He’s jealous. He does care.
She steps forward, grabs his arms. “Listen to me, right now. I asked you here tonight so we could discuss our relationship like adults. I am not seeing Tony anymore, that’s been over for months. And I don’t think you hurt Camille. I know that’s not who you are. But I needed to know if the DNA test was going to show you as the father. Surely you can understand if that was the case, I couldn’t let the school be blindsided. There are ways to handle these things, but being surprised isn’t one of them.”
A flash in his eyes. “DNA?”
“Yes. They are running DNA on the fetus. You’ll be in the clear. We don’t even need to mention you were seeing her. This can be kept between me, the sheriff, and the Shannon family.”
“The lawsuit—”
“Trust me, Deirdre Shannon won’t be suing Goode when she finds out the father of the baby was her own stepchild, Camille’s brother, and it all happened under her own roof.”
He blows out a whiskey-perfumed breath. “You sound happy.”
“I’m not happy, I’m relieved. I think we should delete these photos. I’ve already taken care of it on my end. This is all that’s left.”
And she does, one after the other. They exist in the ether, yes. But she’s deleted them off her computer, and now the phone that took and sent them. She’s destroying evidence, but of what? An innocent relationship? Who is served by Rumi and the school being dragged through the mud?
Finally, she sets the phone on the counter. “There. We’re covered.”
“Do you have any idea whose phone that is?”
“I do. It’s a separate issue, I think. I hope. I found it in Ash Carlisle’s room. There are some issues being raised about her, and I searched her room.”
“Ash?”
There is something in his tone. “Don’t tell me you’ve been having an affair with yet another student.”
“No, not at all. There’s something about her, though. She’s... I can’t put my finger on it. Something’s off. Plus, she’s sad and lonely, and I think she has something going with Becca Curtis.”
“Really? Interesting.” That might explain why Becca was so determined to tap Ash; it would give them a lot of time to get to know each other better. Relationships between students are not an issue at Goode, so long as they are consensual. Respect for all sexualities is a hallmark of the school’s charter—they had nondiscrimination policies decades before most other schools.
Rumi sags against the wall, rubbing his eyes hard like he hasn’t slept in days. “I thought you’d be mad at me.” He sounds like a little boy lost, and her heart constricts.
“I’m furious with you for having relations with a student, and I should fire you on the spot. But I’ve made some pretty massive mistakes myself, so why don’t we call it even, have a drink, and talk this through.”
He moves across the room so quickly she gasps. His kiss is soulful and sweet.
“Thank you. Thank you for believing me.”
“I’ve always believed in you, Rumi.”
“Forget the drinks,” he says, low and urgent, and she laughs.
“Changed your mind? One last time?”
He tosses her that wicked smile she adores.
She leads him to her old room at the top of the stairs. It is surreal to see her things from childhood, the books, the trophies, the stuffed animals, the posters. A happier time. An easier time.
Her mother never changed the decor. Jude hasn’t given up on Ford moving back into the house. The bed is large, the sheets sweet and clean.
Rumi doesn’t notice the girlish details; he has eyes only for Ford.
She and Rumi, they are good together. Right together. When he kisses her, undresses her, properly, gently, as if this is their first time together, she realizes she doesn’t want to break it off with him. Doesn’t want this to be the last time. She’s grown to care about him. Maybe she always has.
She lies in the crook of his arm afterward, sated and glowing, a leg thrown over his strong thighs, runs a finger down his chest.
“I have to tell you something,” Rumi says.
“Mmm?” she says languorously, with a stroke of his flesh, because she knows what he is going to say. And she’s going to say it back and mean it.
But he surprises her.
“It’s about your mother... I heard her on a call when she stopped in for a coffee before she left. She was talking about you to someone named Ellen.”
Ford feels the anger begin to rise. “Ellen Curtis? The senator?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. She said you’d understand about the reinstatement.”
All the coins drop for Ford. “Oh, my God. That bitch!” She’s so angry she actually starts to laugh.
Rumi is looking at her quizzically. “You okay?”
“She sold me out. She’s done a deal with the alumni association. Goode goes coed and Jude Westhaven, savior to the masses, will shepherd the new deal through if they make her headmistress again. Of all the conniving, horrible...” She rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling of her childhood home. “Rumi, what do you think about New York?”
“Big city. And your mother lives there.”
“What if she didn’t? Or you didn’t ever have to see her? If I went, would you be interested in going with me?”
“On a trip?”
“I was thinking something more permanent.”
He sits up, drags her with him. The sheets fall to the floor.
“Wait a minute. Are you asking me to move to New York with you? Leave Goode?”
“Yes. That’s what I’m asking.”
The look on his face is sheer joy. “Yes, Ford. I’d love to move to New York with you. I can’t wait to get out of this town.”
“You and me both,” she says, kissing his neck, realizing she feels free for the first time in ages. To hell with this school. To hell with her mother. To hell with the Westhaven legacy, the spoiled girls, the constant politicking with the board and the alumni association and the town. It is time for Ford to make her own way in the world.
