Poppy drops my phone and claps so loudly that I almost jump. “Finally, some goddamned honesty! You must feel better now. Unburdened. Good for you.”
My view of the knife is half-obscured by her full skirt. She fixates on Sully. “That means you were somewhere else.”
“Yeah,” Sully says. “I was with that other guy. I don’t even remember his name.”
“What I find interesting,” Poppy says, “is that there weren’t any fingerprints on Kevin’s phone besides his own, even though you both just admitted to handling it. So whoever put the phone back”—she looks pointedly at Sully—“had the foresight to wipe it clean. You wouldn’t think most people would do that, right? Unless they knew something a lot worse than some text messages was about to happen.”
I wait for Sully to do what she does best. To talk her way out of this.
“Amb sent the messages,” she says, almost a whisper. “Amb told your sister to kill herself.”
“I know.” Poppy picks up the knife. “She did. But you’re the one who actually killed her.”
She’s across the room so quickly that I can’t react. Sully doesn’t make a sound when the knife goes in, but I do, even before it has entered her skin. Sully’s face goes slack, her eyes dazed. Then there’s the blood. It slithers down the beads on her dress, an elaborate labyrinthine maze. She stares at the red mark. Wesleyan red.
“If you ask me, you’re both terrible actresses,” Poppy says quietly. “You wouldn’t have made it anyway.”
The knife quakes in her hand. Now she’s coming to give me the same wound. But Poppy wipes the handle on her dress and hands me the knife instead. I take it.
Then she screams.
It’s the loudest sound I’ve ever heard, the kind of sound I’ll be hearing for the rest of my life. I stare at the knife as Sully falls to her knees. I crawl over to her, letting go of the knife to put my hands over the bloody patch on her dress.
“We can stop the bleeding,” I mumble, or at least that’s what I try to say, but it comes out as incoherent babble.
Sully’s skin looks almost gray. When she opens her mouth, there’s no sound. Then she leans toward me.
“She deserved it.” Sully laughs, a sick gurgle. “We’re the same, you know.”
Me and her, or her and Flora? “We’re not,” I whisper. I finally stand up to her and she can’t hear it. One of my tears falls onto her cheek.
I pick up the knife and stagger toward Poppy on quivering legs, but I know I won’t be able to use it. What I said was true: Sully and I never were the same.
Poppy isn’t alone anymore. She’s still screaming, her face bright red, and two guys in formalwear have rushed in and are gaping at our carnage, pulling out their phones to call the police. Poppy clings to one of them, using his body as a shield.
From me. From the girl with the bloody knife. I try to drop it but it remains stuck in my hand.
“It’s her,” Poppy wails. “She did it.”
I wait for Sully to yell out the truth. Poppy’s a crazy bitch. She stabbed me. But Sully isn’t saying anything ever again.
ONE YEAR LATER
He looks strange in the kitchen of my new Chelsea apartment. He’s timid, standing with a glass of red wine, wearing a soft gray T-shirt. At least, it looks soft. I haven’t found out yet. I’m draining pasta in the sink. One of the linguini noodles curls into a snake by the drain. I flush it down, put it out of its misery.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet,” he says. “It’s just—it’s messed up. I’ve been channeling all my energy into writing. I almost have a first draft of my novel done now, but it’s nowhere close to how I imagined it would turn out.”
“It never is.” My hair is down, around my shoulders, like my sister wore hers. “Nothing creative ever turns out quite how you expected.”
He moves toward one of the barstools at the kitchen island, eases himself onto it, splays his hands on the granite. His left ring finger is bare now.
“I don’t want to unload on you,” he says. “That’s not why I wanted to meet. And that’s what I pay a therapist for.” He laughs, so I do too, obligingly. “I thought I wouldn’t miss her at all. But I do. I miss who she was before I found out who she really was, if that makes any sense.”
I leave the strainer in the sink. The noodles are soggy—I let them boil too long. It doesn’t matter. I walk around the kitchen island and put my hand on his back. He doesn’t stiffen under my touch, but he doesn’t relax, either.
“I completely understand. You went through a huge trauma.”
