The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,50

me off. “Not a big deal. How has Samantha been for you?”

Samantha? Then it clicks. The girl with the chair. “She’s been fine. A little rough around the edges, but you know how that show is sometimes.”

“Okay, but please watch her with Abby. I’ve heard a few rumors she’s been antagonizing her. No one will confirm it, of course, and Abby says she hasn’t, but she never likes to rock the boat.”

“Will do,” I say.

My cell phone rings and I jump, but let the call go to voice mail since I don’t recognize the number. They don’t leave a message. I can tell Nicole wants to keep chatting, but I say I need to prepare for my sessions.

“Call me later if you want?” she says, and I toss an “Okay” over my shoulder.

The girls are already in the meeting room when I get there. Samantha’s sitting next to Abby, leaning close, the two speaking in fervent whispers. According to Samantha’s file, her background is similar to Abby’s—financial stability, private schools—but they couldn’t be more dissimilar. Abby’s the only girl in the room who resembles a child more than a young woman: cheeks rounded, body more straight than curved. It makes her appear younger than she is. Her eyes, though, belong to someone decades older.

A few months ago, her parents discovered she was trading oral sex for pills. They were, of course, shocked. Abby went to private school and wanted for nothing. She did her homework, called if she was running late. You’d never have guessed she’d been abused by a close family friend when she was young. She never said a word until she was caught with drugs. Never said a word because her abuser had said he’d kill her family if she did and she believed him. Why wouldn’t she? We teach kids to listen to grown-ups.

I get closer and hear Samantha say, “My cousin knows somebody who saw him, the real Slenderman.”

“There isn’t a real one,” Abby says. “He’s just some Internet thing, and those girls killed their friend because of him.”

“I’m telling you, he’s real,” Samantha says. “And that girl didn’t die. They’ll just have to try again when they get out of jail. Sometimes there has to be a sacrifice.”

“Samantha!” I say, harsh enough to make the others fall silent and stare at me. “That’s enough. We have more important things to talk about here.”

“Sorry,” she says, but she’s smirking.

After I leave, I realize I forgot to tell Nicole what happened. But I doubt urban-legend nonsense counts as antagonizing. I doubt Samantha believes Slenderman is real. She’s a little too old. When you’re twelve, it’s different. You can believe in something so strongly you make it real, and then you can’t tell any difference between the truth and the story.

* * *

My drive to Evelyn’s, a neighborhood restaurant close to Gia’s house, doesn’t take long. I’m early, but its’s okay. I’m comfortable. This place is a known entity for Sunday brunch. The restaurant serves only breakfast and lunch and the food is good, the portions hearty. It’s sunny and warm enough to sit outside, so I ask for a table out front. Every time the door opens, out waft the aromas of bacon, syrup, and coffee, and I order a cup of the last.

I sip my drink, one hand traveling to my waist. I woke with marks, four of them, along my side. Not deep enough to draw blood, but close; the red is pebbled with darker spots about to break the surface. Even now, as I touch gently through my clothes, the marks sting, and I’ve been unable to escape the flow of memories. Becca tried to hide scratches on her body from me, but I saw them. Bruises, too. Were there other wounds, other signs I missed or can’t remember? Probably. Kids are very good at hiding the marks of dysfunction. And they usually only get better as time goes on.

I know things were worse for Becca that summer, for whatever reason. Maybe puberty, maybe her mom falling deeper and deeper into her glass. Maybe both or neither. Whatever the underlying issues, they both paid the price. And then some. I should’ve told someone, never mind what I promised Becca. I promised I’d help her, too, and I didn’t do that either. I’m drenched in guilt, no matter who took the official blame.

Please be kind and rewind.

We never said goodbye, not once, not even at the end. But it wasn’t supposed to end that