the light from the street lamp outside slithered through my blinds and smeared itself across the wall in front of my bed. As the light filtered through the craggy limbs of the Bradford Pear tree in the front yard, the spots of illumination formed a scowl on the wall. Two eyes angled in, glaring at me. A crescent shaped frown burned into my mind. I could almost hear a tsk tsk coming from the face.

  Even when I put my head under the covers, I still knew that scowl was there. It was like God materialized in those flashes of light and looked at me in disappointment. Hiding would do me no good, so I gave up and stared at the ceiling instead.

  Of course I’d let God down. Though I’d only admitted it in the last couple of weeks, I’d begun to question His very existence. I wondered if my prayers were unheard. I wondered if I’d lived my life in vain, worshiping and serving a God who wasn’t really there.

  My very godly parents had taught me from a very young age that God had created the world in six days, that only Noah and his family had survived the flood, and that Christ died on the cross for my sins.

  But what if I hadn’t learned those things? What if I’d grown up with parents who weren’t believers? Would I still have found my way to Christ? Would He have found His way to me?

  I knew the answers. I could flip to John 3:16 in my sleep. I could name all the books of the Bible—the canon, mind you—from Genesis to Revelation—and that’s Revelation, not Revelations. I could sing “Amazing Grace” in three different harmonies, in Spanish if need be, and even knew the sign language to boot. Yet all those things meant nothing to me now.

  That scowl still eyeballed me. I wanted to apologize, but was it possible to apologize to a being who really didn’t exist? I needed a burning bush, some writing on the wall—not a face glaring at me with disappointment.

  I stared back at the scowl, wishing it would go away. It seemed to get brighter. No breeze danced outside, altering the lights. All was still. It was just me and the scowl.

  I pulled the comforter over my head. I had to get some sleep if these delusional thoughts were ever going to go away.

  Chapter 13

  The next morning, I sat at the computer and did an Internet search for the psychic from the article about Danielle Miller. Sure enough, she had...what did you call it? A practice? Business? Carnival booth? Regardless, she still worked in the area. Only a few blocks away, actually. I decided to pay her a visit. I programmed her address into the GPS on my cell phone and went to face the Hummer.

  A few minutes later I stopped in front of a house that looked like a miniature version of a Palm Beach mansion. Neon signs advertising Psychic and Tarot Cards flashed in the windows. Fake palm trees were planted in the front lawn, and a circular driveway invited customers. Here, one could visit the exotic and all-knowing Miss Mystic.

  I felt like I was in the middle of a bad Lifetime movie as I pulled into the driveway. Good Christian girls didn’t visit psychics. If I were in Florida, I’d be looking around right now to see if anyone I knew was nearby. I couldn’t be a stumbling block for those weaker in the faith. Nor did I want to be item number one on the church prayer list, a.k.a. the gossip chain.

  I tossed my scruples like yesterday’s leftovers. As long as my visit didn’t get back to my mom, I’d be okay. I could already hear her telling me the story about King Saul visiting the witch and all the repercussions happening as a result. Then I remembered Bad Girls Rule #2, which lead me to Bad Girls Rule #3: Let people talk and hope it comes back to bite them in the bum.

  My sandals thudded across the cement and up three steps to the wooden doorway. Did I knock? I wondered. After all, this was also a home. I raised my hand to tap it against the wood when the door swung open. A middle-aged Filipino woman with smoldering eyes stared at me. She had the hoop earrings and gypsy-like clothes I’d expected for Danielle Miller. Her dark hair stretched untamed halfway down her back.

  Let me guess—she knew I was coming.

  “Welcome to Miz Myztic,” the woman said in broken English. Her whole body slinked with each word, as if she wanted to spontaneously begin belly dancing. Or maybe my imagination was just totally out of whack. “You like a palm reading?”

  Before I could object, she grabbed my hand and began tracing the lines on my palm. I jerked back as if I’d touched the devil in the flesh.

  So maybe I hadn’t totally tossed those scruples.

  “No, no palm reading,” I started. Her face registered annoyance—pursed lips, raised eyebrow, one shoulder higher than the other. “I wanted to talk to you about Danielle Miller.”

  One shoulder relaxed. The wrinkles on her forehead ironed out. As quickly as they disappeared, they were back. “I have appointment.”

  I glanced behind me. “I’m the only car in the driveway.”

  Her scowl deepened. “They be here soon.”

  “But you have a few minutes until then.” Another Bad Girls Rule. Be pushy, something I was so not good at. Which could easily lead into Bad Girls Rule #5: Don’t play well with others.

  Her eyes swept over me. “You a friend?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You the police?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes were mere slits now. “How you know Danielle then?”

  I swallowed. I probably shouldn’t be here. I could mentally see my mother shaking her head at me, telling me not to flirt with darkness. “I’m living in Danielle’s old house.”

  Miss Mystic’s eyes lit up. “Are you?” She opened the door. “Come in.”

  I stepped onto the tiled entryway. Inside, the lights were dim. Incense, musky and strong, filled the air. Strange instrume
nts played from speakers somewhere. Candles and beads and exotic scarves decorated every visible surface.

  The sunlight disappeared as Miss Mystic shut the doors. I jumped, suddenly sick to my stomach. I shouldn’t be here.

  “What I do for you?”

  I wiped my sweaty palms on my denim shorts. “Did you know Danielle?”

  “We in same circle.”

  “How do you think she died?”

  Her eyes lit, and she lowered her forehead in a know-it-all look. “The same way everyone else. Her husband.”

  “Did you know her husband? What was he like?”

  “He not believer like Danielle. How you say? He tolerate Danielle.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look relaxed and comfortable, although I was anything but. “Why would you say that?”

  She shrugged and ran her fingers along the dusty frame holding the painting of a Native American. “He a church-goer. Not type to believe in crystal ball.”

  I could relate.

  “But you think he was the type to kill her?”

  She wiped the dust from her fingers and eyed me. I had the feeling she was trying to size me up. “Danielle visiting you, isn’t she?”

  Chills swept my arm. “I didn’t say that. There have been some strange things happening lately, though. I...I don’t know what to think of it.”

  She stepped closer and waved a finger at me. “You find things of spiritual realm hard to accept.” Accusation tinged her voice.

  I tried to step back but bumped into a table behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a bunch of different herbs, all organized in small glass bowls. Did the woman also put curses on people? She’s a medium, Tara, not a witch. I glanced back at the woman. “It depends on how you define ‘spiritual realm.’”

  Miss Mystic glowered at me. “Let me guess—God and Jesus easy to believe but ghost not?” Miss Mystic’s finger still waved in the air. “Why one absurd and other not? Besides, you must be curious at least, since you come here.”