Thank you for wearing my scarf. You look so pretty in red.
Let’s start with your eyes.
Oh, don’t whimper. This won’t hurt a bit.
77
THE GATES
The scene before Ford is a nightmare.
There are girls milling in the street, girls outside of the gates, girls inside the gates. They’re all staring at something... She sees a flutter of black fabric, and she knows.
Rumi brakes hard, tires squealing, throwing her forward into the leather and wood of the front seat. She jumped in the back out of habit, ignoring his scowl of disapproval.
“Just drive. Hurry.” And he had, peeling out of the garage.
She leaps from the car and races up the street, panting in panicked little breaths.
And sees why Melanie was so frantic.
One of her girls dangles backward from the tall, iron gates guarding the school’s entrance. There is a red tie around her neck, forcing her head to an almost comical angle. Her face is obscured, her hair is damp, making it hard to decipher color. She is wearing Goode School robes with a graduation stole around her shoulders.
Ford’s first thought: Another suicide. Oh, God.
Her second: Who is it?
You know exactly who it is. Stop deluding yourself. And you know what this means. If you’d acted when you had the chance instead of frolicking with Rumi, she’d still be alive.
She drags in a breath and starts to gather the girls together. “Come here, ladies, come here. Stop looking.”
Though she is looking, looking, looking. She already knows who is hanging on the gate, has that sense in her gut, but she has to be sure. She has to see for herself.
The eerie wail of a siren pierces the morning air—it’s so damp, did it rain last night?—and then the siren is deafening, shrieking at her, screaming its impotent fury.
The squawk to silence is broken by Tony slamming the door of his cruiser and running into the scene. He stops when he sees the gates, his face white, then gestures, waving her off, and Ford understands immediately.
He has to look up close, I have to get them out of here. He doesn’t want them to see her face, her beautiful face.
Rumi is by Ford’s side now, too, giving orders to the girls to move away. His arms are stretched wide and he herds them back, back, until they are almost all standing on the sidewalk across the street.
“Come away, over here, that’s right.”
It’s hardly far enough, but it gives the cops room to work.
Tony nods to the deputy who’s ridden with him, and he starts putting up a cordon between the students and the crime scene.
Another approaches the body and, to Ford’s absolute horror, begins taking photographs of the scene.
“Is this necessary?” she says to Tony, who nods, his eyes severe and dark. She hasn’t seen him like this before, and it chills her to the bone.
His voice is remote, commanding. “Unfortunately, yes. Ford. Have you touched the body?”
“No. Melanie found her when she came in this morning, she called me, then you. Or you, then me, I don’t know.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“I don’t.”
But she does. Of course, she does. It’s just too fitting, with everything that’s happened, everything she’s learned. What an ending to her story.
“Keep the girls away. You don’t want them to see this,” Tony says.
Rumi makes a cutting motion, which she reads as I’ve got this.
“We’re working on it. I’m staying with you.”
“Okay.” Tony takes a few shots with his own iPhone, then gently, gently, reaches for the foot of the dead girl and slowly turns her around. She spins easily on the tie around her neck, bumping against the gate. Gasps and cries fill the air, and Ford cries out along with the rest of them.
Her face is ruined, holes where her eyes should be. Her skin is gray. Her hair runs in wet ropes down her face and shoulders, and a red silk noose is wrapped around her neck and tied to the bars of the gate. Her hands are covered in gore.
While moments ago, Ford was dealing with a suicide, now there is no question that this is something more, something deeper, and she feels faint. It is the most horrific sight she has ever beheld and she starts to sag, but Tony grabs her elbow and squeezes hard, holding her upright. “Don’t. Stay with me. They need you. Be strong.”
The eerie morning silence is broken by a sudden babble from the crowd behind them. Ford can hear Ash’s name being bandied about, the girls whispering furiously behind their hands.
“Who is it, Ford?” Tony asks.
“Her name...her name is Becca Curtis. She’s head girl.”
