The Good Girls

  “Guys get killed in prison all the time, though,” Mac said, looking around the room.

  “Yeah,” Ava seconded. “They’re probably not connected.”

  “But let’s play devil’s advocate a minute,” Caitlin argued. “Let’s say it isn’t a coincidence. Say someone . . . I don’t know, heard that conversation.” She looked at Julie again. “I wish we still had those notes Granger had written about our conversation. Do you remember what they said?”

  Julie flinched. She’d found a yellow legal pad in Granger’s office, which had notes that were clearly from their conversation that day. She looked at Parker to confirm.

  Parker nodded. “It said ‘Nolan—cyanide.’ If Granger killed Nolan, then that’s how he got the cyanide idea—and how he knew he could frame us.”

  “Did he have all of our other names on it?” Ava asked.

  “I think so,” Julie said. “There was something about Leslie, and Claire . . .”

  Mac pitched her gaze to the ceiling. “I said Claire.” Her cheeks turned red.

  “And Parker’s dad,” Julie added. “Granger had written all of them down.”

  “Not Ashley Ferguson, though,” Parker added, and Julie nodded. That was true. But maybe he just hadn’t known who Ashley was at the time. She didn’t take film studies.

  “Do you think it’s possible someone else heard us, too?” Caitlin interrupted. “Aside from Granger, I mean?”

  Julie frowned. “Someone else in the classroom?”

  Caitlin shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “Even if they did, what are you saying? That person snuck into the prison yard of a maximum-security prison and stabbed a guy to death?”

  “Maybe? Let’s just go over it. Who else was in the room that day?”

  Ava shut her eyes. “Ursula Winters. Renee Foley. Alex, but he was all the way on the other side of the room, talking to Nolan.”

  “Oliver Hodges, Ben Riddle, and Quentin Aaron,” Mac added. “James Wong—”

  “His dad’s a congressman, and he’s a lock for Harvard early admission,” Ava interrupted. “He wouldn’t do anything that stupid. Cross him off the list.”

  “Oh, like we wouldn’t do anything as stupid as pranking someone, because we’re headed for Juilliard and soccer scholarships and all?” Mac said.

  Ava paled. “Okay,” she admitted. “James Wong could have heard us, too.”

  “Claire was there,” Mac added. “So maybe it’s her? If she heard me say I wanted her dead, she’d be the type who’d get revenge.”

  Caitlin tapped her lips. “What about Ursula? She wants to beat me at all costs.”

  “By killing people?” Parker looked at them skeptically. Julie had to admit it sounded pretty extreme. No one said anything.

  Julie shut her eyes, realizing what they sounded like. “Guys, this is crazy. No one heard us talking except for Granger. And I saw that legal pad with my own two eyes. Even if the cops find it, our names aren’t on it. It doesn’t prove anything.”

  “What happened to the legal pad?” Caitlin asked. “Do you know?”

  Julie tried to think, but they’d been in such a rush to get out of there when Mr. Granger surprised them by returning home so soon. “I’m not sure,” she admitted.

  Parker looked confused, too. “I thought I grabbed it, but I have no idea where it could have gone.”

  “Which means it’s still out there somewhere.” Ava looked worried. “The police could have found it in Granger’s house. Or someone else could have it now. The person who actually killed Granger.”

  Mac had flopped back onto the bed while they talked, her dirty blond hair splayed out around her. “Guys,” she said, “we’re getting worked up over nothing. Parker’s dad’s death has nothing to do with this—with us. He was probably a prime target considering what he did to Parker. I mean, aren’t people who hurt their kids usually ganged up on in prison? This is the last thing we should worry about. And how impossible would it be for someone in high school to arrange to have a prisoner killed?”

  “She’s probably right,” Julie said.

  “Yeah.” Caitlin pulled her arms inside her sweatshirt and hugged herself. “Sorry I brought it up.”

  “It’s fine,” Mac said, squeezing her arm. “It’s good to think about all the angles. But right now, we should be looking at the bright side in all this. It sucks that Alex was arrested, but it means we’re okay. We can put this all behind us.”

