Page 75 of Good Girls Lie
“I meant Camille.”
“I know. Come with me, Swallow.”
I’m reluctant to leave the sanctity of my room, but again, what choice do I have? Rush after the dean and the cops trying to explain myself? I want as much distance between me and the authority figures as humanly possible.
Becca marches to the stairwell without a backward glance. I’m both touched and angry that I’m expected to follow without question. I suppose this is what being a Swallow means. Obey your Mistress no matter what.
A little voice in the back of my mind says,Even if you end up in jail?
Stop. I’ve done nothing wrong.
Haven’t you?
Dr. Grassley’s pouty-lipped face floats in front of my eyes.
Not my fault, not my fault.
I shut the door on Muriel’s death and go back to Camille. I doubt most taps end in a student’s death. But Camille wasn’t with us.
Who was she with?
It takes me a moment to realize Becca has led me upstairs and I’m walking freely down the seniors’ hall.
The attics. The coveted attics. And not shunted off into some strange, creepy room, this is the real deal.
Becca is moving quickly, but there are plenty of doors open—the whole school is awake and distraught. I see flashes from inside—colors, crying, insolent stares. A few exclamations of protest, but muffled. I’m with Becca Curtis. I’m protected. I’m golden.
Becca leads me to the end of the hall, a room by the stairs. “You may enter,” she says, like I’m a vampire she’s inviting in for dinner.
At first glance, Becca’s room feels shockingly plain. One desk. The sofa is wider, deeper, and covered in dark blue velvet. There are two damask armchairs. Dormers, both with a window seat and fluffy pillows. Lofted ceilings with timber beams. A huge mahogany wardrobe. Bookshelves. There is a second room, too, the bedroom itself, and she has a private bath.
It’s like a well-appointed Parisian garret, only not as small.
And it’s original to the school. It has not been renovated into obscurity like the bottom three floors.
This,thisis what Goode should look like.
“Holy shit.”
“Yes, it’s nice, isn’t it? The former dean’s space. It’s always saved for head girl. I like it. My mother did the decorating. This style is one of the few things my mother and I agree upon. She has impeccable taste.”
“Yes.” What else am I going to say? My roommate just died but I think your mum has an excellent feel for drapery?
“Sit.”
I collapse into a chair. It is wide and soft and I want to curl into a ball and go to sleep, preferably for days.
Becca closes the door and folds herself into the far edge of the sofa. Her knees are dirty. Like she’s been kneeling in ashes.
“I have to say, you’re well shot of that roommate. She was only going to hold you back. But what a fucking mess. What did you tell them?”
“Nothing of note. That I was bodily taken from my room to someplace I can’t identify, yelled at, then brought back. I didn’t tell them anything else about the tap.”
“Did you give them the shirt?”
“I didn’t have a choice. Becca, what—”
“Did you tell them we were together the whole time?”
