Good Girls Lie

by J. T. Ellison

  The sheriff looks from Ford to his niece and sighs.

  “We better go on up, just to see.”

  41

  THE PLAN

  I walk from window to window trying to see what’s happening. Dr. Asolo has gone to fetch Becca. She won’t tell me why I’ve been pulled out of bed and marched to the attics but considering they’re bringing Becca, I have to assume we’ve been busted for the goings-on in the cabin. The tap, come back to bite me already.

  I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but I am. I’ve had the sense that the school is proud of the secret societies. Not openly encouraging them, but doing nothing to stop them. Stomps happen regularly, and tonight’s tap hadn’t exactly been quiet. So why are we getting in trouble now?

  The only real rule that’s inviolable is not lying and cheating. The rest of it—Goode certainly has a girls will be girls mentality. I’m familiar with the sentiment. It exists back home, too. The rules just don’t apply to certain kinds of people. The right kind of people, as my mother would say. If you have money, privilege, you can get away with most anything.

  I am woozy from the alcohol, the Benadryl, the Ecstasy, sheer tiredness. Still feeling relatively cuddly toward Becca, though, even though I know I’m going to hate her when the already itchy rash comes up full force.

  Why am I here? If we’re in trouble, shouldn’t we be in Dean Westhaven’s office?

  I am so confused.

  Finally, I drop into a tufted leather club chair and look around. What is this place? It looks like an office, there’s a desk with a typewriter and a stack of pages facedown, two chairs facing it—the one I’m in and its mirror mate—a thick, green-and-cream Oriental rug set at an angle. Fresh-cut flowers in a small square glass vase, lush, full-petaled pink roses, sit on the corner of the desk. English roses. Like from home, in the spring, when the gardens of Oxford burst to life. Bookshelves from floor to ceiling, but only two shelves are filled.

  Spartan, but elegant, comfortable accommodations. Who works up here, in isolation from the rest of the students?

  The dean, dummy. When you see her in the window, this is where she is.

  A commotion in the hall and the door flies open. Becca stumbles through, eyes bleary, arguing, and Dr. Asolo follows behind.

  “So, I was out of bed after hours, who cares?” She notices me, and her face changes. Gone is the compassionate friend, and in her place, the Mistress. A banshee, a furious, evil-tempered death-presaging spirit who will eat me alive. “Why is she here?”

  She thinks I’ve outed them. She thinks I’ve told.

  I duck down into my chair, legs drawn up to protect myself. “I—”

  “Did you tell? You stupid girl, I will end you—”

  “Stop it!” Dr. Asolo pushes Becca into the chair next to me. She lands with an oof. “Listen to me. A girl has died.”

  “Fuuuuck,” Becca drawls, clearly assuming this is related to the tap, but I sit up, suddenly clearheaded.

  “It’s Camille, isn’t it?”

  “It is, unfortunately. She fell off the bell tower.”

  The shock goes through me and I close my eyes, send up a silent prayer for my hateful roommate.

  “You’re shitting me,” Becca says.

  “Young lady, your mouth is going to get you in trouble. Knock it off.”

  “Why are we here?” I ask. “And no, Becca, I didn’t say a word to anyone.”

  Asolo’s shoulders drop, the stress and tiredness showing plainly on her pretty features. “Because the dean requested it. She knows about the tap tonight—no, don’t deny it, why else do you two stink of alcohol? I suppose she was concerned that Camille was a part of the tap. Becca?”

  Becca is still slouching in her chair but answers immediately, and honestly. “No, ma’am. She wasn’t. We don’t normally tap sophomores—Ash is an exception.”

  “Ash?”

  “Camille wasn’t there. I swear it.”

  Asolo waits a beat. Both of us say, “On my honor,” and she blows out a breath.

  “Okay. You two stay here. Don’t leave until either the dean or I come to get you.”

  She bustles out the door, leaving us staring after her.

