Dare Me - By Megan Abbott Page 0,75

anyone ever seem like a killer? I can hear Beth’s voice squirming in my head.

To Beth, of course, everyone does.

I believe both of them and neither of them. All their stories poured in my ear, maybe it’s time to start finding out on my own.

At ten o’clock, I drive by Statler’s. I’m remembering Beth’s texts.

Teddy saw Coach @ Statlers last week

Drinking, talking on cell all nite, crying @ jukebox.

Said she ran outside + hit post in parking lot, peeled off

The shaggy guy at the door won’t let me in with my premium Tiffany Rue, age twenty-three, driver’s license, but I don’t need to go inside.

Instead, I walk from parking lot post to post, hands on the peeling silver paint.

On the farthest one from the door of the bar, I spot the chewy dent, paint glittering the asphalt.

“What happened here?” I call over to the door guy.

He squints at me.

“Life is hard,” he says, “and you’re too young for the parking lot too, little miss.”

“Who did it?” I ask, walking toward him. “Who hit the post?”

“A woman wronged,” he says, shrugging.

“Was she late twenties, brown hair, ponytail?”

“I don’t know,” he says, pointing with one long delicate finger at the Eagles patch on my arm. “But she had a coat just like yours.”

I sit and tally the lies, but there are so many and they don’t quite line up.

Why would Coach tell me she hit a post in Buckingham Park instead of Statler’s? One small lie, but there’ve been so many. Add them all together and they seem to teeter five miles above me.

It’s eleven when I drive by Coach’s house again.

At last, the car is there.

I find her on the deck, smoking clove cigarettes. One knee hunched up, her chin resting on it, she seems to hear me before I’ve even made a sound.

“Hanlon,” she says. “How’d practice go?”

Have you lost your mind? I want to say. Have you?

“Awesome,” I say, teeth gritted. “We’re tight in the fight. You should’ve seen us rock the two-two-one.”

“Make sure you don’t lean down to pull your Flyer up,” she says. “Bend your legs to reach her, otherwise you could pull the whole stunt down.”

“I’ve never done that once,” I say, wincing. “You weren’t there.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” she says, moving her ashtray from the deck chair beside her.

If it weren’t for the slight tremble to her hands this might be any other night at all.

“Well, you had a pretty good excuse.” I sit down, our matching twin letter jackets zipped tight up over our chins.

“I’m guessing my captain ran the show?” she asks. “Or maybe you don’t want to talk about that.”

All the cold and loneliness of the night sinking into me, all I want is to hammer through that stony perfection. Hand heel to chisel, that’s all I want.

“You were there,” I say. “You were at Will’s that night.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“You didn’t hit a post in Buckingham Park,” I say. “You had a fight with him. You ran into a post at Statler’s. Everything was falling apart with you two, or something. He was breaking up with you, he was done with you.”

She remains statue-still.

“And you didn’t find Will’s body,” I say, throwing myself into it, hammer, hammer, hammer. “You were with him. You were in his bed. You’re a liar. You’ve lied about everything.”

Jumping forward in my chair, I’m nearly shouting in her ear. “You’re a liar. So what else are you?”

She doesn’t move, doesn’t even turn her head to face me.

A moment passes, my heart suspended.

“Yes,” she says, finally. “I was at Will’s earlier than I said. And I did hit a post at Buckingham. And I hit another post at Statler’s. I’ve hit posts, curbs, streetlamps all over town. I’ve forgotten to feed my daughter dinner. I’ve forgotten to brush my hair. I’ve lost eleven pounds and haven’t slept, really slept, in weeks. I’ve lost my daughter in stores, and slapped her little face. I’ve been a bad influence and a bad wife. I’ve haven’t known my mind in months.

“What’s the difference, Addy? The thing that matters is this. Will’s dead and everything’s over.”

She turns and looks at me, the porch light catching her for the first time. Her face swollen, soft.

“Is that what you wanted?” she asks. “Does that help you, Addy? Because making you feel better is what matters, right?”

I flinch at that. The rest is too painful to look at.

“You,” I say, my voice rising, “you called me that night. You dragged me into this.”

“I