  “You’re right,” Julie said softly. They should be thrilled and happy and relieved right now, not worrying about random, crazy theories that didn’t make sense. They weren’t going to jail. Parker was still with her. She had good friends, too—friends who cared about her, no matter what.

  And maybe that was all they needed right now. But as she sat back, she couldn’t help saying one more thing. “Coincidence or not, I’m really glad Markus Duvall is dead.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT, MAC STOOD IN front of her bedroom mirror, holding up a brand-new dress patterned with splashy vibrant peonies. Her mother had presumably bought it that afternoon, and she’d laid it on her bed with a note that said, Wear me tonight! Mac wrinkled her nose. With Mac’s chunky, dark-framed glasses and wild, untamed blond hair, it made her look half librarian, half Little House on the Prairie—in other words, totally not cool. Why couldn’t she just wear jeans? Was the Juilliard party that fancy?

  But maybe it was. It was the official Juilliard welcome event for Washington State, after all. And she was excited about meeting some of her new classmates.

  She was less excited about coming face-to-face with Claire.

  Mac hadn’t seen Claire all week. She’d been avoiding her at school, going down different hallways if she knew their paths would cross, opting for the library during lunch. She’d even considered ditching orchestra, but strangely, Claire hadn’t been there at all. Normally it would have been a big deal, but practice was optional this week, since the orchestra was just learning a series of new pieces and not really rehearsing for anything in particular. Mac wondered if Claire was avoiding her, too.

  And she’d been avoiding Blake, as well—every time she saw him in the halls, she ducked into a classroom so they wouldn’t have to see each other. As for that gummy-worm cupcake, she’d let Sierra eat it, never telling her where it had come from. She’d watched numbly as Sierra licked the icing off her finger, declining even the tiniest bite. And that card Blake had given her? Mac had thrown it in the glove compartment of her car, along with expired insurance cards and a bunch of outdated road maps. She hoped she’d come upon it years later when she was cool and successful and Blake really, really didn’t matter.

  She dropped the dress back to the bed, rolling her eyes. It probably didn’t even fit. Maybe she should just stay home—she really wasn’t up for this. But then she remembered the talk she and the other girls had had at Ava’s yesterday. They were off the hook for Granger’s murder. It looked like they weren’t suspects in Nolan’s case anymore, either. It was like she’d been given a whole new life, right? She might as well make the most of it.

  And as for that talk about the list, the idea that someone else had overheard who they’d wanted dead and was acting on it? Well, that was crazy.

  Okay, she decided—she was going. But she definitely wasn’t wearing that peony dress. She walked over to the closet, pushed aside some hangers, and selected a dark teal bouclé-knit shift dress she’d bought in New York when they’d toured Juilliard last year. Her mother had objected—it was kind of short—but maybe that was a good thing. She picked out a pair of boots and a lot of beaded necklaces. Much better.

  A few minutes later, she dabbed her lips with a bit of gloss, popped an orange Tic Tac in her mouth, and headed for the door. “Bye!” she called over her shoulder to her parents, who were sitting in the study, listening to a Wagner opera with their eyes closed.

  Thirty minutes later, Mac handed her keys over to the valet outside a tiny Brazili
an restaurant called Michaela in downtown Seattle. She took a deep breath and stepped inside. A bossa nova remix thumped through the speakers, and Edison bulbs in metal cages hung everywhere, shedding a flattering amber light on the scene. Bartenders were mixing up virgin mojitos behind the bar, and platters full of fried plantains and chicken-cheese coxinha were making the rounds. A long table outside the space held name stickers for all of the attendees. There, folded in half, was Mac’s name. A thrill went through her as she picked it up. She’d done it—she was going to Juilliard. Her skin tingled with excitement and pride.

  “Well, well, well. You came after all.”

  Mac blinked in the dim light and saw Claire’s sneering, pixie-like face looming just inches away. She’d already pasted her sticker on her left boob: Hello, My Name Is Claire Coldwell.

  Mac swallowed hard, shoving her glasses up her nose. “Uh, I have to . . .” she fumbled, just wanting to get away.

