I caught it with the edge of my Doc. “Wait.”
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice yelled from inside. Avery’s eyes widened. Her mouth twisted in panic. “Um.”
“Salvation Army,” I muttered.
“Salvation Army,” she called back.
“We don’t have any cash. We’ll bring some stuff by on Sunday.”
“I can’t do this now,” Avery said, bumping the door against my foot.
“I gotta ask you something.” I put my hand on the doorframe, leaned in. Avery looked at it like it was an unexploded grenade. But I couldn’t let her better-than-you attitude get in the way of this. This was important. I took a deep breath and pushed the words out with it. “Did Mr. Garson touch you, too?”
Silence. But her wide eyes seemed suddenly wet, and the breath she took shook like a rattling autumn wind. Her throat bobbed. “I can’t . . .”
“Avery.” That was presumably her mom. Footsteps thumped angrily down the hall. Avery pushed the door, and this time I was wise enough to move my foot.
I had the answer I was looking for. But I didn’t have the solution I needed.
It was Gwen who gave it to me, ironically. It was hard to trust anyone about it, even another girl. But I talked, and then she talked. And I learned a lot more than I wished to learn. And we agreed: Garson was dangerous. And he was the most popular person at JLH. And if he knew that Emma planned to expose him . . .
Emma was dead.
Which was how we came to be sitting in an empty classroom, long after school was over and I was supposed to be at Jamie Schill’s.
Emma burst in five minutes after three. She looked like a total mess—she always did, these days, and not the kind of mess I aspired to be—and she said, “Sorry I’m late, I had to drop off . . .” Then she recognized me. “What’re you doing here?”
Avery sat on the floor next to me, legs crossed, looking down at her knees as they bounced. Behind Emma, Gwen closed the door. Emma whirled in time to see the lock click.
“We all have a problem,” I said. “And we’re going to kick his ass.”
Part of me felt guilty for not realizing sooner. For being relieved that Garson had stopped bothering me rather than suspicious. To think I was the only one. To him, I wasn’t someone special. I wasn’t even someone especially vulnerable. I was just a piece of the link. The long line of conquests, of victims.
But goddamn it, if we were going to be victims, we were going to be his last.
30
The Truth
The river washes through Lorne and takes the truth with it. And the debris it leaves behind is picked through without understanding.
It is the night of December 5. Silence has fallen with evening, giving the town a sense of lifelessness, stillness. Everyone who still wants a life after dark is on Diamondback Ridge. Wind bends the evergreens and whips at the bare aspens. Tomorrow will bring snow, but now the sky is clear.
A charcoal-gray Honda pulls away from the gas station and winds along the road, following the flow of the river as it rushes toward the foothills. The inside of the car has books tossed every which way, a headrest on the back seat, french fries mummifying under the passenger side. A phone rings from the glove box, and nail-bitten fingers covered in chipped polychrome polish fumble at the latch.
Claude finally grabs the phone. “What?”
“You have to come now. The plan. We have to do it tonight.”
“What?”
“Someone’s following me. Him. Meet me at the Run.”
Claude taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “Shit,” she mutters. “Shit, shit shit.” Then she hits the brakes, whips the car around, and speeds back toward Lorne.
The river churns, full of snowmelt, rising toward the bank. On the hill behind it, safe from flooding, the ring of mansions cut into the mountainside is a dark strip with one burst of light and laughter. The scent of expensive whiskey and sour craft beer lingers in the air.
Two houses down, a dark shape slips out the front door, tucking strands of an ice-blond wig under her knit hat. She opens the trunk of her car and tosses in a pair of Pine Nation boots and a big black coat. She slams the trunk and goes around to the driver’s side, pulling out her phone. “Lyla? I need a massive favor.” Her laugh is bright and fake as she turns the ignition. “I know it’s super late, but Michael just called, and I’ll be grounded for a million years if they catch me out with him.” Her voice drops. “He really wants to see me, you know? You’re the best. Talk to you tomorrow.”
The smile slips off her face like rain as she cuts off the call. Checking the house behind her one more time, she pulls out of the driveway, heading for lower ground.
