CHAPTER ONE
NOW
There’s nothing special about the envelope. Standard #10 size, 24-pound white paper stock, available in any office supply store. My name and address written in capital letters with black ink. Deliberately generic, so neat it appears typed, but the giveaway is a tiny smudge on the d in Maryland. No return address.
Early-September sun peeks through the window blinds behind me, cutting bars of light and dark across my desk, and a plane rumbles overhead on its way to or from nearby BWI Airport. I have a letter opener in one hand and a small pile of unopened mail before me. To my right, a messy pyramid of opened envelopes and their contents; on my left, a laptop with an unfinished game of solitaire on the screen. I was decompressing when Ellie, the receptionist, brought in the mail after my last appointment, a fifteen-year-old with complex PTSD as a result of years of abuse. Doesn’t matter how thick your skin or how well your patient is doing, you never grow accustomed to hearing certain things.
The envelope is unbalanced, and as soon as I slice open the top, it’s clear there’s no letter within. Curious, but not overly so, I fish out something small wedged in the corner.
A thin silver chain unspools with a quiet hiss. A small half-heart pendant, its clasp broken, tarnished by nearly thirty years’ worth of time, the edge in the shape of a lightning bolt so as to fit its opposite. With a trembling finger, I turn it over, knowing what I’ll see—an ST with half an E and NDS below, and another bisected E and VER beneath that. Best friends forever.
“Please,” I say, my voice too loud, too ragged.
My free hand flutters to my bare neck; my gaze darts around the room.
On the corner of my desk sits a framed photograph. Me in heels, a black dress, and red lipstick, my shoulder-length hair pulled into a sleek chignon, the hundred bobby pins taming it in place invisible against the dark strands; Ryan in a charcoal suit, one arm snaking my waist, his hair secured at the nape of his neck, one stray pale curl hanging at his temple. All evening fancy and champagne flutes. A gala six months ago for the opening of Silverstone Center, a substance abuse treatment center for girls. The picture ended up in the newspaper, and objectively I can see why. We look good together. His light to my darkness. We’re shining with happiness. Security. Honesty. That woman looks like a stranger right now. I nudge the frame so only Ryan’s visible. Nudge it again so he’s staring at the wall. A coward’s tactic? Call me Baum’s lion.
I flip the envelope, revealing a smeared, illegible postmark. An accident or done on purpose?
I’ve done everything possible to keep that summer, to keep what transpired, tucked away in a tiny, impenetrable box, but the necklace, this necklace, is the key. The lock shatters. I’m no Pandora, unleashing evil into the world. This is a private apocalypse. Devastation for one, ma’am? A potent vintage.
The heart, the other half of which once hung around my neck, even after, is a cheap thing of nickel, stainless steel, or some other inexpensive alloy. Originally affixed to a cardboard square and purchased by two girls who saved their allowance. Best friends forever. We meant it, she and I. We meant it with every bone in our bodies and every true and good thing in our souls. We didn’t know forever didn’t always last that long. We had no way of knowing that day was the beginning of the end.
The necklace is an impossibility, yet here it is on my palm, the weight an anvil. I can still smell the basement of the empty house: the new paint, the old moisture trapped within its walls. Can feel the carpet rough against my skin and Becca’s hand in mine. Hear her saying my name. Heather.
I scrape a nail across the front of the charm, dislodging several gritty flecks. They crumble between my fingers and leave reddish-brown streaks behind. Another plane passes, and I let go. The chain hisses again; the heart clinks. It lands faceup on the desk, the letters an accusation.
Nothing good will come of this. I feel it in my bones. Know it in my gut. I grab the hands of the clock to stop them from spinning, but it’s too late. You can’t unopen an envelope. Can’t undo the damage you’ve done. The box is open, no way to hide what’s inside. Not anymore. The tangle of truth and lies and imagination makes no sense, but we make up stories when it hurts too much to tell the real ones. The ones with teeth; the ones that keep us awake at night. They’re the ones that leave scars.
Not trusting my legs to carry me to the bathroom, I reach for a tissue, ball it up, and scrub the red marks from my skin. I keep scrubbing, even when they’re gone.
The last time I saw the pendant, it was on Becca’s neck. Her eyes were closed, her arms at her sides. I sat beside her for what felt like hours, my fervent apologies filling the air, my tears turning the changed world to a blur.
Long before the Dead Girls Club, long before the stories of the Red Lady, Becca was the one person I could tell everything to, no matter how hurtful or ridiculous, the one I knew would always be by my side, the one I promised to help, no matter what. She was my best friend.
And I killed her.
Sorrow thickens my throat and I rock back and forth, the tissue crumpled in my fist. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean it. Didn’t mean to hurt her.
I didn’t.
I inhale. Exhale. Nudge the necklace into one of the pockets in my bag and toss the tissue. I want to shout, to rage and tear my hair. Instead, I growl, long and low. It’s not loud enough to seep through the walls, so I don’t have to worry about Ellie or the other psychologist with whom I share the space hearing.
Doesn’t take a genius to figure out why I chose this career, why I don’t see anyone over eighteen. I don’t have any photographs of Becca, but I remember her pale eyes and her even paler hair. I remember the two of us talking about Ted Bundy, our heads tucked close together, the sleepovers, the giggling until late in the night. I remember—
I make twin fists. Pinch the tip of my tongue between my front teeth. I can’t afford to do this right now. There isn’t much time before my next patient arrives. After that, back-to-back appointments until the end of the day. I need to do what I’m good at. I need to listen. I need to observe. Memory lane can wait.
Here’s the thing: I refuse to believe the dead can buy postage stamps.
But someone obviously did.
The only two possibilities are so remote, so absurd, I can’t even take them seriously. If Rachel or Gia, the two other members of the Dead Girls Club, knew, why would they wait so long? Why didn’t they tell the police? Then or now?
All four of us—me, Becca, Rachel, and Gia—were thick as thieves at the end of the school year. Before summer’s end, we were no longer friends and Becca was dead. I don’t think I ever spoke to Rachel or Gia again.
I scratch my temple. I can’t call the police, but …
My fingers hover over the keyboard. The clock isn’t just ticking, but ticking down. Once I start this, there’s no going back.
“I didn’t start it,” I say aloud.
I wonder if things would’ve been different if they’d found her body. That’s when a missing girl becomes a dead girl. That’s when she gets interesting.
Focus, Heather. Focus.
The necklace was on Becca and she wasn’t moving. She was dead. And now—
My desk phone rings. I jump and answer it.
“Elijah’s here, Dr. Cole,” Ellie says.