  Claire stood in the arch, not letting her pass. She was six inches shorter than Mac, her teeny body always something Mac envied, but she suddenly seemed taller. “Blake dumped me, you know,” she hissed. “All because of you.”

  Mac stared at her chunky heels, thinking about what Blake had told her the other day. So it was true. Whatever. Blake breaking up with Claire meant nothing.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Mac said. And then: “Excuse me.” Because, really, what else did she have to say? They weren’t friends anymore. They weren’t anything.

  She elbowed past her ex-friend and stepped up to a group of kids—any kids—just for something to do. They were several nervous, twitchy boys in jackets and ties, and one girl in stiletto ankle booties and a black lace dress that Mac instantly adored.

  “Hi, I’m Mackenzie.” She held out her hand to a skinny, effeminate boy with delicate-looking hands and long eyelashes.

  The boy gestured to his name badge. “Hello, my name is Lucien,” he said ironically. “I play the flute.”

  “Great to meet you!” Mac smiled.

  The others went around the circle saying their names and instruments. Then they started talking about New York City. “Has anyone ever been there?” a girl named Rhiannon asked with wonder in her voice.

  Lucien nodded. “My parents took me for my birthday last year. It’s amazing,” he gushed. “I can’t wait to go back.”

  “And it’s really expensive, right?” a boy named Dexter who played the piano said. “I heard, like, a pack of gum costs five bucks.”

  “Yeah, but the energy makes up for it,” Mac piped up. She’d been to New York—for an orchestra camp with Claire, actually. She shoved aside the memories of them running around Times Square in matching I-Heart-NY T-shirts, eating bags of candy at Dylan’s Candy Bar, sneaking onto the stage at Carnegie Hall to see what it felt like, and being chased away by the security guard. “Although you have to ignore the rumors. Not everyone there is a mugger or a pickpocket. And alligators do not live in the sewers.”

  Dexter snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but huge rats live in the subways.”

  “True.” Mac grimaced. “And they are pretty gross.”

  Everyone made disgusted noises. Mac could feel Claire’s gaze burning into her, but she refused to turn around. She was going to have fun tonight, damn it. And that meant not dragging the past into the present.

  A tall, blond boy with broad shoulders and a dimple sauntered over. Mac checked his blazer, but he wasn’t wearing a name tag. “This looks like the fun group,” he said enthusiastically.

  Lucien took a sip of his drink. “We were just talking about subway rats. Standard getting-to-know-you conversation.”

  The new boy’s eyes immediately locked on Mac. “Subway rats? Ick.”

  Mac giggled and resisted the nerdy urge to shove her glasses up her nose. “You afraid?”

  The boy grinned. “Of rats? Nah. I grew up on a farm. But I have heard the rodent population in New York City is supersmart. Like, they can do tricks. Fetch, roll over. Speak several languages.”

  “Argue with cab drivers?” Mac chimed in.

  The guy grinned. “Haggle with the guys who sell fake Gucci bags on Canal Street.”

  “Get past the red ropes at clubs,” Mac joked, enjoying herself.

  The guy held out his hand. “I’m Oliver. I play piano.”

  His palms were velvety soft, but with slight calluses at the fingertips. His touch sent a head-to-toe charge through Mac. “Mackenzie. Cello. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Mackenzie Cello.” He held her gaze steadily. “I’m always impressed by the way you cellists fling that thing all over the place like it’s nothing. You make it look so easy.”

  “We learn that first,” Mac teased. “Cello Flinging 101. Before we even play a note.” She couldn’t believe the words were flying out of her mouth so effortlessly. She’d never been able to flirt this way with Blake. Maybe because she’d always put so much pressure on herself around Blake.

  “Aha. So now I know. I always wondered.” He had a nice laugh, Mac thought—full and open, warm. But then, annoyingly, she felt a sad little pull in her chest. He’s not Blake, a tiny voice said in her ear.

  She flinched. So what? she thought fiercely. Blake had hurt her. No, she corrected—Blake had screwed her over.

  She struggled to refocus on Oliver. He was telling some story about another cellist he knew from his school, a tiny Japanese girl whose instrument was nearly as big as her but who completely dominated the instrument. “And how about you piano guys?” she asked when he finished. “It must take a lot of training to learn to move a piano.”

