Page 19 of Good Girls Lie
“I don’t. Okay? I didn’t feel well, and now I’m all right. Go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
She falls asleep quickly, but I’m awake for good, it seems, so I pull my worn copy ofThe Republicfrom the bedside table and fasten a nightlight to the thin cover. If I can’t sleep, I might as well study.
But my mind is wandering. The whispers, the crying, the light in the ajar door like an invitation. A decade-old murder. Secret societies. What purpose could they possibly serve? And what sort of secrets do they hold?
Worse, a galvanizing thought.
What have I gotten myself into?
13
THE INSOMNIAC
The dean can’t sleep.
She’s been tossing and turning for the past hour, running the day over in her head, looking for mistakes, issues, pitfalls. She has a staff meeting tomorrow with all the teachers to address any concerns that have arisen, and she’s not looking forward to it. It’s always the same, every year, teachers immediately singling out the students who need extra help, who are being disruptive, who are not fitting in, too sad, or too stupid, to cut it. All that negativity is such a downer. She’s not had to intervene in any disciplinary actions so far, which is good—maybe she’s worrying for nothing. Maybe tomorrow’s meeting will be smooth sailing.
She has Ash Carlisle on her mind—not surprising, after her tearful breakdown over Muriel’s unfortunate incident. If Ford’s being honest with herself, though, she’s been thinking about the girl for weeks, ever since the news of her parents’ passing, so unexpected, so lurid. When Ash appeared in the doorway to Ford’s office—thin, tall, haunted—Ford was torn between offering a hug and sending her back to England.
Something about Ash bothers her. She doesn’t have the whole story of the girl’s past, this much is clear. The shadows in her pretty blue eyes aren’t something brought about by a loving, stable life. With her parents’ deaths... Yes, that’s all. The shadows are grief. Grief explains everything—the weight loss, the soft voice. How the girl seems to scurry. A broken heart. Shadows. So many shadows.
Ford hadn’t noticed when she interviewed her. The computer’s camera wasn’t great; the room Ash had been in was dark and gloomy, lit only by the natural light from the window. They lived in an estate in Oxfordshire, Ash explained, on a vast expanse of land. Ford had looked up the house itself during the background check—harled stone, three stories, covered in ivy, elegant grounds. Quintessentially British. The parents were the right sort. Ash herself was the right sort. Some spots on the academic record, to be sure, but so often the children of these kinds of people lash out until they find themselves.
Discipline. Focus. Identity. That’s what Ford offered here at Goode, in addition to being a ticket to ride.
The Ash she’d talked to was gregarious, insouciant, brilliant. Not mousy. Not hunched in on herself. Not stricken with fear at every question.
What’s happened to her since her father’s death, her mother’s death? Has Ford made a mistake allowing her to come?
Considering the rumblings...
According to Erin Asolo, Becca and Ash had clashed. Becca had said something wildly inappropriate and was scolded. Erin explained the tiff at the first-night-of-term cocktail party, an annual tradition for the Goode faculty and staff. They all got tipsy and divvied up the chaperone schedule, from dorm duty to offsite dances with the local boys’ schools.
Ash managed to secure the attention of Becca almost immediately, and who knows where this will lead. To be honest, Ash managed to secure Ford’s attention, too. Perhaps she is that kind of girl, one so unforgettable obsessions are born.
Ford knows this is a situation worth watching. Time will tell. She also knows that sometimes, with teenagers, things sort themselves.
Becca can go either way—wonderful, loving friend or cold, heartless bitch. She’s off-the-charts intelligent, absolutely. But there is a coldness in her, deep down in her core. Ford can easily imagine her as a little girl, that direct, unblinking gaze as she pulled the wings off a butterfly in her mother’s garden.
This event is in the psychological profile on Becca Curtis. Her mother, Senator Ellen Curtis, mailed it to Ford two weeks ago. A disturbing report from a psychiatrist in McLean, Virginia, who stated her concerns for Becca’s welfare in plain language.
Summary: Patient lacks empathy. Knows right from wrong, but isn’t concerned with following rules. Lies about inconsequential things, evades my questions. Reckless behavior noted by mother—disobeying curfew, drinking, drugs. Patient shows contempt for her mother and authority figures in general, including myself. Possible borderline personality disorder, possible bipolar disorder, possible depressive disorder. Or possibly a teenager trying to get attention from an absent parent. Recommend therapy three days a week and a course of medication.
Along with the psychiatrist’s findings, there was a typed letter.
Dear Dean Westhaven...This was crossed out with a flourish andFordwritten in blue-black ink, a heavy blot on the bottom of thed. Ford knows it was written with a fountain pen, which is meant to impress, and also knows the senator’s aide typed the letter and shoved it in front of her boss’s face to be signed and personalized. A DC special.
DearDean WesthavenFord,
Becca has been having some issues. We had a clinical assessment (attached) and she’s been diagnosed with some sort of depression. She will be returning to school with a prescription for Zoloft.
I know you will keep an eye on her. She’s been improving rapidly since the medication kicked in and seems quite excited to return to school. Please keep me abreast of her progress. You may email me anytime [email protected].
Yours,
Senator Ellen Curtis
Ford read this and thought,Her public email address, too. My God, Ellen Curtis is a heartless bitch. No wonder Becca is acting out at home.
