The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,34

is that you?”

The speaker moves into my line of sight. Are you kidding me? It’s Gia.

I don’t have to fake the shock. I feel it in my jaw and my shoulders. On shaky legs, I rise, hoping what feels like a pleasant expression is indeed one. In black leggings and a scarlet sweater, she looks even younger than she does online. Her hair is loose, hanging to her shoulder blades in a glossy curtain. And she’s still got me beat in the curves department.

“I can’t believe it,” she says. “I haven’t seen you in forever, but I knew it was you. You look exactly the same. Only taller.”

“You do, too.”

“Only not much taller.”

We hug and I smell lavender. Not perfume, maybe conditioner or lotion. She keeps hold of my arms, just below the elbows, a moment longer.

“What are you doing here?” she says. “Do you live close?”

Her voice sounds genuine and there’s no artifice in her smile, but it’s way too soon to tell anything.

“I live in Edgewater, over the bridge on Route Two.” I tip my head in the correct direction.

“I think I know where that is. We moved here a few months ago; I’m still trying to figure out my way around. We, meaning me and my husband, Spencer. Wild, right? Both of us ending up here? Of all the places in Maryland we could’ve moved to. Have you lived here long?”

“About ten years. Do you have a few minutes? Want to sit down?” I say, indicating the empty chair.

The corners of her eyes crinkle slightly. “I do and I’d love to. Let me grab a drink first. Do you want something else?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

There’s no line and she orders her drink from the barista, makes a quick sidestep to the bakery display and points, glances over at me, and points again. When she returns to the table, she has a steaming mug and two cinnamon coffee cakes.

“If you don’t like them, I’ll eat both,” she says. “Spencer teases me because I have a huge appetite and eat more than he does.”

“I love them,” I say, which isn’t a lie.

“So—”

“So—”

We grin, and for a moment we’re nothing more than two old friends.

“So, where to start? How are your parents?” I say, picking off a piece of streusel crumb that melts on my tongue.

“My dad passed away three years ago—cancer—but Mom is fine. Healthy and happy. Matt—you remember my brother, right?—he still lives in Maryland, too, in Bel Air, with his wife and their four kids.”

“Four?”

“Right? I never thought he’d ever have one, let alone more, but he’s like father of the year now. Kind of funny. Makes me feel old, though.”

“And you?” I say, even though I already know.

“No, Spencer and I decided early on before we got married. What about you?” She glances down at my hand, my ring.

“No kids. Yes husband.”

“So what do you do now that you’re a grown-up?”

I watch her closely when I say, “I’m a child psychologist.” There’s no sign of anything amiss, though. Her expression remains naturally curious. “And you?”

“Physical therapist.”

So we both work with broken people, helping patch them back together. Curious, that. The conversation spirals into all the minutiae you cover when you haven’t spoken in years. We eat our cake and drink our coffee in between. She sits forward, forearms resting on the table. No disinterest, no drumming fingers, no obvious signs she wants to be anywhere else. And no animosity.

“Are you and Rachel still friends?” I say, when there’s a lull.

“No, we fell out of touch after high school. You know how it goes,” she says with a small shrug. “You start to go in different directions, make new friends.”

Not sure if it’s my imagination or if there’s a sudden change in the air. A heaviness of time and memories.

To hell with it. “Should we talk about serial killers or tell ghost stories, like old times?”

She’s taking a sip when I say it, and after she chokes it down, she says, “I completely forgot about all that.”

“Light as a feather,” I say.

“Stiff as a board.”

Her eyes are wistful. Becca’s name lingers on my tongue, but I don’t want to let it out yet.

“Cell Block Tango” starts playing from her purse, and she pulls out her phone with an apologetic grimace.

“This has been great,” she says, silencing the music. “But I’ve got to get going. We’re going to dinner tonight with one of Spencer’s coworkers, so I need to shower and stuff. But I’m serious about getting together.