  “What the hell is going on?” Becca asks, curling deeper in the chair. “How did Camille get up to the bell tower? It’s always locked. I should know, we’ve tried to get up there enough times. Westhaven keeps the key under lock and key. Ha!”

  I feel sick. Camille, dead? It doesn’t feel possible. She was so excited, so happy, and a few hours later, broken at the base of Main like a doll thrown from a height.

  “I’m sorry I accused you, Swallow. That was wrong of me.”

  “Becca, what you said to me the first day, about a roommate dying...”

  “I was just trying to rattle you, Swallow. I had no idea she’d be dumb enough to go through with it.”

  “She had an invitation to the attics tonight. Remember?”

  “Yes. I remember. Like I told you this morning, it wasn’t me. I don’t know who sent the summons. We aren’t the only society who tapped tonight. Though no one sends a summons to do a tap. We try to keep who we bring in quiet. Didn’t you see her tonight?”

  “She was in the room after dinner, yes. The last time I saw her was when she left at ten for the summons. She was so excited.”

  I run a hand over my arm.

  Becca is looking at me curiously. “Does it itch badly?”

  “Yes. You’re a right cunt, you know that? The Benadryl is only sort of working.”

  “It will be worse tomorrow,” Becca predicts, going to the window. “There’s a lot of activity out there.”

  “I know. I couldn’t see anything, just the lights off the fire truck.”

  “She must have gone off the back of Main, or else we’d see everything below. Was she bummed about something?”

  “No. She was happy, excited. I mean, sometimes she cries at night, but—”

  “Cries about what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t think to ask?”

  “I asked. She told me she was fine. I can’t exactly force it out of her.”

  Heavy steps pass by us, and then above. It feels like the ceiling will collapse under them. I move out of the way, just in case.

  “They’re up there looking,” Becca whispers.

  “Looking for what?”

  “I don’t know. A note? I can’t believe Asolo locked us up here.”

  “She’s trying to protect you.”

  “Asolo?”

  “The dean. She’s trying to protect you. The police are on campus, and we were all drinking tonight. I hardly think they’d take it well, finding out the senator’s daughter was behind it, especially with an ambassador’s daughter dead. Not good press for the school and the dean.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But you know nothing about this, do you, Swallow?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I don’t think it’s me they’re trying to protect. You’re her roommate. You’re the first one they’re going to want to talk to.”

  “Bugger.” I drop back in the chair, blow into my cupped palm. Though I’ve brushed my teeth, my breath smells like vodka.

  “Yes, little Swallow. Bugger.” Becca looms over me. “You can’t say anything about what happened tonight. Not a word. You say anything and you’re out. Do you understand?”

  “Becca, I—”

  “I am your Mistress. I command you to keep your big fat mouth shut.”

  “I can’t lie. They’ll kick me out.”

  “You breathe a word about what happened during the tap and I will make you wish you had never come here. Am I clear?” Becca again looks like an avenging angel, fury written across her face, her mouth tight, her eyes dark.

  “I�
��m clear, Mistress. What am I supposed to tell them?”

  “I don’t care. But not a word about Ivy Bound, or we’ll all be screwed.”

  “Oh, so you’re happy for me to lie, but not you? What sort of bullshit is that?”

  “It’s a test, Swallow. One you don’t want to fail.”

  I can hear them moving around upstairs. Soon they will come for me.

  I am in an untenable position. Again.

  Oh, Camille. What have you done?

  42

  THE DISCOVERY

  Ford watches the sheriff and his homicide niece swing flashlights around in the gloom, combing the bell tower for clues. She is ignoring her phone; her mother clearly knows something has happened and is calling incessantly. The odds of her showing up in town unannounced on this night of all nights... It begs the question, why? And the sheriff just happens to have his homicide detective niece visiting? Before the paranoia sets in, she turns her attention to the conversation playing out in front of her.

  “Got something here,” Tony says.

  Ford sees the lights playing on a scrap of fabric. It is caught in a splinter of wood at the corner of the cupola’s edifice. It’s hard to tell exactly what color it is, pale, though. She thinks back to the scene below.