She drives through the dead center of Lorne, past the newly renovated downtown with its cookie-cutter cafés and taffy shops, past the Breakfast Club and the Eternal Christmas store, where Santa waves from the window, past the flickering light of the motel. The mountains rise like prison walls.
She parks at the edge of a crumbling drive, a few houses down from the yard with filthy windows and thorns tangling in the gutter. A window slides up with a sound like a guillotine and a shadow tumbles from the Sayer residence. Gwen noiselessly trots to the car.
“Thanks for picking me up,” she mutters as she slides in, bringing a blast of cold air with her. Avery puts the car in drive and speeds away, moving her hand to Gwen’s leg.
“Thanks for being ready so quick,” she replies.
Gwen takes her hand in an iron grip. “I hate plans gone wrong,” she says. Avery squeezes back, hard as she can.
Lorne is silent. It is the silence of a town that won’t reveal its secrets. It is the silence of a town where silence is complicity, and driving here is like driving through an elaborate tomb. The trees move back and forth in the wind, but they don’t even rustle. The only sound is out of town, where the river runs deceptive and deep. And under the churn of water, the sound of twigs snapping and the panting breath of someone utterly terrified.
There are no more phone calls. Emma Baines runs, openmouthed, letting the cold Rockies air hit her teeth. She runs knowing someone is behind her. She runs like it’s the last night of her life.
The ground is hard and slicked with frost. Her boots slide and stub against roots. Bare hands scrape against bark and come away bloody. She cuts across the land, aiming for the road, but he paces her, pushing her deeper into the wood. Toward Anna.
More noise penetrates the forest. “Emma!”
The feet behind her speed up.
Emma skids onto the bridge over Anna’s Run, slipping on icy gray planks, slamming into the weathered railing with a crack. A glove closes around the hood of her parka and yanks. Her scream is cut short as he claps a hand over her mouth. Emma flails; her legs slide out from under her, and two bodies land hard on the bridge. She kicks, connects with the railing. Crack. The hand moves from her mouth to her throat. She tears at his arm, reaches up for his face. Her nails scrape the flesh on his cheeks and he grunts. His arm constricts. She kicks again. Crack.
The shouts draw closer, and as Emma’s hearing fuzzes in and out, she can make out the crash of bodies through the underbrush. She kicks harder. An elbow to his stomach makes him loosen his arm a fraction; her head slides out and she rolls to the edge of the bridge. Her lungs are raw and cold. Black spots explode in her vision. Emma stumbles to her feet, but she can’t run now.
She turns. He’s nothing more than a smudge of shadow at the edge of the bridge. His arms are out, fingers closed around the grip of a gun.
“The others know I’m here,” she blurts. “They’re coming.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and at his voice, confusion flashes on her face. He takes a breath, steadies the gun.
Something smashes into him. The gun goes off. Emma hears a scream that is not her own. She can’t move. She can’t even breathe. The shadow on the ground is a tangle of limbs. Two more figures appear. The gun skitters over the earth and the man launches himself after
it. “Move!” Gwen yells, and finally Emma moves. Her body’s not entirely convinced that she’s not dead. Shaking, she clings to the railing, using it to pull herself to the other side of the creaking bridge.
The man grabs the gun at the same time as Gwen. She grips the barrel, forcing it toward the sky. Her lips pull back in a determined snarl. He punches her hard in the abdomen, and she folds. Avery screams again and pounces on him. Claude grabs his feet. He kicks but she holds on. Their bodies smudge together until no one knows who has the gun.
It fires.
Claude scrambles away. Two figures lie prone on the ground. Then Avery gets up, her whole front covered in mud. Her blue eyes are wide, and twin tracks smear the dirt on her face.
“Avery!” Gwen rushes over. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” She cups Avery’s face.
“I’m fine, thanks,” Emma mutters.
“I—I think—” Avery stammers. She’s trembling. “I think he’s dead.”
The prone figure sucks a bubbling breath. He’s not dead yet, but soon.
“It’s okay,” Gwen breathes. She tries to pull Avery in.
“I said he’s dead!” Avery pushes away. Her voice rises. “Do you know what that means? What’s going to happen to me?” She stumbles, and Gwen grabs her by the shoulders, steadying her. Avery’s breath begins to hitch.
