The Good Girls (21 page)

“PASS THE MUFFINS, WOULD YOU?”
Ava mumbled through her already-full mouth.

Caitlin snatched the basket off the coffee table and passed it across, leaving a trail of gluten-free Paleo morning glory crumbs across Ava's sprawling L-shaped couch. “Thanks,” Ava said gratefully, stuffing one in her mouth. “These are my favorite.” She was about to wax poetic about how the muffins were both decadent
and
fairly healthy when Caitlin shushed her, pointing to the TV across the room.

“An update!” Caitlin cried.

Mac grabbed for the remote and turned it up. A chipper blond reporter stood in front of Beacon High. They caught her in mid-sentence. “. . . Miss Redding has confessed to three confirmed killings—Nolan Hotchkiss,
Lucas Granger, and Ashley Ferguson, whose body was discovered by police divers in a river behind Ferguson's house yesterday, just where Redding told them it would be. Three of Redding's classmates at Beacon Heights High near Seattle have admitted to pulling a prank on state senator Hotchkiss's son, Nolan, involving OxyContin, but they have been cleared of any involvement in his death and given a slap on the wrist.”

Ava shifted nervously, weirded out that their secret was finally out in the open. Not that the reporter called them out by name . . . but still. They'd negotiated to keep other details of what they told the police a secret, too. Like how they'd made that list in film studies of people they wanted dead . . . and how that list wormed its way into Julie's head until she felt it necessary to avenge all their enemies. Ava hadn't wanted to tell the police about the list, but it was probably right to come absolutely clean. Still, she hoped that the police would never, ever tell anyone about it. She couldn't imagine what her father would think of her if he knew.

The reporter continued. “Redding herself said they had nothing to do with the murders. It is assumed the high school senior will likely try for an insanity plea, as her case of split personalities is, according to experts, ‘extremely severe.'”

The screen flashed to a shot of Julie's dilapidated house,
where crime scene techs in full-body biohazard suits swarmed in and out, carrying filthy box after filthy box. They cut to Julie's mother standing on her porch, greasy hair pushed back from her face, her torn, shabby housecoat and crazy eyes on display for the world to see. “Julie was never right. Never right. Her father knew it from the start.”

And back to the reporter, her hair blowing in one solid piece in the breeze: “Join us tonight at eight, when our own Anderson Cooper finds out what goes on inside the mind of a teenage killer. He sits down with Redding's mother for a one-on-one interview you won't want to miss. Now back to you in the studio, Kate.”

Caitlin muted the TV again, and the girls sat in silence.

“Why don't I feel any better?” Mac asked miserably.

Caitlin tossed the remote onto the couch between them. “I don't know if it's better or worse that we don't have to go to school this week.”

Suddenly, Ava's phone buzzed in her pajama pants pocket. She had a text from Alex.
Are you okay? What can I do?

She smiled and tapped out a quick response, asking if he'd come over later. She was so glad everything between her and Alex was okay. He made her feel protected and safe.

Then a shadow appeared in the doorway. Ava looked up. It was her father, wearing a rumpled sweater and corduroy
pants. Ava shot to her feet. “Dad?” she asked worriedly. “Is everything okay? Is it Leslie?”

Mr. Jalali looked conflicted. “Do you mind if I speak to you alone for a moment,
jigar
?”

“Sure,” Ava said, shrugging to her friends and disappearing into the hall. Her father leaned against the railing, worrying his hands together. Ava's heart pounded hard. Maybe there
was
something wrong with Leslie. Or—and maybe this was worse—maybe her father had found out that Julie had shoved Leslie off that balcony because
Ava
wished her dead. What if he hated her now? What if he wanted her out of the house? Maybe she deserved that, though. Once people started dying, once they'd gotten an inkling that this might not be a coincidence, she hadn't done much to keep Leslie safe.

Finally, her dad took a breath and looked up. “Leslie awoke from her coma this morning.”

Ava's mouth dropped open. “She . . .
did
?”