“Oh, hell. I remember. I met her the other night, the night Camille Shannon died. So why are the girls talking about Ash Carlisle?”
“We all thought it was Ash hanging there, Tony. They look so alike. Oh, God. Poor Becca.”
Rumi approaches them, speaking low. “They’re saying Becca and Ash had a huge falling-out last night. They think she’s responsible. First her roommate, now her best friend,” he says. “Her best friend, her girlfriend, it’s all confused. I’m hearing both.”
Ford turns to the group of horrified students. Somehow, she finds the strength to face them. Her voice rings clear through the misty air like a bell tolled.
“Where is Ash Carlisle? Does anyone know where Ash is?”
There is a pause, murmurs, then a voice from the back of the group. “I’m here, Dean.”
Everyone gasps as Ash Carlisle steps forward. Her face is streaked with tears. She is dressed, unlike most of the other students, in jeans and white sneakers and a jacket. Her hair is wet, but not from a shower, it’s damp and curling. She’s been outside, that much is clear.
Ford also takes note that Ash is outside the gates.
“You need to come with me,” she says, tone so severe Ash blinks.
“But Becca—” Ash’s voice is strangled, torn, cracking with tears and something else, and her face grows even whiter when she looks at Becca’s lifeless body, her ruined face. It’s her first good view. Ash reaches out a hand as if she’s going to move forward and touch Becca, and the sheriff grabs her, stops her. But he doesn’t stop her words.
“Oh, God. Oh, my God. Dean Westhaven, I think I know who did this to her.”
78
THE DECISION
Becca is dead. Dead.
Her hands are curled into claws, fingers red and black. One hand rests on her chest, two fingers tangled up in the red silk noose around her neck. Where she fought. Tried to get free. Her face is ruined, the gaping black holes where her eyes once were a testament to the insanity of a girl who wants to leave a mark on the world.
And make it look at first glance like this girl was driven crazy by some sort of demon and hurt herself, gouged out her own eyes and strangled herself on the gate.
But there is no doubt in my mind, this is murder.
Ashlyn killed Camille. Ashlyn killed Becca.
Her parents. My mother.
Ashlyn will kill me, too, as soon as I help her recover her money.
The tears are flowing freely down my face, I don’t bother to check or hide them.
Ashlyn has done this.
Ashlyn has done all of this.
Ashlyn, Ashlyn, Ashlyn.
Get it together. Hold it together.
I can’t think about myself anymore. She is insane. She has to be stopped.
Just look what she’s capable of. Look what she’s done. Nothing I’ve done comes close. Lies. Just lies. She is a murderer. I have to throw her to the wolves.
You get half, the nasty little voice in the back of my mind says. No matter what, you can go anywhere, do anything, with half of Damien Carr’s estate. You have nothing to lose,
not anymore.
The dean is staring at me as if I’m speaking in tongues.
I straighten to my full height, which puts me a full head above her. Even this simple motion makes me feel more in control. I’ve been slouching around for months now, trying to look smaller, wider. More like her.
“I know who did this. We aren’t safe. We need to get everyone inside and block off the tunnels to the school.”
“What are you talking about?” Westhaven asks, her voice edging toward hysteria. “Who did this?”
“Trust me. Please.”
The dean doesn’t move, and the sheriff is standing next to her like an avenging angel. Rumi is at her side, too.
“Rumi—” I say, and the sheriff explodes. Everything happens at once.
“Are you saying Rumi is responsible? You are blaming him?” he says, loudly enough that the remaining girls hear, and the whisper campaign starts again in earnest, a few squeals and “catch him” filling the street between us and them.
Rumi goes white. “I didn’t have anything to do with this.”
The dean puts a hand on the sheriff’s arm. “He was with me, Tony. He didn’t do this. Becca was troubled. I have letters from her mother, emails, records from her psychiatrist. The senator was worried about her daughter, worried enough that she sent me the doctor’s notes.”