“So did you.” He pinches the skin between his eyes. “She could have—I mean, she would have, maybe.”
“Maybe.” The slightest hint of steel enters my voice. I’ll have to get rid of that. “But she can’t hurt me now.”
We won’t have to find out what she would have done, because Ambrosia Wellington—she went back to her maiden name—is serving life in prison for one count of first-degree murder and one count of attempted murder. I’m not sure what people at Wesleyan are calling this bloodbath, since there’s already one Dorm Doom. I had no idea Sloane Sullivan’s wretched heart could pump that much blood.
“I’m surprised you even agreed to see me,” Adrian says. “I almost talked myself out of asking. It’s just, our emails have kind of been my lifeline. You’ve been so easy to talk to.”
I keep my hand on his back, on the hot skin underneath his T-shirt. “I ran from my demons for a long time. I know what it’s like.”
One of his hands finds mine and squeezes. I squeeze it back. God, he’s a good guy. He leans in—he’s going to kiss me. Except then his phone interrupts us. “Sorry. Just one sec. It’s my mom. Probably about Jane.”
Jane. She’s the one complication in this whole situation. As it turns out, Ambrosia wasn’t lying when she told me she was pregnant, and as much as I’m sure Adrian didn’t expect to be the father, he is. Now he’s a single dad, raising the baby on his own.
After everything, Adrian told me that Amb wanted to name the baby Jane. The plainest, simplest name. Maybe it was the one nice thing she ever did, not bestowing on her daughter a multisyllable monstrosity like the one she was given.
My sister would have been a good mother. When we were girls, she fed Goldfish crackers to her baby dolls, turned them over and burped them, rocked them lovingly. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a mother, but I can learn. I’ll protect this little girl, innocent Jane. Flora would have wanted it this way.
I heard that barely anyone went to Sloane Sullivan’s funeral. Just a few former classmates, a couple of family members, stragglers from a community theater troupe she was too embarrassed to tell people she’d joined. She’d made a lot of enemies over the years. Devotion and fear aren’t the same thing.
I listen to Adrian on the phone. He’s singing a lullaby to Jane. She must be three months old by now. Amb was visibly pregnant at her sentencing, touching her stomach, pretending to care. She told the jury that I was the liar, that I was the one who killed Sloane Sullivan. It was easy for me to explain why I was there. My sister’s former roommate invited me over to talk. Why would I suspect anything but a little reminiscing?
Only three of us were in that dorm room, but there were other witnesses that weekend. People who saw her acting strange and erratic. The former Butterfield girls, who thought being back had done something to her brain. The clerk at the Super 8, who saw her leave in a hurry. Poor Kevin. His death was ruled a suicide, because they couldn’t prove otherwise. And if that isn’t justice, I don’t know what is.
Most people thought Amb went crazy with jealousy when she found out her former best friend had slept with the boy she was still obsessed with. So she did something about it.
Felty gave the best testimony. He said he’d never fully closed the door on Flora Banning’s death. He said he’d always believed Ambrosia Wellington had something to do with it.
Nobody believed Amb, not even the man she married. The knife was hers—it came fro
m a wooden block in her cute little kitchen. Maybe she had already known about Sully and Kevin and had gone to the reunion with a plan.
Amb brought up my notes, but the thing is, nobody found a note like the ones she described in any of her belongings, or Sloane’s belongings, or Kevin’s. The judge said it best. You’re trying to concoct a fantasy to lessen your guilt.
And the emails—they weren’t traceable. It’s not that hard, if you buy a separate laptop and send your messages from public Wi-Fi connections. They could have come from anyone.
Adrian sits down on my couch, still singing to Jane over the phone. Amb didn’t know she had one of the decent guys. Flora always counted her blessings, certain that everyone in her life was there for a reason. Kevin. Amb. The girls are all so nice here, she gushed over the phone. Especially my roommate.
I’m not sure Flora would like what I did. Still, a sliver of her, the same sliver that exists in every wronged one of us, would be lit up, finally justified. Mostly, I like to think I made her proud. I started the memorial foundation in her name and I donate 10 percent of every sale from Poppy’s Pretty Pen to charities that help teen girls in need. I fight for good in the world, even if some of my methods are unorthodox.
