“Agreed. We’ll keep an eye out, our ears to the ground. Step up the patrols, just in case.” He stands, a knee cracking. “Oof. Getting old.”
“Yes, you’re just ancient, Tony.”
He surprises her by laughing. She smiles along with him. The tension between them dissipates.
“I’m sorry for what I said last night, Tony. It was inappropriate. You were only doing your job.”
“Yeah, well, I provoked you. And it’s hard, I know, to lose a student. Bygones.”
“Bygones. Let me walk you out.”
She walks him to his car, tells him to take care and means it, then watches him drive away. He’s a good man. A kind man. But he wants way more than she is willing to give. Not to mention all he said last night was true. She is getting out. Maybe not right now, but sometime.
The gates close behind him with a clang. She checks her watch. Almost time for the five o’clock bells.
She’ll tell Ash about her shirt after dinner.
It hits her like a lightning bolt.
If the girl’s half as good as Medea says she is, Ash can read that email header. Ash can tell her where the email came from. It’s got to be safer to have her look at it than Medea.
Before she does anything else, though, she needs a private audience with Rumi. They need to make a plan.
She sends him a text.
My place. 10:00 p.m.
He writes back immediately.
Not a good idea.
No shit, Sherlock. She’s well aware of the risks.
Mandatory.
Three little dots sparkle interminably as if the message is a long one. Finally, the return text appears.
No.
She is struck dumb by this. He has never refused her. Not once. He has always answered her affirmatively, whether it’s personal or professional. He appreciates her. Her attention is only part of the relationship. She’s given him a home. A job. A family.
And now he’s going to defy her?
She sets down the phone. She must speak with him but maybe this is for the best. If someone’s lurking around taking photos of her front door, the campus might not be the safest place. She can arrange to bump into him later today. He’s working at the coffee shop, she knows. She knows his entire schedule. She drew it up, after all.
She straightens her desk, flicks away invisible lint from her jacket.
The door in the photo.
Ford thought it was hers because she’s assuming guilt. But no one has made any demands or threats. All the cottages look the same from the front. It was dark. It was indistinct. Her face was never in it. Only a sliver of thigh.
Who else might Rumi be visiting?
Maybe whoever sent the message isn’t trying to catch her out. Maybe they’ve given her exactly what she needs to escape this mess intact.
58
THE HAZING
Camille’s suicide coincides with the start of Hell Week, as it’s mockingly referred to among the Swallows. The tradition of Ivy Bound—and all the societies at Goode, it turns out—is to haze the living shit out of their Swallows for the first week after they’ve been tapped. It’s meant to weed out the girls who aren’t going to make it through.
That I am suddenly in a single and being given a sort of papal dispensation from the teachers makes it ten times worse. Becca wasn’t kidding when she teased me the first day at Goode about a roommate dying. Not only do I get the room to myself, I’m given class credit that assures my GPA won’t be taking a nosedive because of the effects the tragedy has on my ability to study.
The girls of Ivy Bound take full advantage. I am treated abominably. My first days as a Swallow are a blur of misery. A constant push and pull, so intense I fear I’ll go mad with the humiliation and fevered pitch.
After her nasty showing at the coffee shop, Becca seems out to get me. With disdain dripping from every command, she runs me all over the school. The other Ivy Bound Falconers take a personal interest in me, as well, bossing and laughing, inflicting their own little tortures. One trips me as I scurry onto the seniors’ hall to deliver hot tea to my Mistress; I lay sprawled on the floor, soaked in Earl Grey, while they laugh and laugh.
And they speculate. Openly.
I’m the one whose roommate jumped. What sort of asshole am I?
The Swallows are all covered in a terrible rash, the blisters clustered so tightly they ooze wet patches through our T-shirts. I eventually tape gauze to my stomach to try to stop the leakage, but this makes me itch even more. I’m not about to go to the nurse, so I self-medicate with double the recommended dosage of Benadryl three times a day, bathe in oatmeal, and cake on the calamine lotion. Combined with a severe lack of sleep, I move about in a daze, accepting both condolences and snide, knowing remarks with the same languorous attitude.
I can’t focus on anything properly. I am exhausted. I am scared and sad and terrorized. My once regulated days have turned capricious and chaotic. I am reminded of the Bach fugue Grassley made me play; I am in a fugue state myself from morning to night.
The orders never cease.
* * *
Go get me a latte. Skim milk. Not that whole crap you brought me yesterday.
Yes, Mistress.
Fetch my sweatshirt, I’m chilly.
Yes, Mistress.
I need a book from the library.
Yes, Mistress.
My laundry needs folding.
Yes, Mistress.
I’m out of cigarettes, run into town and get me some.
Yes, Mistress.
Smoke this joint.
Yes, Mistress.
Drink this shot.
Yes, Mistress.
In ten minutes, you need to walk up to Dr. Medea and flash him your tits.
No, she can’t do that, a Falconer interjects, they’ll kick her out.
Good. She’s a bitch.
Did you hear me?
Yes, Mistress.
Tell me.