He nodded, but strangely, he didn't look that happy. “Yes. And she started saying immediately that you did this to her.”

Ava's heart plummeted. “I didn't,” she squeaked. “You know I never—”

“Ava, why did you never tell me the truth?”

She blinked, silenced. Her father looked so sad. “The truth about what?” she asked in a small voice.

Mr. Jalali shut his eyes. “I installed security cameras in the house a few months ago when Leslie started saying that she thought the cleaning lady was stealing from us. They're in the living room, dining room, kitchen.”

Ava frowned. “You . . . did?” She hadn't known about that.

He nodded. “And just now, I watched some of them. Watched how Leslie interacted with
you.
Always when I was out of the room, out of earshot. But the things she said,
jigar.
Horrible things. Things that weren't true. They were the same sorts of things she said when she awoke from the coma this morning. I'd never heard her talk like that—I was so surprised. That's why I went and looked at the cameras.” He leaned closer to her, plaintive. “Why did you never come to me with any of this?”

Ava blinked, astonished. “B-because I didn't know if you'd listen.” A look of heartbreak crossed his features. “You started dating Leslie so fast after Mom,” Ava said quickly. “And she came in and just . . .
changed
everything about you. I just figured she changed how you thought about me, too.” She lowered her eyes. “I thought you wouldn't believe me.”

Mr. Jalali opened his mouth as if he wanted to protest, but shut it again. Tears silently welled in his eyes. He pulled Ava close and wrapped her in a huge hug. “I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry,” he whispered.

Ava started crying, too. And they stood there, the two of them, father and daughter, locked in an embrace for what seemed like forever. Ava didn't know what the future would hold, but something told her that Leslie might not be in it—or, if she was, that their lives would be very, very different. It felt like her father was
back.
Truly hers again, truly looking out for her. Which, somehow, just made her cry harder.

Suddenly, she flashed back to Friday night at Nyssa's party, when Julie had told them that “Parker” had killed all those people.
Admit it, you would be
thrilled
to be free of Leslie,
she'd said to Ava.
You'd have your father back.

It was a horrible thought, but it was true: Now that they were free of Leslie—or at least, the distrust she'd created in their family—Ava had her father back. But just because she'd wished for it didn't mean it should have happened that way. Just because someone was a jerk . . . or a child-beater . . . or a bitch . . . that didn't mean they deserved to die.

She shut her eyes. She wasn't sure what she deserved these days, but one thing was for sure: She was never, ever taking anything for granted anymore. Not Alex. Not her father. Not her freedom.

And she was never saying anything that she might live to regret.

SEVERAL MUFFINS AND SOME LEFTOVER
pad Thai later, Mac stepped out of Ava's house, debating whether or not to head straight home. She stood with her hand on her car door handle, staring up at the bright blue sky, the first clear, sunny day they'd had in weeks. The air felt thinner, crisper, cleaner. The leaves on the trees swaying in the light wind were saturated with greens, yellows, and oranges richer than any colors she'd ever seen. Even the sky seemed more endless, the small puffs of clouds softer. It was as if all her senses had been reawakened and reinvigorated. But she still felt unsettled. Unfinished. There was something she needed to do.

Screw it
, Mac thought.

Ten minutes later, she pulled into the Coldwells' driveway. Claire's car sat near the garage. Mac took a deep,
steadying breath and strode to the front door. She prepared herself for a cold reception—even a door slammed in her face. But she knew she had to try.

She rang the bell, listening to the familiar tone. After a moment, she heard a soft shuffling sound as someone approached on the inside. She held her breath as the door swung open.

Claire wore flannel pajamas decorated with dancing musical notes. Her curly hair was pinned back on either side of her face, and her feet were ensconced in giant, fluffy bunny slippers. The left sleeve of her baggy top was rolled up to the shoulder, and below it her arm was bent at the elbow and encased in the thickest, sturdiest, most alarming cast Mac had ever seen. It extended from just below Claire's shoulder all the way down to her fingertips.