My parents were surprised when I still wanted to go to Wesleyan. Of course, Ambrosia and Sloane had already graduated by the time I started. I grew close with my roommate, Molly, a friendship I thought was real until I learned she was using me to help do her coursework while spreading rumors behind my back. It was my time at Wesleyan that made me really dig into what happened to my sister. Because the girls weren’t nice at all.
There was the ACB, a treasure trove of theories for anyone to read. I learned so much about AW and SS. They left such a messy trail.
So I became part of the Alumni Committee after I graduated. I started Poppy’s Pretty Pen—I have the cutest Etsy shop. All I had to do was wait and draw them back. It didn’t take much. They’re both narcissists. Maybe above everything else, they needed to size each other up.
“Sorry about that.” Adrian pockets his phone and stands up. “She’s pretty attached to Daddy. This is one of my first times out of the house without her.”
I push his glass of wine across the counter. “Don’t be sorry. She’s precious. And she’s lucky to have you.” And me. If Adrian and I get closer, she’ll have me to help her grow the armor she’ll need. I’ll make damn sure she wears it.
He takes a drink. “I think she’s down for a bit now. She’s still getting used to her crib at my parents’ place. I’m just grateful they moved out here to be closer to me.”
I read between the lines. He left her at his parents’ house, probably told them he didn’t know when he’d be by to pick her up, and he doesn’t want to disrupt the angel’s sleep, so maybe he should just come in the morning? I smile. I’m not wearing a bra.
He wasn’t part of my plan. My plan was to have them turn on each other, the two girls responsible for ending my sister’s life. Sloane did it physically, so I gave her the easy way out—death. Amb picked my sister apart in far more brutal ways. For that, she gets a harsher sentence.
She gets to live, but from behind bars. She gets to see her family and friends slowly forget her. She gets to watch Adrian move on. She gets to watch me, a permanent reminder of my sister and the life she took away.
The wine is making Adrian’s lips red, but I won’t kiss him yet. I’ll feed him first. The pasta sauce simmering on the stove came from a jar, but he doesn’t need to know that. There’s a lot he doesn’t need to know.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him. I’ll help him finish his novel. I’ll help him get it published. I’ll make his ex-wife see how good she had it. How stupid she was for thinking the world owed her something more.
“Me too.” He eases onto a barstool. “I mean, all of this is weird for me. But maybe not in a bad way.”
Flora and I were different. She thought good things happened to good people. I know that girls are exempt from that logic. Good alone gets us nowhere.
I lean across the counter. Adrian’s eyes flit to the dip in my shirt.
No, good things don’t come to those who wait, and they don’t come to the Ambrosias and Sloanes of the world, who take without fear of consequences in an endless quest to shock each other. I could have let what they did to Flora ruin my life. But instead, I discovered my own version of sisterhood. It doesn’t have to be merciless, feeding on the chunks it tears from its own flesh. It can be softer, more forgiving. Because there are girls like me, fighting to make the society we’re fenced into a more hospitable place for all of us.
Somewhere, Jane slumbers, milk-fed and peaceful.
“We should toast to something,” Adrian says, holding up his wine. “To new beginnings. That feels right.”
I raise my glass and clink it gently against his. He thinks something has ended, something we can close the door on. He’s not wrong. But he’s wrong about me. I don’t see beginnings, only opportunities. Flora isn’t here, so I have to do enough good for both of us. The world needs so much work.
In a way, I’m just getting started.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The girls in this story might not be very nice, but the women who worked tirelessly on it with me are not only extremely kind but also brilliant and inspiring. Firstly, thanks to my agent, Hillary Jacobson, whose passion for this book has taken it farther than I ever thought possible. There’s nobody I trust more with my stories, and nobody who works harder on my behalf. Thank you for being the best and fiercest advocate I could imagine and the absolute most fun to work with. I know we will continue to do great things together.