I’m a bitch.
Yes, you are. Braid my hair.
Yes, Mistress.
I need five hundred words on the feminist impact of Elizabeth Tudor. By seven.
Yes, Mistress.
Go buy me a fresh notebook.
Yes, Mistress.
I’m in the mood for Jell-O. Red. Go to the kitchen and get me some.
Yes, Mistress.
I didn’t say red. I said green. You are so fucking stupid, Swallow.
Yes, Mistress.
* * *
After three days of this nonsense, I’m pretty much ready to murder Becca Curtis. Gone are the tender moments, the kindnesses, the secret glances, the brushing of hands and lips. I didn’t realize how often she touched me until it stopped.
In their place is an automaton blond monster, hell-bent on destroying everything I hold dear. My dignity. My sanity.
I itch and fetch and try to keep up with my studies, though the only real sleep I’m getting is on the cold, hard floor of the attics, and only a few hours at that. Becca has taken to forcing me to sleep on the floor outside her door, like a dog. A faithful dog. My book bag is stacked with my own dirty laundry, half-eaten snacks from the Rat, books, and papers I’ve been dragging from class to class. My fellow Swallows aren’t in any better shape.
The teachers say not a word, so I know they’re in on it. They can’t ignore the thirteen girls dragging around Goode like itchy zombies.
I take every spare moment to sleep, relish the hour of chapel, and hurry happily to my detention in the dean’s office to work off my JPs. The dean doesn’t moderate our sessions, so I catch a few z’s, set the alarm on my watch to alert me when my two hours are up and I’m due back on the seniors’ hall for more Swallow duties. Today I am scrubbing the toilets in the attics...with my hair.
&nbs
p; I don’t know how much longer I can take this.
Finally, on day four, just as I’m about to break, quit, tell Becca she can take her industrial-size Pine-Sol bottle and shove it up her perfect little ass, I am rescued by the dean herself, who asks to see me in her attic room where we were taken the night of Camille’s death.
Becca has no choice but to let me go, though it’s done with a hiss and a promise to make things even worse for me when I return from my “pussy break.”
* * *
Why I didn’t walk away during Hell Week is something I will always wonder. Why I allowed her to treat me so poorly, so abominably, reflects on my upbringing. I allowed myself to become her victim, just like I allowed myself to become my father’s victim, my mother’s victim.
But why did I go along with them that night? Why did I not raise the red flag? Would it have made a difference? Would it all have happened differently?
Would they still be alive?
59
THE HORROR
The dean is waiting for me in her attic garret. She looks terrible. I’ve been so caught up in my own drama with the tap and Becca’s advances and the aftermath of Camille’s death that I haven’t stopped to think about the adults. How they might be suffering. Camille’s mother, who is threatening to sue the school—oh, yes, we’ve all heard about the threats—seems to be more litigious than heartbroken.
But what do I know of these things? If my child died suddenly without a decent explanation, perhaps I, too, would want to burn down the houses of all who knew her.
Though her eyes have dark circles beneath them and her skin is pale, Westhaven’s hair is in a perfect chignon, and she’s wearing pearls and a cashmere twinset the color of sunset. I’ve never seen her polished facade looking quite so mature before. She’s always been elegant, but there’s a fragility around her now that’s becoming. It suits her, pain.
She greets me with a limpid smile. “Hello, Ash.” Then a much more concerned, “Are you well?”
“I’m fine, Dean.”
She doesn’t believe me, but whatever. I’m too tired to care about keeping up appearances. I slump in the chair across from her little desk. “What’s this room for?”
She glances around as if it’s the first time she’s ever been inside. A small, private smile crosses her face. “It’s my thinking space. I practice speeches—I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t particularly care for public speaking.”
Her confession surprises me. She looks so young at this moment. Young and tired and overwhelmed by the past few days of scrutiny on her and the school. It’s very like a child to ignore the needs and desires of their parents—I’ve never stopped to consider what it must be like to be riding roughshod over two hundred unruly girls. One hundred ninety-nine now. I’ve been much too busy existing in my own strange bubble.
“I didn’t. You always seem so self-assured.”
“Ah, that’s the practice. If you’re ever afraid of something, Ash, you must face that fear head-on. Experience it, live it, breathe it, lean in to it. If you do, you’ll conquer it. Let it run your life and you will always be its slave.”
And if that fear is embodied in a sixteen-stone hulking mass who likes to hit? Not feeling the “lean in” to that, Dean.
“I also write here, sometimes.”
This intrigues me. I’ve heard the dean is a frustrated writer. Giving up dreams to do the right thing; now, this is something I understand. I play it coy. “Letters?”
“I’m working on a novel, actually,” she continues. “I thought I’d be living in New York, the toast of the literary circles by now. Instead—”
“You’re stuck here, headmistress to a lot of ungrateful young women.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. You’re not ungrateful.”
Oh, lady, if you only knew. “No, I’m very grateful. But you know what I mean.”
