Page 64 of Good Girls Lie
“Come in.”
“We’re just discussing whether she jumped or was pushed,” the sheriff says.
“She could have fallen, too,” Kate says. “It doesn’t always have to be diabolical, you know, Uncle Tony.” To Ford, “Do you have any idea what she was doing up there? Your security says it’s always locked.”
“I don’t know. Erik’s right, the bell tower is always locked. It’s too old to let people roam around up there, we’re very careful to keep it off-limits. The bells are controlled from the outer office here. It’s all computerized. There’s no reason for anyone to be up there.”
The sheriff looks from Ford to his niece and sighs.
“We better go on up, just to see.”
41
THE PLAN
I walk from window to window trying to see what’s happening. Dr. Asolo has gone to fetch Becca. She won’t tell me why I’ve been pulled out of bed and marched to the attics but considering they’re bringing Becca, I have to assume we’ve been busted for the goings-on in the cabin. The tap, come back to bite me already.
I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but I am. I’ve had the sense that the school is proud of the secret societies. Not openly encouraging them, but doing nothing to stop them. Stomps happen regularly, and tonight’s tap hadn’t exactly been quiet. So why are we getting in trouble now?
The only real rule that’s inviolable is not lying and cheating. The rest of it—Goode certainly has agirls will be girlsmentality. I’m familiar with the sentiment. It exists back home, too. The rules just don’t apply to certain kinds of people. The right kind of people, as my mother would say. If you have money, privilege, you can get away with most anything.
I am woozy from the alcohol, the Benadryl, the Ecstasy, sheer tiredness. Still feeling relatively cuddly toward Becca, though, even though I know I’m going to hate her when the already itchy rash comes up full force.
Why am I here? If we’re in trouble, shouldn’t we be in Dean Westhaven’s office?
I am so confused.
Finally, I drop into a tufted leather club chair and look around. What is this place? It looks like an office, there’s a desk with a typewriter and a stack of pages facedown, two chairs facing it—the one I’m in and its mirror mate—a thick, green-and-cream Oriental rug set at an angle. Fresh-cut flowers in a small square glass vase, lush, full-petaled pink roses, sit on the corner of the desk. English roses. Like from home, in the spring, when the gardens of Oxford burst to life. Bookshelves from floor to ceiling, but only two shelves are filled.
Spartan, but elegant, comfortable accommodations. Who works up here, in isolation from the rest of the students?
The dean, dummy. When you see her in the window, this is where she is.
A commotion in the hall and the door flies open. Becca stumbles through, eyes bleary, arguing, and Dr. Asolo follows behind.
“So, I was out of bed after hours, who cares?” She notices me, and her face changes. Gone is the compassionate friend, and in her place, the Mistress. A banshee, a furious, evil-tempered death-presaging spirit who will eat me alive. “Why isshehere?”
She thinks I’ve outed them. She thinks I’ve told.
I duck down into my chair, legs drawn up to protect myself. “I—”
“Did you tell? You stupid girl, I will end you—”
“Stop it!” Dr. Asolo pushes Becca into the chair next to me. She lands with anoof. “Listen to me. A girl has died.”
“Fuuuuck,” Becca drawls, clearly assuming this is related to the tap, but I sit up, suddenly clearheaded.
“It’s Camille, isn’t it?”
“It is, unfortunately. She fell off the bell tower.”
The shock goes through me and I close my eyes, send up a silent prayer for my hateful roommate.
“You’re shitting me,” Becca says.
“Young lady, your mouth is going to get you in trouble. Knock it off.”
“Why are we here?” I ask. “And no, Becca, I didn’t say a word to anyone.”