“Deep breaths. No one’s going to do anything to any of us.” Claude stands, brushes off her jeans, strides over. She’s got her cool fuck you face on, though she’s pale beyond pale and she clenches her fists to keep her hands from shaking. “This is what happened: He shot himself. After pushing Emma in the water.” She looks from face to face, working her jaw. Gwen nods immediately. Emma, after only a moment. And Avery looks to each of them in turn, mouth gaping.
Claude crouches and puts her gloved hand on the body’s shoulder, heaving it over. “We’re still going through with the plan. Maybe it’ll be easier with him gone. We’re still—Who the fuck is this?”
Her phone flashlight flips on. Emma staggers forward, breath catching as she takes a step onto the groaning bridge. Gwen leans in but Avery turns away.
Three girls peer into the lifeless eyes of a man they’ve never met. Instead of smart winter clothes, he wears a tattered Salvation Army coat and shoes. Instead of a salt-and-pepper goatee, he has a dark three-day beard, interrupted by a scar that cuts from his nose to his lip. They exchange baffled looks. “I thought it’d be . . . ,” Gwen says.
“Garson.” Claude runs the light down his body, revealing his tattered jeans, his holed shoes. “Do you know him?” she asks Emma. Emma shakes her head. “Think he was trying to mug you, or . . . ?”
“He said he was sorry. Nothing else. I think . . . he was trying to kill me.”
“Maybe Garson sent him,” Gwen says. Avery finally turns back, peering through wet eyelashes at the man on the ground. Gwen squeezes her shoulder.
“It doesn’t matter. The plan is still the plan.” Claude bends down and tugs at his gloves.
“You’re taking the clothes off a dead person,” Avery whispers.
Claude rolls her eyes. “Great observation, Einstein.”
“You’re not exactly in the running for valedictorian,” Gwen snaps. Then she draws in a breath and turns to Emma. Her eyes are of a softer flint than they were a few weeks ago, but not totally devoid of coldness. “Claude’s right. We have to see the plan through. This doesn’t change anything.”
“She’s supposed to be Garson in the video,” Emma says.
“Well, now she’s this guy.” Gwen’s features twist in disgust. “We should’ve known he wouldn’t do the dirty work himself. If Garson really sent him, the truth will come out anyway. We just have to do our parts. I’ll get the phone and hack in.” She looks at Avery one more time, hands tightening on the other girl’s shoulder. Avery takes a deep breath, then nods. Their mouths meet lightly.
“Focus, guys,” Claude says.
“I am focused.” Avery says, though she shivers and doesn’t look at the body. As Gwen goes over to set up the tripod, Avery hands Claude her father’s hiking boots, dropped during the fight and now as muddy as the rest of them. She pulls off her hat and hands it to Emma. The ice-blond wig is lopsided on her head. She tugs on it.
“You’re never . . . here.” Emma shoves Avery’s hat on her head and comes forward to straighten the wig. Their eyes meet and hold, and a wistful smile tugs at Avery’s mouth. Emma matches it with one of her own. “Think you could shrink a couple of inches?”
Gwen coughs from where she sets up the tripod. Emma rolls her eyes a fraction. Claude pulls on the dead man’s coat. “We gonna get him out of the shot or what?”
Avery’s shaking, and tears swim at the bottom of her eyes. She swallows hard.
“I’m adjusting the camera. Can’t see him or anybody’s feet,” Gwen calls. “Emma, did you get the rope?”
Emma gets the rope from where she slung it around a low-hanging branch of Anna’s tree. Claude trades her shoes for the Pine Nations. Then she picks up the gun and starts buffing it with the corner of the dead man’s coat. “He should’ve sprung for a dry clean every once in a while,” she mutters. Then, louder, “What’re we going to do with this?”
“Ask baby cop,” Gwen says.
“Gwen,” Avery admonishes softly.
“What?” Gwen’s tone is sharp, but her face softens as she comes over. “It’s ready.”
Emma returns a few moments later. The rope floats downstream, tied to a sturdy pine. Avery will grab it when she’s pushed over the edge and use it to haul herself to shore. In theory. If Anna’s feeling generous tonight. “And the gun?” Gwen says.
