Page 79 of Good Girls Lie
“There’s nothing to find out.”
“Right. Our lips are sealed, aren’t they, Pipes?” Vanessa’s feral grin tells me the whole school will know by morning. “Oh, how did you find out about it? Camille’s abortion, I mean.”
“I didn’t. The cops asked. They knew, but I don’t know how. Probably her journal. I knew you were up to something that night, but I’m not a busybody.”
“Point taken.” Vanessa plops onto the sofa next to me, Piper sits on the floor. They’re settling in. What the hell is this?
“So, who was the father?” I ask.
“If we tell you, you can’t tell. I mean it, Ash. It has to stay between us.”
I sigh. “Then don’t tell me. I can’t say the police won’t talk to me again, and I won’t lie to them. But if you know anything, you should go to Dean Westhaven and tell her. Give her some peace. She’s having a terrible night.”
Another worried glance bounces between them. What do they know?
“We can’t. No way.”
“Then I can’t help you, and I don’t want to know.”
The silence bleeds around us. In the distance, I can hear people outside attending to the remnants of Camille’s nosedive. A hose, spraying water full force.
“Is it true you found your parents dead? Was it awful?” Piper finally asks.
“Yes, I did. And yes, it was awful. If you’re here to be ghoulish, I have nothing more for you. Please, go to bed. Leave me alone.”
They look stricken but stand. “I really am sorry, Ash,” Vanessa says. “We promise to make it up to you.” Vanessa looks like she’s going to reach in for a hug but I am done with these girls and their constant mood swings.
I reach for the blanket on the back of the sofa. “Turn off the light as you go, won’t you?”
They do, silent as the grave.
I have my laptop open the second the door closes. Check everything public Camille might have gotten into. I see her footprints easily now that I know what to look for—times I wasn’t in my room or online. The penetration is relatively benign. Most of what I find are Google searches for the name Ashlyn Carr and Oxford, England.
I normally resist falling prey to the egotistical urge to Google my life but out of morbid curiosity, I click on the links. It will help to know what has been discovered.
The obituaries pop up immediately. My throat tightens. There are hits on profiles of Damien, and on the third page, a reference to Johnny.Damien Carr’s Lost Son.
I don’t read it. I already know what it says. Know the photo is from the funeral.
The black clothes, somber and mothball scented, lifted from trunks in attics. The thick black veil on Mother’s fascinator, the grim look in Father’s eyes.
The small girl, blond, blue-eyed, looking utterly terrorized. Burying her brother, her companion, her bosom friend.
Johnny’s death isn’t a secret that will be problematic to explain.
I breathe a little easier. Camille didn’t make it past my fire walls into the private settings.
Regardless, I enter this forbidden space now and, with only a moment’s hesitation, wipe everything from the computer.
I can’t run the risk of someone else finding my secrets.
* * *
I lie quietly in the gray predawn light, praying for sleep. I itch. I am heartsick. The night has been too intense, too strange, too scary. Too many swings between high and low. A dog barks. A girl cries. The wind blows, rustling the leaves on the ivy outside my window. I am back on the edge of the lake, the lily pads so green and white, the sky so blue. Everything is sharper in memory, not dulled.
I want peace.
I want oblivion.
