Page 68 of Good Girls Lie
“Yup. He even testified. The state’s star witness was the murderer’s ten-year-old son.”
“I remember that now. Hmm.”
They turn in unison to look out over the dark campus, and Ford loses her temper.
“Stop talking like I’m not standing right here. What do you mean, ‘hmm’? He didn’t do this. I know Rumi, quite well. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. That’s why he’s working here, for me, for Goode. Someone had to give him a chance at a normal life, and that was me. He’s dedicated to this school. It’s completely unfair to leap to the conclusion that he’s responsible before we even search Camille’s room for a note, a diary, something to give us her state of mind. It was dark. I don’t know what I saw. I would never have mentioned it if I thought you’d go tilting at windmills and jumping to spurious conclusions.”
Tony and Kate share a brief look, then he shrugs. “No one’s making judgments, Ford. I was just asking. Let’s go look at the girl’s room, talk to her roommate. There might be a clearer answer downstairs.”
Ford lets them go ahead of her, then locks the cupola door. Her hands are shaking, she can smell her own acrid scent, and under it, the musky notes of man. She needs to be very, very careful. They can’t find out about the affair, it could ruin her. Rumi is of age, but still. She knows it looks bad. But she will not let Rumi get railroaded into an accusation, either.
Tearful girls are gathered in the sewing circle when the three arrive on the sophomores’ floor. Ford calls out, “Man on the floor,” loudly and there are a few squeals, the sound of running feet, then she nods to Tony. “Okay, follow me. They’re roomed in 214.”
The lights are ablaze in Camille and Ash’s room. The room looks like it’s seen a struggle. A painting is on the floor by one of the desks. Pillows are askew, blankets dragging on the floor, the lower bunk’s mattress off center. There’s something pink on the sheets, not dark enough to be blood. It takes Ford a moment to realize it’s calamine lotion.
Ford recalls her own tap, looks briefly to the desk under a framed photograph of Oxford’s doors. This must be Ash’s desk and yes, there’s a small brown sandwich bag sitting near the edge. Ford knows what it contains.
Damn it. Ivy Bound is explicitly prohibited from using poison ivy on the Swallows. The ruling was made three years ago when a Swallow’s mother threatened to sue the school because her daughter touched her eye with a poison-ivy-tainted hand and it swelled shut, necessitating a trip to the emergency room.
Oh, Becca Curtis, you are in so much trouble.
Ford herself suffered the indignity, as did many of the Swallows who followed her, but the school has cracked down on hazing, majorly cracked down, and things like this are not supposed to be going on.
She can’t disappear the bag, she’s going to have to let that play itself out. But she can help distract attention.
Tony and Kate are rifling through the desks and drawers now, of both girls. Ford puts up a hand. “Hold on. You can’t go through Ash Carlisle’s things. Only Camille’s. There are privacy concerns.”
Kate stops and looks at Ford, incredulous. “You’re joking. They’re teenagers. Students. And one of them is dead.”
“There’s still an expectation of privacy. Obviously, Camille has none, not anymore, but Ash does. Please keep your search limited to Camille’s things. Perhaps we should wait for your evidence team to do this?”
“I know how to toss a room, Ford,” Tony says without missing a beat. He opens the top dresser drawer, digs his hands in deep. “What have we here?”
He draws out an almost empty pint of Stolichnaya. Ford feels a sting of fury—damn that girl—followed by a teensy little prayer heavenward—sorry, Camille, but for heaven’s sake, vodka in your socks?
Tony keeps moving, though, tossing the rest of the dresser. “Where’s the roommate? I wanna talk to her.”
“I had her isolated. This is going to be a terrible shock to her, and she’s already suffered a great deal of loss. Her parents died recently, and to have this happen so soon after their deaths will certainly affect her tremendously.”
Again, that sly glance between uncle and niece. Ford wants to scream but keeps her temper in check.
“Just give us a few here, okay, Ford?” And to his niece, “Nothing’s leaping out at me. You?” He eases himself down on his knees to look under the dresser.
Kate is holding a notebook with a floral cover, leafing through. “Other than someone’s clearly been through this room already? She writes very pretty poems. Quite a few about death.”
Ford isn’t surprised. English is Camille’s best subject.
Kate flips a few more pages. “She didn’t care for her roommate, that’s for sure.”
“Ash? I didn’t know they weren’t getting along,” Ford says.
“Not getting along is an understatement. Looks like there was some serious bullying going on. ‘She made fun of me again today. She was sitting with the other bitches and looking over her shoulder at me with that stupid smug stare. Later, she told me how I would never get into Ivy Bound. Bitch.’ Lots more in that vein. ‘She was queen of the sewing circle again tonight. It’s like I don’t even exist anymore.’”
“May I see that?” Ford asks.
Kate hands it over, and Ford glances through, flipping pages, seeing phrases that shock her:
Stupid accent, dumb cunt, out of the room late again, should report her, she’s Becca’s bitch now. Bet the two of them are fucking. How else would she get on Becca’s good side so fast? I hate her. I hate them both.