The two girls stared at each other for a beat. “Oh my god,” Mac burst out. Which was totally not the tone she was going for to break the ice.

But when she looked up, Claire was smirking, not crying. “I know. Pretty impressive.”

Mac blinked hard. Claire hadn't kicked her off the porch yet. “Um, I was thinking more like
terrifying
.”

Claire sighed. “It's like a medical device and a weapon all rolled into one. And it itches already. Like, really, really bad.”

“That sucks.”

An awkward silence fell. Claire shifted. “Do you want to come in?”

Mac wouldn't have been more surprised if Claire had pulled out her cello and conked her over the head with it. “Um, are you sure?”

“Well, actually, I need a favor.” Claire turned and started down the hall. “Maybe you can open a frozen pizza for me? It's amazing what you can't do with only one hand.”

They headed for the kitchen, where Mac busied herself with the freezer and the oven. She'd been in this kitchen hundreds of times, heated up a gazillion pizzas over the years. She turned back around and found Claire watching her, a curious look on her face.

“So was that why you were following me around all night?” she asked.

Mac swallowed hard. “Well . . .”

“Did you know Julie Redding was coming after me? I mean—I barely
know
her. And yet you were following me around like you were protecting me.”

Mac stared at the floor, her stomach churning with guilt.
Because I put you on a list of people we wanted to die
. How could she explain to Claire that what she had thought was an innocent—if totally harsh—conversation turned out to be a serial killer's instruction manual? That it was all her fault that Claire's fingers were totally crushed, her musical career probably over for good? Mac wondered if she should
crush
her
fingers, too—maybe that would be a punishment that fit her crime. It didn't seem fair that she would get to go to Juilliard unscathed after all this.

But she couldn't tell Claire the truth. Not now. Maybe not ever. “Um, Julie said something that made me realize you were her next target,” Mac muttered. It wasn't exactly a lie. “And I couldn't let that happen to you.”

Claire shook her head. “It's terrifying she even had targets at
all
.”

“I know,” Mac said wearily. “Sorry I followed you around like a freak, though. I know it was probably weird.”

Claire smiled, and for the first time in a long time, there was no trace of the conniving or competitiveness that had defined their friendship for what seemed like forever. It was just a genuinely grateful smile, and it filled Mac with warmth and happiness. She realized how much she had missed Claire. “You saved me,” Claire said simply. “You totally didn't have to.”

Mac shrugged. “Of course I did.”

The smell of warming pizza filled the kitchen. Mac found her eyes drawn to Claire's cast again. She had saved Claire's life, but what about everything else?

“So will you ever be able to play again?” she said quietly.

Claire looked down. “The doctors say it doesn't look good. Or at least I'll never be up to my old level.”

Mac shut her eyes. “I'm so sorry.”

Claire sat down at the kitchen table and started fiddling with a cello-shaped salt shaker. “I've had a lot of time to think. And I realized . . .” Claire looked up at her, almost seeming embarrassed. “. . . I'm not sure I even
want
to go to Juilliard.”

Mac frowned. Surely Claire was just saying that to make herself feel better. Or maybe she was just high on the pain pills the doctors had given her.

Claire clacked the cello salt shaker with a violin pepper shaker. “It sounds crazy, I know. But I think I've realized that I only wanted to go because”—she let out a sheepish little chuckle—“because
you
did. I just wanted to beat you. But then I thought about what
I
really wanted. And you know what? Oberlin sounds cool. Maybe I'll study music. Maybe not. I have all these choices now, which I never had before when it was always just
cello cello cello
, you know?”

Mac wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. After all the stress and sacrifices, all the years of band camp and orchestra, the endless practicing, the deception and lies, the heartbreak with Blake . . . Claire didn't even want the final prize. It was like a bad joke with a stupid punch line.