  “Camille was wearing a gray Goode sweatshirt and black yoga leggings. I didn’t notice any tears in her clothes. Is that gray?”

  Tony shakes his head.

  “White. Thin. Cotton, like a T-shirt or undershirt. A scarf, maybe. I’m going to get my evidence techs up here. Collect it, take it to the lab, get some fingerprints. Too early to make any guesses as to what happened, whether she jumped or someone gave her a push. But if this isn’t hers... Gotta get all our ducks in a row first.”

  Ford doesn’t want to make any unsubstantiated claims, but she also doesn’t want to make the same mistakes her mother made.

  “Tony, I’m not 100 percent sure, but I thought I saw a shadow up here. When I found Camille.”

  His tone is sharp. “You think or you know?”

  “It was dark. I looked up and saw...movement. An outline. Maybe I was seeing things. I can’t be certain.”

  He examines the door with his Maglite. “It’s a sturdy lock, not broken. No scratch marks, doesn’t look like it was jimmied. Someone unlocked it.”

  “That’s hard to believe. We’ve always been very careful about the keys, went to a keycard system a few years back for extra safety.”

  “Who has access to the keys?”

  “I have a master set to the school, obviously. I keep them in my safe. Security has the second set, which are kept in their offices. It’s attended twenty-four-seven. Impossible for one of the girls to sneak in and get a set.”

  “But this is still an old-fashioned keyed lock, not one of your keycard accessible ones. We should double-check, just in case. Still have those secret societies?”

  “Yes, some exist. They’re not openly sanctioned anymore, though. I keep a close eye on our girls, unlike some of my predecessors.”

  “Secret societies?” Kate asks. She has appeared silently after circumnavigating the tiny platform.

  “Social organizations outside the school’s normal activities. Little clubs that get together and raise spirits on campus.”

  “Raise a ruckus is more like it.”

  “Now, Tony, that’s not fair. It’s all in the spirit of things.”

  “But why are they secret?” Kate asks.

  “It’s a misnomer, really. They’re just little off-the-books clubs. Like sororities, in some ways, but girls can’t pledge. They govern their own membership. Choose their own members. It’s a long-held tradition here, and at many of our peer schools. There have been secret societies at Goode for over a century. Which is why they still exist, though we’re not as accepting of them as we once were. We see them now as more of a mentorship opportunity for our older girls.”

  Kate scoffs. “Mentorship? It sounds like a great way for some popular kids to exclude some of their classmates.”

  “You can’t force children to be all-inclusive, Detective. The world doesn’t work that way, and teenage girls don’t, either.”

  “It should. The world would be a better place. Can any of them get up here?”

  “No. There are only two sets of keys. Mine and Security’s. Both kept in safes.”

  Tony chews his lip. “Where’s that boy been lately?”

  Fury rises up in her. “Don’t you dare, Tony.”

  “What boy?” Kate asks. She’s climbed up and is leaning out over the edge of the cupola now, her flashlight making long yellow swaths of light down the front of the building. She’s so far out it’s making Ford nervous. One tiny bump and over the edge she’d go. It’s easy to see how Camille went screaming to her death.

  Tony seems to read Ford’s mind. He reaches out and grabs his niece’s jacket. “Careful there, Kate. This cupola is old. Don’t put too much pressure on the balustrade.”

  Kate shuts off the flashlight and jumps back down. “She would have to climb up to get over this edge. Or be forcibly lifted. We need to talk to the girls, see if they heard anything. Talking, or a scuffle. There are rooms below this, correct? Maybe one of the girls will be able to shed some light on a time line, at least. What boy are you talking about?”

  “Rumi Reynolds. Son of Rick Reynolds.”

  “The one who murdered the coed?”

  “The very one. Ford here hired young Rumi to be a jack-of-all-trades.”

  “Come on, Tony. He isn’t involved in this. Don’t get lazy and start pointing fingers. It’s not fair to him. He is not responsible for his father’s actions.”

