Page 3 of Wicked Little Secret

“Does this dress make you want to fuck me?” Heather Driscoll asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her long golden hair sways with every subtle move of hers as she models in front of the floor length mirror in my bedroom. She strikes a pose, hand on her hip in the short little Saint Laurentnumber she’s wearing. “You know, if you were a guy. Would you want to fuck me?”

I quirk a brow from where I stand by the easel propped up next to the window. “Is that the dress for the funeral?”

“It’s all black, isn’t it?”

“Yourdad’sfuneral…” I add.

Heather rakes fingers through her golden strands, pausing to think. “I’ll wear tights. Black ones. And this—isn’t it so chic? Fits my aesthetic perfectly.”

She’s popped on a tiny fastener hat complete with beaded lace dramatically covering the left side of her face.

I take one look at her pursing her lips in the mirror, admiring her various angles, and I remember how I’ve never wished for Heather Driscoll’s downfall more.

And I’ve known her almost her entire life.

Even if she hasn’t known me…

“You don’t belong here. Your daddy’s dead and your mommy’s broke,” the younger Heather sneered, her hair golden in the sunlight. “Go away, loser! Nobody wants you around.”

The group of kids hovering behind her laughed.

They laughed while I blinked to tears in my eyes…

I blink again and the past fades out for the present.

Heather hasn’t noticed I’ve half tuned out of the conversation. She’s still admiring herself in the mirror.

“Your aesthetic,” I repeat slowly, swallowing down cruel nostalgia. I go back to playing pretend. “Which would be what? Funeralcore? You might start a trend on TikTok.”

She laughs airily. “I just might, Nyssie. Everything I do, everyone else does. Especially Katie.”

“She’s your best friend. She looks up to you.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “More like she thinks kissing my ass keeps her safe. I know how many noses she’s had. Nowshe’s addicted to filler. You wouldn’t understand. You’re still new to town.”

I understand better than you realize…

I pretend I’m refocusing my attention on the sketch I’m working on. It’s in the beginning stages, a couple quickly drawn outlines of songbirds and blooming flowers.

“Katie’s not like the rest of us. She’s not very cute. Can you believe how much weight she’s gained? No wonder she’s so desperate. Anyway, you’ll help me with the eulogy, won’t you?”

“I barely knew Mr. Driscoll, Heather.”

“But you’re good at these kinds of things. You’ve written speeches before. Everyone loved that valedictorian speech.”

“I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

“I hated him,” she blurts out. Her bird-like features sharpen and her voice fills with raw contempt. Gone is the dreamy tone she’s known for. “Istillhate him. But I’ll love him a lot more buried in the ground. Sooo much more with his money deposited in my bank account.”

“According to the police, he was murdered.”

She sniffs. “What does that have to do with what I said?”

“Don’t you want to find out who did it?” I ask. “There’s a rumor the murderer could be the Valentine Killer. The card that was left at the scene resembles the ones left all those years ago?—”

“I couldn’t care less,” she says. “It doesn’t matter to me if some Valentine guy took him out or if his heart did. He’s gone. Which means so is his control over everything. If only the person could come back and finish off my hag of a stepmother.”

While Heather’s shrill voice fills with glee, I shake my head to myself.

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