Mac was astonished, too, how willingly Claire had admitted that she'd wanted to beat her. Then again, if she thought about it, wasn't she the same way? For as long as she could remember, Mac had been intensely, blindly driven to be the best cello player, to practice more than Claire,
to nail every performance when Claire fumbled, to snatch back first chair when Claire had it. She did truly want to go to Juilliard, but that was almost beside the point. Mac had been equally as competitive, equally as willing to go to the ends of the earth to get what she wanted. Hadn't she proven that by putting Claire's name on the film studies list?

Suddenly, and probably inappropriately, Mac burst out in a fit of hysterical giggles. “I'm sorry,” she blurted. “It's so not funny. I don't know why I'm laughing.”

Except that Claire started laughing, too. At first it was tentative, but then her shoulders shook, and tiny squeaks came out of their mouths.

“I'm really sorry,” Mac said again. “I have to stop.”

“Me too,” Claire gasped.

But they both kept laughing. It was like the old way they used to laugh together: doubled over, clutching their stomachs, cackling so hard there were tears streaming down their faces. Mac laughed so hard her glasses fogged up. It brought back so many good memories: of Claire and Mac at music camps, or of weekend sleepovers after orchestra practice, or of the colossal giggle fit they'd had in the orchestra pit at Carnegie Hall over the conductor's open fly. Mac never thought she'd share this sort of moment with Claire again—or that she even wanted to. But it felt so
good.

Only after Mac had cleared their pizza plates, sliding them into the dishwasher, did they manage to maintain a straight face. “So I wanted to tell you,” Claire said, squeezing the fingertips of her left hand, which were just barely exposed at the bottom of her cast, to get some circulation going. “I'm really sorry about that Facebook post of you and Oliver. It was shitty of me. I was just so jealous.”

Mac just shrugged. It felt so in the past now. “Whatever,” she said softly.

“What
actually
happened with Oliver? I lied when I said I wasn't into him. Are you together?”

Mac could tell she genuinely wanted to know. The question rang so familiar in Mac's ears—it was the way they used to talk about boys, long before Blake changed everything between them. “No,” Mac replied, feeling a little sad for how she'd just let Oliver dangle for so long. “We didn't . . . click.”

Claire nodded, a knowing look suddenly on her face. “Of course you didn't.”

“He's nice, though.” Mac gave her a genuine smile, too. “You should go for him. I'll put in a good word.”

And then, as if on cue, Mac's phone began to vibrate in her pocket, and before she could silence it, it began to play a Bruno Mars song—a very
familiar
Bruno Mars song.
Shit.
She had never changed the ringtone she had long ago assigned to Blake. And Claire knew it.

She quickly covered the screen with her hand and looked up at Claire, suddenly panicked that all of this laughing and being honest and feeling close would all come to an end. But Claire was grinning. “It's okay. You can answer it.” She tilted her head toward the phone in Mac's hand. “He always loved you, you know.”

Mac sucked in her breath and went very still. The phone kept ringing.

Claire lowered her eyes. “I knew it that first day at Disneyland, but I lied when he asked me and told him you weren't interested. Then, before the auditions, I told him to hang out with you and distract you. I just—” Her voice cracked. “I had no idea how far it would go. It's not his fault, Mac. I made it so he would feel guilty if he didn't do it. He didn't want to.”

Mac took a few breaths, trying to process this. It felt good that Claire had come clean. And it felt good that Blake had really been telling the truth. She shot forward and hugged her friend tightly, feeling so relieved. “I love you,” she said.

“Huh?” Claire gave her a strange look. “I just told you that I'm basically a bitch, and you say you love me?”

But that was the thing: Mac did love her, despite everything. Not that this made them equal. Mac would always feel guilty for naming Claire in that conversation. It would always linger in the back of her mind, the one thing in life
she wished most she could take back. “I just want us to be friends again,” she said softly.

Claire groaned and rolled her eyes. “Okay, cut the cheesy stuff. Call him back!”

Mac looked at her appreciatively, then swiped at the phone with one finger. “Hi,” she said, a little shyly.