Pretty Dead Girls

  Once Cass dropped that particular bomb, about Gretchen and Courtney fighting over him, I immediately started asking questions. One after the other, all of them starting with the word why.

  Why do you say that?

  Why would they fight over you?

  Why are you involved?

  Why?

  Why?

  Why?

  But he clammed up, grabbed the muffins, and fled from my car before offering a solid answer. Good-bye and good riddance, I told him mentally. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? Asking me to meet him with the cryptic anonymous texts, spinning all sorts of elaborate tales, and then refusing to answer me? Whatever. I think he’s full of crap.

  But I pondered over what he said for the rest of the weekend, unable to wrap my head around any of it. Would Gretchen and Courtney seriously fight over him? And is that enough motive for Courtney to want to murder Gretchen? What exactly did the three of them do anyway?

  Ugh. I couldn’t even bring myself to think about the many possibilities.

  “Who was the guy Gretchen supposedly stole from you?” I ask her.

  The irritation on Court’s face is clear. At least I’m seeing some sort of emotion. “There are too many of them to mention.” She looks away from me and heaves a big sigh.

  “Who was the last one, then? The one that sent you over the edge?” When she turns to glare at me, I explain further. “The one who made you act crazy at the candlelight vigil.”

  “I acted crazy at the candlelight vigil because I was upset over Gretchen’s murder.” Her eyes are blazing with anger. “Everyone deals with grief differently, Penelope. We all can’t be cold and unfeeling like you.”

  Ouch. I rear back. “Is that what you really think about me? That I’m cold and unfeeling?”

  “You’re the one calling me crazy. How do you think that feels?” Courtney leaps to her feet, resting her hands on her slender hips as she stares down at me where I still sit on the grass. “What’s up with you, huh? Why are you questioning me about stuff that’s really none of your business? I don’t ask you who you’re hooking up with.”

  That’s because I’m not hooking up with anyone. And I’ve always been an open book with my friends when it comes to my love life. I have nothing to hide. I’m not sneaking around with guys. I never really have.

  But I say none of that. There’s no point. I need to keep this casual. I don’t want to raise her suspicions.

  “I was just curious.” I stand as well, brushing bits of grass off my legs. “You seemed so…mad at Gretchen, even after she died. You said some really mean things when we found out, and at the vigil. I was worried about you. We all were. Once I started thinking about it, I wondered who she supposedly stole from you, and why you were so upset.”

  “He’s no one. Just…a guy. A stupid guy.” She says it so dismissively. I know she wants to quit talking about it, about him. “A guy who’s not even in my life anymore, okay? So let’s just drop it.”

  “Okay. Fine. We’ll drop it.”

  She glances around, her gaze lingering on the football players. They’re all yelling and grunting like a bunch of cavemen as their coach shouts orders at them. I remember last year, when I was with Robby and I used to watch like some breathless groupie as they practiced. Robby would always puff up his chest and strut around on the field like he was the king of the team. Which he sort of was. His ego was massive—sometimes it felt like I was more of a prize for him to show off versus a girl he was truly interested in.

  “I’ve moved on and found someone else, anyway,” Courtney says offhandedly.

  “Really? Who?” It’s only October. How many guys is Court trying to go through by the time we graduate?

  “I can’t tell you.” Her gaze meets mine once more. “If you knew, you’d run off and tell someone else.”

  “What? How old do you think I am? I don’t run off and tell anyone anything.” I’m slightly offended she’d even say it.

  “You’d tell your best friend,” she says pointedly.

  Oh. Well, crap. That means Courtney is hooking up with…

  “Are you messing around with Brogan?” My voice squeaks. We all know how Dani feels about him. She’s been panting after Brogan since we were sophomores. He teases her, acts like he’s interested, and then completely shuts her out. He runs so hot and cold, and I swear that’s half of the allure for Dani. He makes her crazy, and she freaking loves it.