They barely notice me pleading, “No, no, she didn’t kill herself, there’s no way. Please, we can’t stay out here, can we have some privacy?”
But the damage is done. The girls of Goode need a logical explanation for this atrocity, and Rumi Reynolds, the son of the notorious campus murderer, is the perfect target. Whether he killed her or she killed herself because of him, the buzz is flowing hard, the angry hive looking for blood.
The sheriff has a hand on his cuffs.
Rumi is shaking his head, shock on his features.
I have to fix this. I speak loudly, so everyone can hear.
“No, Sheriff, you’re wrong. Rumi didn’t do this. Please, can we go inside?” I say again, and finally, he seems to hear me.
“You’re saying it wasn’t Rumi.”
“That’s right. But I think I know what happened, and it’s a convoluted story. We need to get everyone safe, first.”
The dark-eyed female cop has arrived, and the teachers are on the scene now, too. I see Asolo and Medea, pale and teary, standing together with their hands covering their mouths, and the dean goes to them, gives them instructions. She turns back and marches toward me. Gone is the kind, friendly woman who has been sheltering me since I arrived in America. She is a glittering Valkyrie now, furious and intent.
“Come with me,” and she grabs my arm and drags me toward her car. “We’ll go in the back.” Yes, we can hardly drive through the gates. God, Becca.
“Rumi?” she says, calling her dog to heel.
Something flickers in his eyes and he cocks his head ironically as if to say, Yes, Dean, anything for you, Dean, then tosses her the keys. “Drive yourself,” he says flatly. “I’m going to search the grounds with the sheriff’s deputies for anything amiss.”
“Look at the tunnel coming from the graveyard,” I call to him. “She’s been using it to get in and out.”
“She?” the dean, the sheriff, and the detective say simultaneously.
It doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t hide any longer. It’s time to come clean.
“My sister,” I reply. “The real Ashlyn Carr.”
79
THE SISTER
“But you’re Ashlyn Carr,” the dean says, brows drawn together in confusion, but there’s something alight in her eyes. Is she pretending? Does she know?
“No. Her name is Alexandria Pine,” Kate Wood says. “The rumors were right. She is Ashlyn Carr’s half sister.”
The dean looks stunned, but the sheriff simply nods at me.
“Kate’s been talking with Scotland Yard. We’d like to hear it from you, though.”
I have no choice, not anymore. “Yes, I am Alexandria Pine. You have to listen to me. Ashlyn is incredibly dangerous. She’s the threat. Please, Dean. Can we go to your office? I’ll explain everything inside. I... I can’t look at Becca like this anymore.”
The dean throws a look to the sheriff. “Go on. I’m right behind you,” he says.
I climb into the Bentley, the smell of old leather and gasoline welcome, safe. So much better than the blood and effluvia and fear outside.
The dean slams her door and we’re alone, watching the surreal scene from the comfort of our luxurious little bubble. She doesn’t look at me, is staring straight ahead.
“Where were you last night?”
I gesture to the small bag on my shoulder. “In the woods. I ran away. I couldn’t do this anymore. Becca—”
My breath hitches. Be brave, little Swallow, she says to me from somewhere beyond ourselves, and I clear my throat and start again. “Should we wait for the sheriff and the detective? The story is quite detailed.”
“Fine.”
The dean turns over the engine and shifts through the gears, drives us to the back of the school. The symbolism of the two crime scenes is not lost on me. The roommate dead out back, the lover dead out front.
Ashlyn is making sure I know I’m surrounded.
The dean parks in a slot right by the back door of Main, at the security office, and we filter inside, one after the other. The tension in her shoulders is palpable. I realize her hair is down; she’s not wearing makeup. She’s in jeans and a sweater and sneakers. She could be a student if it weren’t for the paper-thin lines above her mouth and the incipient creases around those wide-set gray eyes.
She’s not her usual Chanel-suited self. She’s been pulled from her bed.