To my powerhouse trifecta of editors—Carina Guiterman at Simon and Schuster, Nita Pronovost at Simon and Schuster Canada, and Emily Kitchin at HQ—you’re truly a star-studded dream team, and I’m grateful to be aligned with people who so deeply understand my writing and what I want to convey. Working alongside you has been a joy, and I could not be prouder of what we’ve achieved. I love seeing your names in my inbox and feel lucky every day to call you my editors. I’m a stronger, more capable writer because of you.
Thank you to my incredible film agents, Josie Freedman and Randie Adler, and to my brilliant UK agent, Sophie Lambert. To my stellar foreign rights team of Sophie Baker and Jodi Fabbri at Curtis Brown UK, for helping my not nice girls find homes around the world.
I’ve felt so welcomed by the team at Simon and Schuster, and am honored to have their support of my work. Thank you to everyone who has worked on this book’s development, including Maggie Southard, Elizabeth Breeden, Lashanda Anakwah, Marysue Rucci, Richard Rhorer, Jonathan Karp, Jonathan Evans, Aja Pollock, Erika R. Genova, Kimberly Goldstein, and Rafael Taveras. Thank you to Zoe Norvell and Jackie Seow for going above and beyond to design the cover and book jacket of my dark and twisty heart.
It has been amazing to work with the talented, hardworking team at Simon and Schuster Canada, including Rita Silva, Alexandra Boelsterli, Adria Iwasutiak, Felicia Quon, Karen Silva, and Kevin Hanson. Thank you for everything you’ve done to get this book in the hands of so many Canadian readers.
To the creative, dynamic people at HQ in the UK, including Katie Seaman, Claire Brett, Lucy Richardson, and Melanie Hayes—thank you for your hard work and insanely cool ideas, and the magic you’re doing overseas. Special thanks to Kate Oakley for designing a striking cover that so perfectly encapsulates the spirit of the book.
So many people were instrumental to the creation of this story, and supported me from the first (very, very long) draft. I’m grateful that Girls had such passionate early readers. Emily Martin—thank you for your constant support and friendship since before either of us were agented or published. Erika David, for being one of the most genuinely nice girls I know (and for introducing my kids to so many good books). Nicole Lesperance, for providing a wealth of information about Wesleyan and letting me ask countless random questions. Samantha Joyce, for never failing to celebrate (
even though weird things happen when we do…) or commiserate (always with the best GIFs).
To Darcy Woods, my kindred spirit in bubbles, for the most revitalizing long phone calls, sage advice, and fierce loyalty. To Marci Lyn Curtis, for DMs that are both heartfelt and hilarious (and occasionally dirty).
A huge thank you to Caroline Eisenmann for sharing so many incredibly helpful details about Wesleyan. Your generosity is so appreciated!
To the authors who took the time to read early and provide blurbs, including Andrea Bartz, Chandler Baker, Karen Hamilton, Megan Miranda, Robyn Harding, Samantha M. Bailey, and Samantha Downing. I admire your work so greatly, and having you read mine is truly an honor.
To my writer friends, of whom there are many, you are my people. Thank you for your role in my journey, and for letting me be part of yours.
To my parents, Denis and Lucy Burns, for too many things to ever list, but above all: a lifetime of believing this was what I was meant to do, and not letting me doubt it. You were right, of course.
To my sister and best wine drinking friend Erin Shakes, brother-in-law Jermaine Shakes, and Fiona, Malachi, and Naomi—thank you for being the cutest cheering squad.
To my in-laws Jim and Doreen Flynn for being so supportive of my work. To all of the Flynn clan—especially my sisters-in-law Suzanne Flynn and Kelly Bryan for being super cool book aunties.
To my extended family, near and far, especially Aunt Linda, Uncle Tom, and Aunt Pat. And to my grandmas, Honeybee and Betty, who aren’t here to see this but whose presence I feel regardless.
I’ve been extremely lucky to have befriended so many smart, funny, generous women. To all of my girlfriends, those near and far, ones I’m close with now and ones I don’t see as often—thank you for being part of my life. You know who you are. Thank you to Lauren Badalato, whose friendship and inside jokes go back decades. Special thanks to Tory Overend for many nights out that I won’t speak of here, and for being the other half of the real-life “we’re together, and we’re worse.”
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