  “Ssshh! Be quiet!” Courtney steps closer to me, her voice low. “He’s been texting me for the past week. Well. More like sexting me.”

  According to Dani—and Lex—and me—Courtney sexts everyone. Including Cass. “Who started it?”

  Courtney looks offended. She even rests a hand on her chest like some scandalized grandma. “He did.”

  “He did what? And who are we talking about?” Lex magically appears, a smirk on her face, and I wonder how much of our conversation she overheard.

  “Nothing and no one.” Courtney flashes her beauty queen smile and dashes off to go stretch with…

  Dani.

  Ugh. Now that’s messed up.

  “She’s been weird lately,” Lex observes.

  “I think we’ve all been sort of weird lately,” I tell her, plopping onto the grass once again. I need to stretch. My entire body is tight, especially after that tense conversation with Courtney.

  Lex joins me, spreading her long legs into a wide V. “You’re right. Murder has a way of making people behave strangely.”

  I send her a look. “You watch too many episodes of CSI.”

  She shrugs. “What? I’m just stating a fact. Everyone’s been jumpy lately. It’s freaky, thinking there might be a murderer in our midst.”

  It’s always strange to me when Lex and I get along so easily. Like right now. Makes me wonder if she’s up to something. But what?

  “Do you think it was someone who goes here? A student? Oh God, maybe even a teacher?” I ask incredulously. The police are implying it’s a stranger, and I like to think it was, too. It’s easier that way. You don’t want to believe someone you know could’ve done this.

  “I don’t know. I have no clue. The police are certainly keeping quiet. They’re releasing no details, and that either means they have a suspect or they don’t know shit.” Lex looks over at me. “Did they ever call you back in for questioning?”

  I slowly shake my head.

  “Me neither. Everyone’s saying it was an outsider. Some freak transient stranger who somehow came across Gretchen at the church and killed her. A murder of opportunity.”

  We’re quiet for a moment and I wonder if I should tell her my theories. The things that keep me up at night, racing through my head so I can’t fall asleep. Lex is smart. Even though she drives me crazy most of the time, I know she probably has some interesting theories, too.

  I decide to go for it.

  “It makes no sense, though,” I point out. “First, Gretchen’s not even Catholic, so why would she be at that particular church? Second, supposedly she got a text saying there was an emergency Larks meeting and that’s where she was going.”

  Lex’s eyes go wide as she sits up straight. “What are you talking about? I’ve never heard about an emergency Larks meeting.”

  Oh. Crap. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to say that. “The detectives told me when I talked to them,” I admit.

  Her eyes are wide as she stares at me. “Do they think you’re the one who texted her?”

  “I didn’t! It wasn’t me! I never called an emergency meeting that day.”

  Lex rolls her eyes. “Calm down. I know you didn’t do it. But I asked if the cops thought you were the one who sent that text,” she repeats. “Have they looked over Gretchen’s phone records?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to them since the day we found out Gretchen died.” I hate how defensive I feel when we talk about this stuff. “When I talked to them, they asked me if I did, and of course, I said no.”

  “Right.
And since you haven’t talked to them about it again, I’m guessing they figured out you were telling the truth.” Lex tilts her head, the sun glinting off her long dark hair, making it shine. “So you think Gretchen was lured out to the church by some random stranger? Because that sounds pretty bogus to me.”

  “I know. But there’s no other reason for Gretchen to be there.”

  “Unless she was meeting someone she knew?”

  “The detectives told me her mom received a text saying she was going to the emergency Larks meeting and she’d be home later,” I say.

  “She could’ve lied. She always lied to her mom.”

  “That’s what I told the cops.”

  Lex stares off into the distance, her eyes squinting against the waning sun. “I wouldn’t put it past her. Her mom is totally overbearing and a complete control freak. Always wanting to know what Gretchen was doing and who she’s doing it with.” Lex smirks. “If she only knew.”

  “If she only knew what?”