“I do.” She moves to the desk, rests three fingers on its battered surface. “Don’t get me wrong, Ash. I love my job. I love this school. The students. All of you. But sometimes, it’s very hard. I escape up here for a little quiet, someplace comfortable, and I work or think. Every woman should have her own place to escape to.”
“‘A room of one’s own.’ We’ve been studying Woolf with Dr. Asolo. I agree completely.”
She smiles. “You must be wondering why I’ve asked you here.”
“I assume it’s something to do with Camille’s death.”
“Yes and no.”
“Did the autopsy find something?”
“Not exactly. Well, yes. I can trust you, can’t I, Ash?”
“Yes, of course.” What the hell is this? Why is she trying to give me agency, now of all times?
“Camille was still pregnant. They’re doing DNA to find out who the father is.”
This strikes me as so sad. What a waste. “I’m sorry. Dean, Vanessa and Piper, did they come to you? Tell you?”
“What would they have to tell me?”
“I think they know who Camille was seeing.”
The dean’s demeanor changes. Her face shutters, that pained, scared look reappears in her eyes. “Oh. Oh. Thank you for telling me, Ash. I did speak with them, and they assured me they don’t know.”
Figures they were lying.
“Now, I have a little favor to ask. I received an email from a stranger, and I’d like to know if you can tell me where it came from.”
“Dr. Medea—”
She hands me a piece of paper, a full header from the email that she’s printed out. “I’d like to keep this between us girls, if that’s all right with you.”
There’s no subject. I can tell there were attachments, several of them, HEIF, the file type Apple uses. The images came from an iPhone.
I look closer, tracing the head. It’s come from a throwaway account, totally anonymous. But the IP address, it’s generated from Canada. Odd. The last time I set up my VPN, I hooked into a Canadian server farm.
Whoosh.
Oh, bloody hell. Was this email the one that was in my draft folder when I opened my program? The phantom Send?
I go back to the beginning of the head. Memorize the thread of numbers. My email should be untraceable.
I think.
I’ve backstopped everything, but I hadn’t planned to send any anonymous emails to the dean of my fucking school.
And why has she come to me instead of Dr. Medea? What sort of trap is she laying? Is she handing me the tools of my own destruction? A way to get out of everything?
I can’t see the details, but I can’t help but wonder who is sending the dean images. And of what? I take a stab in the dark.
“What are the photographs of?” I ask.
Her face drains of color. Bingo. “You can see there are photos?”
“Yes, Dean. At least six attachments, all HEIF.” At her blank look, I continue, “High Efficiency Image Files. Helps with compression and... Hey, are you okay?”
Her hand flutters to her throat. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Only...someone is playing a cruel joke, I’m afraid.”
“There seems to be a lot of that going around.”
“You can’t decipher who sent it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. It’s from an anonymous, throwaway account. It’s probably already been deleted. It’s an easy thing to do.”
“Can you tell if it was sent from inside the school?”
Careful...
“That’s trickier. Origins can be traced if given enough resources, but off the top of things, I’d say chances are it comes from outside. If it was inside the school, the intranet signature would be here, on this line.” I point to the spot. “It’s missing those designators. As a matter of fact...” I make a point of reading it again. “I believe this was sent from a mobile device, not a computer.”
> She blows out a breath, and I do, as well. She’s not trying to trick me. Seems we both have something to hide here.
I don’t have a phone. I’m safe.
“I appreciate your help, Ash. Yes, someone sent me some photos, of one of our students, and I want to be sure we handle this carefully. It would be good if you didn’t mention this to anyone.”
“Will you show this to the sheriff?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think it has bearing on the case. Like I said, this seems to be someone playing a cruel joke. I think I’ll delete it and we’ll all move forward.”
Good idea, Dean. Really good idea.
“Oh, one more thing...tell me, is there any indication this email was sent to anyone else? Or only to me?”
“I don’t see any other addresses. Yours only.”
The bells toll, the deep tenor clangs of the tongue against the brass especially loud in this space. Moments later, the dean’s mobile rings. She glances at it. “Ah, this is Melanie. I need to go. And you’re expected in English now, aren’t you?” She smiles, benevolence incarnate. “Go straight to class, Ash. We don’t want Becca finding you in the hallways, do we?”
See? I told you they are in on it.
60
THE SOLICITOR
I just make the last bell before Dr. Asolo shuts the door. I take my seat and she greets the class with the worst possible news.
“Pop quiz, ladies. If you’ve finished the reading, this should be a no-brainer. Put away your books and take out an exam book, please.”
Groans leak throughout the room, and I join them. Is this really how we’re welcomed back after the death of one of our own? How can she expect anyone to have done the reading?
I dig into my bag for the stack of exam books I keep there. One of the items I have learned a Goode girl mustn’t ever be without is the pale blue, thin-paper exam book in which all tests and essay assignments, from pop quizzes to the dreaded midterms and finals, are taken. Centered on the cover are the words in bold On my honor, followed by two lines, one for printed name, one for a signature. By signing the cover of the exam book, the Honor Code pledge is taken. No booklets are accepted without a signature.
Good Girls Lie Page 25