Page 29 of Good Girls Lie
A few lights shine in the distance; fireflies still dance among the trees. It is beautiful and terrible at once, and fear skitters through my body. I instinctively take a step backward. The open windows—it is a long fall to the ground.
“What is this place?” My voice is too quiet, my breath shallow. It is claustrophobic, this vast expanse before me closing in through the night.
Becca Curtis flicks a lighter and sets it to a candle, then steps out of the shadows with it in her hand.
“The Commons. It’s a study room. It’s quiet here. We’re all very studious, you know.”
In the candlelight, Becca’s green eyes are a bit bloodshot. Has she been the one smoking? Surely pot isn’t allowed here, even among the vaunted seniors.
“Thank you for coming,” Becca says conversationally. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for dismissing the summons out of hand.”
“I had a choice? Then, by all means, I’ll bid you goodnight.”
Becca laughs. “Ash. Stay. We should talk.”
“About what?”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No. I’ve heard you’re quite brilliant.”
“Hmm. Do I look fat?”
“It’s dark, but no. You don’t.”
“Then your insult was not only ill-advised but inaccurate and illogical.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sit.” Becca takes a chair, pats the sofa cushion nearest her. She sets the candle on the coffee table. I carefully lower myself, muscles clenched in case I need to flee. I don’t like this place at all.
“If, Ash, by your own admission, I am neither fat nor dumb, then calling me a daft cow was a weak insult.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ash, Ash. You’re a Goode girl now. Your insults must be precise. Cutting. Elegant. Intelligent. You’re an intellectual girl, you can surely do better. Where did you learn computers?”
“In England. I like them. They’re easy for me.”
“Tell me about your life there. Tell me about your family.”
“I have no family. I’m an orphan.”
“A rich British orphan. How quaint. Let me guess, there’s some mad aunt in the attic who left you her estate and money?”
“No. My parents were wealthy. They had accounts for me. There’s a regent who handles the funds.”
“A regent. My. Aren’t you fancy. So very British.”
Here we go.
“If you’ve brought me here to mock me or terrorize me, can we get on with it?”
It is a brave speech, but I’m not feeling very brave at the moment. The chill in the air is making me shiver, and I have the most awful sensation of someone watching me. The hair on the back of my neck is standing on end. I shift, sliding my head down into the couch cushion so I’m not so exposed.
“I have no intention of terrorizing you,” Becca says. “I want you to do something for me.”
Uh-oh. All hands on deck, this is going to be good.