  “What Gretchen really did—her and Courtney both, really. Gretch was a hot mess, Penny, and we know Court is one, too.” Ugh, she called me Penny on purpose. “Messing around with the wrong people. Maybe Gretchen finally did something totally awful to someone and they decided to get their revenge by killing her.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I protest weakly.

  Lex just watches me and I can’t help but think who she’s referring to.

  Courtney.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  Well, I really knocked their socks off by killing the pretty girl, didn’t I? Not that they care that the bitch totally deserved it. Because she so did.

  Trust me. I know.

  They are all talking. They are all speculating. It’s all anyone in this stupid town can discuss. The rumors are flying around school. They’re even flying around the town. The residents are interrogating the cops, demanding answers to questions the police department isn’t ready to answer. What are they going to do? How are they going to stop this? There is a murderer in their ritzy, special little town and they don’t like it.

  They want answers. Now.

  They want the killer stopped before he strikes again.

  Well, good fucking luck with that, peeps.

  It’s dark and I’m still at school. It’s like I never leave this place, though no one seems to notice me here. Everyone is long gone, even the creepy janitor, Brick.

  Yes, his name is really Brick and he’s about as dumb as one, too. And he’s also a leering pervert who likes to spy on the girls by lurking behind dark corners and listening in on their conversations when they don’t know he’s around. But you see, they do know he’s around most of the time, and they actually make up conversations about blow jobs and messy sex in the backseat of their boyfriends’ cars and weekend slumber parties where the girls wear tiny T-shirts with no bras and skimpy panties and have pillow fights.

  They make up all these crazy, over-the-top stories and he eats them up. He walks around campus all day long whistling and smiling, probably trying to hide his boner as he relives those glorious bogus stories of pretty teen girls and the dirty, secret things they do when they think no one else is paying attention.

  But he’s not our murderer, so let’s not get distracted by Brick and his twisted story.

  Let’s focus on me.

  I’m out at the football field, sitting in the stands. There is one single light on, across the field in the visitor stands, but it’s just enough to illuminate the area. Plus, the moon is full, wispy white clouds passing over it every few minutes. The breeze coming off the ocean smells of salt and brine, and I hear the low murmur of the lighthouse foghorn in the far distance. It’s a perfect Cape Bonita night, and I’m taking advantage of it.

  The metal bench I’m sitting on is so cold my ass is going numb, yet still I wait. I fidget and check my phone again. She’s almost fifteen minutes late, but she’ll show up.

  They always show up.

  When I finally see her in the distance, headed straight toward the bleachers, straight toward me, I sit up straight and shove my hands into the front pockets of my thick jacket. I curl my fingers tight around the knife handle, the smooth wood fitting perfectly in my palm.

  It is my lifeline. My security blanket. I don’t want to use it tonight, but I can already sense she’s not going to give me much choice.

  They’re stubborn and dumb. They seem perfect and beautiful and driven and smart, but they all end up disappointing you in the end. Trust me.

  “Oh. It’s you.” She sounds disappointed and I stare at her face, taking in her sharp features. She is not classically beautiful like Courtney is, not vibrant and bright like Gretchen was.

  No, this girl is the complete opposite of Gretchen, with her long dark hair pulled into a tight, high ponytail and her wide-set, dark eyes, her perfect slashing eyebrows, and those high cheekbones that look like they could cut glass. She’s tall and slender and she carries herself like a dancer, with perfect posture and those long legs, always walking on her toes like she’s about to go en pointe and pirouette away at any given moment.

  “Were you expecting someone else?” I ask her calmly. She hates when people are calm. She always wants to be the calm one so she can do and say something just to rattle the shit out of you.

  “Honestly? Yeah. I was hoping.” She shrugs and slips her hands into her pockets, chomping loudly on her gum. So freaking rude. These girls are supposedly perfect, but all of them are rude bitches. Every single one of them.

