Page 1 of The Good Girl

Prologue

Nevaeh

Fifteen years ago

It was my fault. If I hadn’t stolen Citi’s Barbie and cut off all its hair, she’d still be here.

I wouldn’t have been grounded and stuck in my room while a stranger took her from our front yard.

I wouldn’t have let them take my sister if I had been there. I would’ve fought them, kicked them, and bitten them, even though I’m not supposed to bite people, even when I’m mad.

I would’ve run after her and pulled her from the stranger’s car. I would’ve saved her even if they took me instead.

But I wasn’t with her. I was in my room crying and yelling about how much I hated her. But I don’t hate her, not even a little bit.

Mom’s on her knees screaming as the police try to calm her down. Dad’s staring at the wall, and I’m sitting on the bottom stair, trying to figure out what to do.

I look over at my bright yellow raincoat hanging up by the door. The hook next to it, where Citi’s pink one usually hangs, is empty.

I stare at my boots under my coat and frown. Should I put them on? It’s raining outside—it’s been raining all day. If I put them on, I can go look for her. I’m really good at finding things.

And Citlalli’s my twin. If anyone’s going to find her, it’s me.

I stand up and walk over to my boots and decide that I don’t like yellow anymore. It’s too bright and happy. It makes my stomach hurt to look at them because the color used to make me smile, and now I just want to cry.

I slide my feet inside my boots and stand on the bench to get my coat off the hook.

I pull it on and zip it up before I walk into the living room.

Everything’s still the same. Mom’s still crying, Daddy’s still staring at the wall, and Citi’s still gone.

I look at my yellow boots and start to cry, picturing Citi wearing her matching pink ones, running away from the bad man who took her, and trying to find her way back home when it’s dark and scary outside.

I walk over to Dad and stand next to him, waiting for him to smile or hug me, but he doesn’t notice me.

I look around at all the grown-ups, but none of them look at me or my bright yellow coat.

Did it make me invisible?

I hold my hand up, but I can still see it.

I walk over to one of the police officers and look up at him as he writes something in his notebook.

He looks sad—not like Mom and Dad sad, but still sad.

Sometimes, adults make me feel funny. Like when Mr. Markham, who used to live down the street, watched me. Or when Mr. Jones, the school janitor, brushed up against me.

This man doesn’t, though. When he lifts his head to look at me, I see that he has kind eyes. But it seems like it hurts him to see me.

I squeeze my hands tight and look around the room again, finally understanding what I didn’t before. It’s not that they can’t see me. It’s that they don’t want to because I look exactly like Citi.

I turn back to look at the nice policeman.

“I want to go look for my sister,” I say, my voice small and unsure. “I’m really good at finding things, and I know all the places she likes to hide.”

“That’s really nice of you, miss. But it’s dark and wet outside, and I don’t want you to get sick.”

“I don’t want Citi to get sick either. What if she’s out in the dark, scared and cold?”

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