* * *
Ford doesn’t plan on falling asleep but when her phone rings, she realizes it’s almost dawn. Rumi lies next to her, curled on his side, a hand on her hip. They’ve never spent the night together. She quite likes waking up with him in her bed.
She rolls over and answers the phone. It’s Melanie, and her voice is shrill with panic.
“Ford? Ford? You have to come, right away. There’s another dead girl.”
74
THE TRAIL
Kate hasn’t slept. She and Tony have been combing through the files as Oliver sends them from Scotland Yard.
Money is always the trail to follow. Kate isn’t an expert, but she has done a few classes in forensic accounting. Between her and Oliver, they’ve uncovered at least fifty thousand skimmed out of the Carrs’ accounts with no traceable landing spot.
There are payments made to The Goode School, too, though those stop as soon as the family dies.
They break for a snack. Oliver is on speakerphone.
“I have a theory,” Kate says. “The impostor was close to them, no doubt. Someone who worked for the family, most likely. She saw a chance to inherit a massive fortune. She killed the Carr family, took Ashlyn Carr’s place, and bolted to America to await the estate. All she has to do is go to this fancy-schmancy school for a few years, then get through college, and she inherits everything.”
“It’s hardly the first time something like this has happened. But where is Ashlyn Carr’s body?”
“Drag the lake on their estate. I bet you find it there. This is a sick, twisted person we’re dealing with.”
“Hold on.” Oliver is back a few minutes later. “All right. We’re reopening the investigation into the deaths, effective immediately.
”
“Good. There might not be evidence in the house, but I bet somewhere on the grounds.”
“Have you arrested this child at the school yet?”
“No, not yet. Trust me when I say she has no way out. Marchburg is tiny, she tries to run and we’ll hear about it. How did y’all miss the money siphoning the first time around?”
“Easy. Accounting did a cursory pass through the financials, but they were looking for impropriety on behalf of Damien Carr, illegal payments and the like. Finding nothing that stood out, and no evidence to the contrary, they called the files clean. The estate was to be left to the daughter, but she didn’t stand to inherit without a degree, and she had to be twenty-five. It’s inviolable. No one thought she killed them. Why would she? It was easy to accept the double suicide theory. The daughter walked in and found them, called 999. The records are very clear.
“And the headlines were lurid. You have to remember, this was a man who had been above reproach for his entire life, and terribly private, too. Someone sent a compromising story, with photographs of Carr and his lover, to the press. The scandal cost him a very important position in government. He was, by all accounts, devastated.”
“Enough to kill himself? It feels so odd, Oliver. That he would kill himself...and his wife would be so upset that she shoots herself?”
“Yes, but I know that timeline was investigated because you’d think he would kill her, then himself, right? But her fingerprints were on the gun, and his on the pill vial. And the pièce de résistance... He’d been dead at least an hour before she shot herself. The coroner’s court kindly ruled it death by misadventure so the estate wouldn’t be damaged.”
“Are there no other relatives?”
“The son, but he, too, died. There’s been some scuttlebutt in the rags about an illegitimate daughter, but no one’s confirmed that. I do think it was someone close to the family. Someone who knew they could all be annihilated and get away with it.”
“So, this girl manages to disappear the daughter’s body, steps into the scene, calls for help, poses as the grieving daughter all the way through the funerals and conversations with the lawyers, then jets off to America to live a life of privilege here in Marchburg. And no one’s been the wiser since. Amazing. Simply amazing.”
“Quite.”
“What about the IDs? Passports and the like?”
“She has a visa from the American government to study in Virginia. No credit cards, she’s been operating on a cash basis. But we have her coming into the country under the Ashlyn Carr passport on August 25.”
“Term started the day after. Okay. Timeline fits. Hey, did they have staff? They’re supposed to be this super rich family, right?”
She can hear him rustling his papers. “I believe... Yes, they did. A small staff, the only live-in was a cook, Dorsey Throckmorton. There’s an address in Yorkshire.”
“Can you capture the photo of the Ash who came through customs and show it to her? See if it’s the girl she knows?”
“I can. Good idea, Kate.”
“Send it to me, too, just in case.”
“I love it when you boss me around.”
“Oh, hush, Oliver. Tell me this. How did she skim the money from their accounts?”
“Excellent question. We’ll have to ask her how she got into the accounts. Maybe she stole the passwords. Again, everything points to someone who was close to the family. Why don’t you take her into custody and we’ll ask her directly?”
“Oh, we will. She has a track record of eliminating the people who get in her way. Tony wants to lay all the groundwork before we pick her up. The dean lawyered her up, so we have to wait until the dude comes up from Charlottesville to interview her again.”
“Let me know what happens. We’ll continue working here.”
“Thanks, Oliver. You’re the best.”
I’ve got you now, you sick little girl.
75
THE NOTE
Becca, annoyed as hell, furious, embarrassed, hurt—oh, God, the look in Ash’s eyes when she pushed her away was horrifying, the pain, the confusion, the realization, the rejection—storms back to her room in the attics. Initiation night is supposed to be a huge party and now it’s ruined, everything is ruined. Her life is ruined.