  “Do I look like the kind of guy who would actually move his own piano? There are people who do that for me.” His green eyes twinkled. “That’s why I chose it in the first place—so I could have my minions do all the heavy lifting.”

  Mac tried to keep a straight face. “I see. Does Juilliard know? That you’re such a prima donna, I mean.”

  Oliver leaned toward her. “No. And let’s keep that between us, shall we?”

  Mac placed her hands on her hips, mock stern. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Well that remains to be seen, Mackenzie Cello. Doesn’t it?”

  “I think so,” she murmured. Oliver smelled clean—like lemons and something salty, reminding her of the sea. It was a totally different smell than Blake’s sugary scent. And that’s a good thing, she reminded herself.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and Mac spun around to find herself face-to-face with a middle-aged woman in a brown tweed skirt suit. “Hello, I’m Olga Frank, admissions officer for the Northwest!” the woman bleated, smiling with all her teeth. “Mackenzie Wright! I’ve been looking for you!”

  Mackenzie took the woman’s extended hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for everything.”

  Olga waved her hand. “Oh, don’t thank me, dear. You earned your spot. Now come with me, there are some other strings I want you to meet.” She pulled Mac by the hand toward a clump of kids at the back of the restaurant. Mac looked back at Oliver over her shoulder, giving him an apologetic smile. He winked in response, and she stifled a giggle. Flirting was fun.

  Fifteen long minutes and endless small talk with two violinists, one viola player, and one harpist later, Mac made her way back through the crowd. She wanted to find Oliver again. Finally, Mac spotted him on the far side of the bar, talking to someone she couldn’t see.

  Mac looked at the bartender and gestured to the punch bowl. “Can I have two of those?” The bartender complied, smiling as he handed over the cups. Drinks in hand, Mac headed toward Oliver. But as she rounded the corner, she realized who he was talking to.

  Claire.

  Her old friend was shaking her short, bouncy curls and laughing lightly at something he’d just said. She casually touched his arm as she began to talk. Oliver didn’t pull away.

  Mac seethed. Claire was in full flirt mode—and it wasn’t a coincidence she’d chosen Oliver to flirt with. Mac wa
s willing to bet Claire had seen him with Mac earlier.

  Mac stood a few feet from Claire and Oliver, unsure what to do. She was trying to think of something clever to say to break up their tête-à-tête when Claire looked up and caught her eye. Then she placed her hand on Oliver’s elbow possessively and mouthed, Taken.

  Fierce anger blazed through Mac. Suddenly she knew what she had to do. She wasn’t going to meekly back down, the way she had when Claire had gone for Blake. This time she was going to fight back.

  With a confident flip of her hair, she licked her lips to give them some shine and headed right for Oliver. He’s mine, she thought.

  This time, she was going to get the guy. No matter what.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THAT SAME EVENING, CAITLIN AND JEREMY were walking up Beacon Heights’s main drag. They’d just come out of the movie theater, and they were licking ice-cream cones and looking in the shop windows. The sun had set, all the lights in the shops were on, and the street had a festive atmosphere—music was bumping in the bars, a street guitarist was doing a kick-ass rendition of “Come Together,” and clusters of kids were gathered at each corner, laughing and gossiping. Caitlin held her cone in one hand and Jeremy’s hand in the other, fully aware of how public they were. But hey—they had to go public sometime. And it just felt . . . good. Right. She was with Jeremy Friday, not Josh Friday, and she was totally proud of that.

  A dribble of vanilla ice cream slid down Jeremy’s chin, and Caitlin reached over to wipe it with her thumb. He grabbed her hand and popped her thumb into his mouth, licking the ice cream from it. Caitlin’s body vibrated with the sensation of his tongue on her fingertip. She leaned forward and pulled him toward her, kissing him firmly.

  “Mmmmm. Mint chip,” he murmured into her lips.

  “My fave,” she sighed back.

  Jeremy looked down at her lovingly. “I know. It always has been. Except for your brief dalliance with caramel swirl in middle school.”