  “Ford Westhaven, the patron saint of lost causes. Something like that warps a child, Ford. What he saw...”

  “What did he see?” Kate asks.

  “According to him, he saw everything.”

  “The murder?”

  “Yup. He even testified. The state’s star witness was the murderer’s ten-year-old son.”

  “I remember that now. Hmm.”

  They turn in unison to look out over the dark campus, and Ford loses her temper.

  “Stop talking like I’m not standing right here. What do you mean, ‘hmm’? He didn’t do this. I know Rumi, quite well. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. That’s why he’s working here, for me, for Goode. Someone had to give him a chance at a normal life, and that was me. He’s dedicated to this school. It’s completely unfair to leap to the conclusion that he’s responsible before we even search Camille’s room for a note, a diary, something to give us her state of mind. It was dark. I don’t know what I saw. I would never have mentioned it if I thought you’d go tilting at windmills and jumping to spurious conclusions.”

  Tony and Kate share a brief look, then he shrugs. “No one’s making judgments, Ford. I was just asking. Let’s go look at the girl’s room, talk to her roommate. There might be a clearer answer downstairs.”

  Ford lets them go ahead of her, then locks the cupola door. Her hands are shaking, she can smell her own acrid scent, and under it, the musky notes of man. She needs to be very, very careful. They can’t find out about the affair, it could ruin her. Rumi is of age, but still. She knows it looks bad. But she will not let Rumi get railroaded into an accusation, either.

  Tearful girls are gathered in the sewing circle when the three arrive on the sophomores’ floor. Ford calls out, “Man on the floor,” loudly and there are a few squeals, the sound of running feet, then she nods to Tony. “Okay, follow me. They’re roomed in 214.”

  The lights are ablaze in Camille and Ash’s room. The room looks like it’s seen a struggle. A painting is on the floor by one of the desks. Pillows are askew, blankets dragging on the floor, the lower bunk’s mattress off center. There’s something pink on the sheets, not dark enough to be blood. It takes Ford a moment to re
alize it’s calamine lotion.

  Ford recalls her own tap, looks briefly to the desk under a framed photograph of Oxford’s doors. This must be Ash’s desk and yes, there’s a small brown sandwich bag sitting near the edge. Ford knows what it contains.

  Damn it. Ivy Bound is explicitly prohibited from using poison ivy on the Swallows. The ruling was made three years ago when a Swallow’s mother threatened to sue the school because her daughter touched her eye with a poison-ivy-tainted hand and it swelled shut, necessitating a trip to the emergency room.

  Oh, Becca Curtis, you are in so much trouble.

  Ford herself suffered the indignity, as did many of the Swallows who followed her, but the school has cracked down on hazing, majorly cracked down, and things like this are not supposed to be going on.

  She can’t disappear the bag, she’s going to have to let that play itself out. But she can help distract attention.

  Tony and Kate are rifling through the desks and drawers now, of both girls. Ford puts up a hand. “Hold on. You can’t go through Ash Carlisle’s things. Only Camille’s. There are privacy concerns.”

  Kate stops and looks at Ford, incredulous. “You’re joking. They’re teenagers. Students. And one of them is dead.”

  “There’s still an expectation of privacy. Obviously, Camille has none, not anymore, but Ash does. Please keep your search limited to Camille’s things. Perhaps we should wait for your evidence team to do this?”

  “I know how to toss a room, Ford,” Tony says without missing a beat. He opens the top dresser drawer, digs his hands in deep. “What have we here?”

  He draws out an almost empty pint of Stolichnaya. Ford feels a sting of fury—damn that girl—followed by a teensy little prayer heavenward—sorry, Camille, but for heaven’s sake, vodka in your socks?

  Tony keeps moving, though, tossing the rest of the dresser. “Where’s the roommate? I wanna talk to her.”

  “I had her isolated. This is going to be a terrible shock to her, and she’s already suffered a great deal of loss. Her parents died recently, and to have this happen so soon after their deaths will certainly affect her tremendously.”