“Bury it,” Emma decides.
“What if we plant it on him?” Claude says. “Garson.”
“No.” Emma blows out a puff of air through her nose. “We stick to the plan. Bury the gun and forget about it. As long as he goes far enough downstream, no one will suspect he had anything to do with me.”
Avery straightens her coat and goes over to the side of the bridge, awaiting her cue. Claude slides the dead man’s gloves over her hands.
“We’re ready,” Gwen repeats. She looks at Avery. “Are you sure—”
Avery nods.
Claude pulls her black scarf up over her mouth and nose, her black hat down. She rolls her shoulders. Gwen raises her hand. When it slices through the air, Avery stumbles onto the bridge. She turns, pale hair whipping into her eyes. Her mouth parts in a gasp. Her body stills, poised to flee. But it’s too late for that now.
The river below roars for her sacrifice. Claude lunges, eyes wide with panic, slipping on the bridge as it creaks and grumbles. Her hand connects to Avery’s sternum and she pushes as hard as she can.
Crack. The guardrail snaps one final time and breaks away. Avery tumbles back with a scream and the river swallows her up.
Claude freezes at the rail. “Do you have it?” she calls over the river.
Emma looks at the camera on its tripod. But Gwen’s not there anymore. She’s dashing along the riverbank, racing the water, looking for a dark shape and shouting Avery’s name. Emma joins Claude on the bridge, staring into the depths. “She shouldn’t have done it.”
“She’s the strongest of all of us,” Claude says, and there’s something like admiration in her voice. “If anyone can beat Anna, it’s her.”
It’s a big if. And suddenly, the noise seems to rush back into the wood, until Emma can hear nothing but the rattling of the trees and the chatter of the water, the screech of night things in the underbrush. They wait for one eternity, then another.
“Come on,” Claude says at last, and goes over to the body. She starts to take off his coat and gloves.
“What about Aves?” Emma says.
Claude pulls the scarf down. Her eyes are hard, her mouth turned down. “By now, she’s either out or we have major problems. Let’s take care of this one before we freak out completely.”
“Too late,” Emma mutters, but she
joins Claude and together they redress the limp figure and roll it to the busted rail of the bridge.
“Are you sure we can’t plant the gun?” Claude puffs as they work.
“Yes,” Emma replies shortly.
When they’re done with the dead man, they dig at the ground around Anna’s tree, scratching against roots until they’ve made the handgun a shallow grave. Claude wipes it down one more time and lays it to rest. And as they pat the dirt back into place, they finally hear the stumbling footsteps of Gwen and Avery.
Avery’s wig is gone. Her hair hangs in wet strings around her face, and mud coats every part of her, slick from her forehead to her boots. She shivers in her soaking clothes, gasping every time the wind rustles the underbrush around them. She might be the only person to have swum Anna’s Run and survived.
Gwen holds her tight, ignoring the way water seeps through her coat. “We have to get her out of here. Now.”
Emma nods. Claude looks sidelong at her. “That means this is it,” she says. She shakes a lock of dark hair out of her face. “Are you ready?”
Emma’s gaze lingers on Gwen first, her angry determination bound with a softness wherever she and Avery touch. The one everyone at JLH calls the uncaring bitch. Then she looks to Avery, the airheaded, weak cheerleader. Then to Claude, the self-serving rebel. Three girls she’d never have expected to help her.
“I’m ready.”
They head back to the road—Claude striding resolutely, Avery and Gwen stumbling behind, and Emma bringing up the rear. At the edge of the wood Emma stops, drifts back between the trunks. She cannot be in Lorne anymore.
Claude checks the dark road, then gets two bags out of Janine’s trunk. She walks back to the trees and hands them over one at a time. “Tent and sleeping bag, fire starters. We haven’t been camping in, like, five years, so there’s probably a million dead spiders in there.”
“Thanks,” says Emma.
Claude hands her the other bag. “Laptop and backup battery. Who knows what you’re going to get for internet out here, but maybe when I come by with food. I can set up a hot spot and we can mastermind posts.”
The Good Girls Page 23