  And this one is no different, despite how beautifully she’s put together. She’s wearing a fitted black leather jacket and a pair of black leggings that make her legs look like matchsticks. She doesn’t have much meat on her bones.

  “Want to go grab some dinner together?” I ask, as a test. For once, I’d like to rattle her.

  “Now?” she asks incredulously. Like I just asked her to go rob a bank.

  “Yeah, now.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t eat dinner. You know this.”

  Right. That’s because she has an eating disorder. She believes no one else notices. That we all think she’s just naturally skinny. But that’s a crock of shit. She’s delusional.

  “Why’d you ask me to meet you out here so late anyway? What do you want?” Her tone is snotty. She sounds completely put out. “It’s fucking freezing,” she mutters under her breath, a little shiver moving through her.

  “I thought we could talk. I’ve missed you.” Truth, though I hate to admit it. It’s like I ask for their abuse whenever I encounter one of them.

  She squirms, clearly uncomfortable. “We were friends for like two seconds over the summer and you act like we spent every waking moment together.”

  “I can’t help it. I thought we were friends, and when we’re at school, you totally ignore me.” It’s true. She walks right by me in the halls with a blank expression, like she’s not even aware of me.

  But I’m always aware of her.

  “Please. We are definitely not friends,” she practically spits out.

  “That’s all I wanted. Why is that always too much to ask for?” I rise to my feet and take a step toward her. She’s standing on the aisle steps, her hands still in her pockets. It would be so easy to push her over. She’s completely defenseless like that. I’d give her a shove and she’d tumble to the bottom of the steps. Maybe she’d hit her head on the sharp corner of a bleacher, cut herself wide open. All the dirty work would be done for me, just like that.

  Ha. I couldn’t get so lucky.

  “Well, I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that. I wish you’d just let it go. Yeah, I was nice to you when we were younger, before you got all messed up. And yeah, we tried to be friends again last summer, but that didn’t work out, either. You’re too weird, not to mention pathetic.” With that pleasant last statement, she turns to leave, her hands still in her pockets, her shoulders perfectly straight.


  I hate her. I hate her so much. Yet I still crave the friendship. The approval. And that makes me hate myself even more.

  Without a word, I rush toward her, throw my hands out. They make contact with her sharp shoulder blades and I don’t even hesitate.

  I shove her as hard as I can.

  She screams, tumbling down the steps, head over feet, just like you see on TV or in the movies. I stay still and watch, holding my breath as she keeps rolling, until finally she lands on the concrete walkway at the very bottom of the steps. Her hands are still in her stupid pockets, like she didn’t even bother to try and break her fall, and her right leg is bent at an unnatural angle. My gaze goes to her face and I see the giant gash on her forehead. Her eyes are full of fear and pain and rage. All directed at me.

  “What did you do, you fucking asshole!” She sounds like she’s in shock. I bet I did surprise her, and nothing much gets past this girl. “You pushed me!”

  “I did not,” I call from where I’m standing. I sound so calm I impress myself. “You tripped and fell.”

  She tries to move her leg and winces in agony, a low moan escaping her. I bet she broke her leg. Maybe even her hip. I’d bet big money her bones are extra brittle, too. They probably snapped, just like that. “I felt your hands on my back, you fucking liar! You did this on purpose!”

  I just smile. What can I say? She won’t listen to me. She’s already made up her mind.

  She fumbles for something in her pocket, grasping and tugging and becoming out of breath the more she struggles, before she finally pulls out her phone. She sucks in a deep, sharp breath. “I’m calling the cops, you psychopath! You’re going down for this. You’re going down!”

  Oh hell no, I’m not.

  I run down the steps, the metal clanging loudly from my pounding feet as I whip the knife out of my right pocket. It gleams in the darkness, the moon shining on the silver blade, and her eyes go wide just before I reach her. I grab her by the front of the jacket, thrust my face in hers, and smile, then bring the knife so the point is nudging her just beneath her chin.