He was with me.
She spent the night with Rumi.
Holy mother. The dean and Rumi. I would have never guessed.
My first instinct is wait until Becca finds out and the arrow of sorrow that pierces my heart makes me gasp aloud. I’ve killed her. I’ve killed Camille. I’ve killed them all. It is my fault. If I had only been brave, if I had only said no. They would still be alive.
Inside the dean’s office, I expect her to sit me down and force out the truth, but instead, she excuses herself, moves to her bathroom. I can hear the faint sounds of screaming, recognizable because I used to do the same thing when frustrated, fold a washcloth in half, bite it, and scream myself hoarse in fury at the injustices of the world. Then the toilet flushes and she emerges looking a little more clear-eyed.
“Tea,” she says. “Then you can tell me everything. But before anyone else gets here...why did you send the photographs? Were you planning to blackmail me?”
“I didn’t. Piper told me you found a phone in my room. It wasn’t mine. It had to be Ashlyn’s. She’s behind all of this.”
“How do you know?”
“Because technically, the email you showed me came from one of my accounts. We have a couple set up for emergencies. She must have logged into it from the phone, had the message sitting in the draft folder. When I opened the email to check it, something sent. I couldn’t see what it was, and that made me nervous, so I destructed the email address.”
“The message with the photos, it’s not retrieveable?”
“No. It’s completely gone.”
The dean blows out a breath and goes about making tea.
I see what she’s thinking.
“I won’t mention it,” I say and she nods, not meeting my eyes.
My soul hurts, so badly I want to bend in half and hold on for dear life. But I can’t. We have to catch Ashlyn. We have to stop her. She has to be punished.
This momentary reprieve allows me to gather my thoughts, decide where to start the story.
The sheriff comes in, blustery and furious, his niece fast on his h
eels.
“What the hell is going on?”
“We’re making a cup of tea,” the dean says, sounding almost calm. But when she turns to hand me the cup, she looks terrified, and the sheriff is staring at me like I have an ax in my hand.
“Talk,” he says.
I talk.
JULY
Oxford, England
80
THE PLOT
From the front window of the shop, I see Ashlyn coming down the street, swinging her bag, her Dr. Martens covered in mud. She’s hiked across their fields to town again.
Oxford is busy today, packed with tourists come to see the colleges, to wander in the footsteps of C.S. Lewis, walk in the spots featured in the Harry Potter movies and the Discovery of Witches show, and otherwise soak up the cultural and architectural goodness the city has to offer. And they all want a proper British tea; the shop’s been hopping since breakfast.
Ashlyn looks haunted today, hollowed out, as if she’s been getting high and forgetting to eat again. I recognize the look: my mum, Gertie, spends all her downtime on the couch in our flat above the shop, smoking, snorting, popping, and otherwise ingesting any escape from the drudgery of our life she can steal or trick. The two of them probably have the same dealer—a right arsehole named Kevin, red hair sprouting from his chin but bald as an egg otherwise, who hangs around the tea shop passing out glassine packs to the area addicts.
I can’t help the sigh. Ashlyn has been more and more erratic lately, bursting with grandiose plans and hidden conspiracies. Does her father pound on her a bit, absolutely. Do I feel sorry for her? Maybe, sometimes. Mum’s drug-addled but loves me, though I don’t know what it would be like to live in anything but perpetual squalor.
Ashlyn has everything, the whole world at her feet. Money. Beauty. Intelligence—when she’s not high, that is. Parents who stay out of her way. If she would just shut up and put up with it, go to school, stop getting in her father’s face all the time, provoking him, she could have the world. Twenty-five is the magical age for Ashlyn. She’ll come into her substantial inheritance and can bugger off and never look back. Why she doesn’t keep her head down is beyond me. If I were in her place, I’d do everything they asked. I’d love to go to school, to get a real education, not be stuck in this fucking chip shop with an addict mother and absent father.
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