The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,21
times did we sneak in it that summer? It’s a wonder we never got caught.
There might’ve been signs of a struggle at her house, but that last night we weren’t there. We were here. The fine hairs on my nape rise. You don’t need flickering lights or doors slamming shut, the parlor tricks of a poltergeist, to be haunted. The true ghosts are made of deed and word and live deep inside the marrow and bone.
She begged me to help her. And then her eyes closed.
My own snap open. “Stop it,” I hiss, my voice loud and ragged. The photo is a weight in my pocket. I slip it out, shove it under my purse on the passenger seat.
She begged me.
I shake away the thoughts, jam the car in drive, and pull away as the first drops of rain strike my windshield.
* * *
With Ryan still out like a light, I slide out of bed, throw on leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and grab my keys and purse, bagels and cream cheese on my mind. No rain today, but no sun either. A drowsy sort of day. I’m near Panera Bread when I turn toward Gia’s instead. It’s not the best idea, I know, but I’m so close and it’ll only take a few minutes. What’s the harm in driving by? If Ryan wakes and sees I’m not there, he’ll text me. I can tell him Panera was crowded. Won’t even be a lie. Not on a Sunday.
The neighborhoods in West Annapolis are nice, most of the houses old but heavily renovated. Modest yards. SUVs with roof racks for kayaks and paddleboards. Cedar swing sets peeking over wood fences. An A-frame at the end of Gia’s street has a shiny blue-and-white FOR SALE sign in the yard. I drive slow, gaze panning left and right.
I recognize Gia’s house from her Facebook photos. They’ve placed two Adirondack chairs, stained deep blue, on the front porch, a small table between. A hanging basket of flowers. Garage doors closed tight. No cars in the driveway. Front porch light still on. I drive to the bottom of the street, turn, and make another pass, driving even slower. Even though I’m not doing anything wrong, I feel conspicuous. Guilty.
I park by the house for sale. Great idea number two. Why not make it three? Mouth dry, I act casual as I get out of the car and walk up to the front door. Peek in the window. The furniture inside is staged, so the owner’s already moved. To anyone who might be watching—and this neighborhood seems even quieter than mine—I’m interested in the property. After making a show of looking over the fence into the backyard, I take to the sidewalk.
My heart beats double-time. I feel like a stalker, but I’m not. I’m investigating. I slow my steps, eye the neighborhood. I should go back. Get in my car. But no one’s around.
Fingers taut, I approach Gia’s house. Two steps lead to the porch. Four to the front door. While it’s solid wood, there are narrow glass panels on each side. No curtains. Inside, a long hallway leads to a kitchen. To the left, a living room. To the right—
Behind me, a door shuts with a heavy thud and I jump. I don’t see anyone, but it’s warning enough. Tonguing sweat from my upper lip, I make myself walk a normal pace down her steps, away from her house. Once I shut my car door, I giggle. Good one, Heather. Very clever. Maybe I should’ve knocked on her door, said I was in the neighborhood. Checking out old friends. Accidentally, of course.
I rub the end of my nose with the side of my index finger. This peeking around does me no good. What can I hope to learn? Her taste in furniture? An accidental meeting, though … that could work. A way to get in front of her. To actually talk. To feel her out, so to speak. And no, she might not want to talk to me, but it’s at least worth a shot. Since we live so close, I should be able to manage something. Just not here. This was a fool’s game.
My phone chimes with a message from Ryan: MORNING. I text him back with a quick AT PANERA, WANT ANYTHING SPECIFIC? I’m waiting for his response when a shadow falls across my lap and three raps sound on my window. I drop my phone, biting back a yelp.