She had no choice. She had to rebuff Ash’s advance. What was she supposed to do, allow herself to be outed in front of the Ivy Bound sisters? It would be all over the school in a heartbeat and fed back to her mother by the dean, and her mother would pull her ass out of school and call her an aberration, the sanctimonious, hypocritical bitch.
Becca tried to feel her mother out last summer, after the video incident, when things had calmed down and Ellen wasn’t quite so angry. Becca mentioned a friend of hers who’d come out as gay, and Ellen Curtis had practically vomited her pinot gris over the edge of the balcony of their Watergate West apartment.
That made it abundantly clear, there was no way in hell Becca could admit that she, too, didn’t see herself married with two point three kids and a dog—at least, not to a man. It broke her heart that she couldn’t be honest with her mother, that she hid the truth from the one person who used to matter so much to her.
She’d acted out instead. Ellen dragged her to a shrink, and Becca was wise enough to keep her mouth shut there, too. Instead, she told stories from her childhood, things she’d done, ways she’d lost her temper, and the doctor compliantly gave her drugs and a few different diagnoses that fit the symptoms she described to a tee.
Becca is fine. She has no mental deficiencies. She is simply a girl in love, and now...
She thought Ash was different. The way she watched, the way her eyes lit up. The way she’d kissed her tonight, freely, happily. And Becca attacked her. She miscalculated and ruined everything.
How could Ash ever forgive her? How can she ever face her again after this? She’d panicked. Would Ash forgive her for that, at least?
She turns up the stereo, throws herself on her bed, and starts to cry. The sobs come from deep inside her soul. She thought things would be different this year. That she wouldn’t feel so alone. That she could finally be herself. It’s not like the girls here would hold it against her, not really. But she is head girl. She feels some sort of responsibility to be everything that’s expected of her.
She would have thrown it all away for Ash. She’d hardly hazed her, had protected her every step of the way. She warned her when the school started talking about her parents, and again today when the headlines started to blare Ash’s own terrible news.
And when faced with the opportunity tonight to show everyone her strength, her leadership, how good she really is, Becca had squandered it, and ruined everything to boot.
Drained, Becca finally flips over and feels something crinkling beneath her. There is a package on her bed, wrapped in tissue paper. She unfolds it to find a bloodred scarf. It’s lovely, thick silk. She winds it around her neck, withdraws the piece of paper, reads it, and bursts into fresh tears.
B—
Can we talk? All of this craziness with the Swallows and Camille and the news from home, I just need a friend. And some privacy. Meet me in front of the gates tonight. Midnight. I have something I want to show you.
Love,
A
This was clearly left behind before the initiation. A gift. A promise.
Oh, yes, my little Ash. I knew I had you. And now I’ve lost you.
Would she still come? Why would she? Becca has just humiliated her in front of Ivy Bound, cast her down, kicked her out. Ash would be well within her rights to tell her to drop dead.
It is almost midnight now. She shuts off her light, goes to the window.
Is it her imagination, or is there a shadow out by the gates?
Is Ash there, waiting for her, after all?
She sees the fli
ck of hair and the glowing tip of a cigarette. Someone is out there, wearing a gown that blends in with the night perfectly.
Her heart soars. After everything, Ash is still willing to talk to her.
Becca has to go, go now. She has to beg forgiveness. She has to make Ash understand why she rejected her so cruelly. She has to make her understand what is at stake.
She has to make this right.
She has to win her back.
She rushes down the stairs, then turns right, toward the dining hall. There is a tunnel connected to the last trolley, a hidden door into the darkness. She slips through it, traverses the quad, and emerges on the main street, out into the night. The air feels heavy with impending rain, the clouds dark and roiling above, blotting out the moon.
She jogs up the sidewalk to the main gates, the red scarf flowing behind her, to the shadow that waits for her.
Toward her heart. Toward her future.
“Ash? I’m so sorry.”
76
THE MURDER
How do you kill a narcissist?
I mean, how do you attract one in the first place? Do you put off some sort of pheromone that says, Hey, sexy lady, I’m easily manipulated, come check out my wares?
I attract them. They find me. They seek me out—for whatever perceived vulnerability I give off, the pathos, the acceptance. They see me as a tool to their ascent, a shoulder to be stepped upon, a foil, a testing ground.
If I, sweet, biddable I, can be fooled into loving them, the whole world will, too.
Only I am not sweet. I am not biddable. I may send signals that I want to belong, that I want to be loved, but this is a false trail. I have been humoring you. I am curious to see what your plan is, what you intend to do. How you think you will rule over me.
I will extricate myself from your grip and wave you away. You, the one who thinks the world owes you, may think you’ve made this choice.
But I am the spider. I am waiting at the center of the web for the blundering fly.
I am the real monster.
When faced with killing a narcissist, I find it easier than I always thought it would be. There is nothing I can do but give in to the urge to punish the wrongdoer. To unmask the manipulator. To show the world who you really are.
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