The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,51

way. It wasn’t supposed to end. Tears thicken my throat, and I wash them away with a big, too-hot swallow.

Gia rounds the corner, beaming when she sees me. I rub my palms under the table and gird my mental loins. She’s in a striped top and slim-fitting navy-blue pants. Hair in a loose bun. After we order breakfast—French toast and bacon for me, the same for her plus a yogurt parfait—she says, “It’s so good to see you again.”

My eyes prickle again. This shouldn’t be easy. This shouldn’t feel good. I bite the inside of my cheek until my teeth leave impressions.

We end up chatting about husbands and work and parents and life and nothing and everything. More than half my food cools on the plate, but I don’t mind. I’m down to the last three bites when a family approaches and with them a girl about thirteen, give or take a year in either direction. She has pale hair, pale eyes, and delicate features, and the resemblance to Becca is slight but enough. A second too late, I realize I’m staring. Gia smiles, but there’s neither good humor nor cruelty there.

“She reminds me of …” I say.

She nods. “It’s strange. Until I saw you in the bookstore, I hadn’t thought about her in years. Now I can’t get her or that summer out of my head.”

She reaches over the table, and her hand on the back of mine is warm.

“I understand,” I say. “I’ve been the same. That summer shaped us in many ways. It was the last time we were all friends.” In for a penny, in for a pound. I drop my voice. “Do you remember the Red Lady?”

She scrunches her face. “She was the witch story, wasn’t she?”

“She was.”

“I don’t really remember details, but I remember the gist.” She, too, lowers her voice. “And sneaking in that empty house? What were we thinking?”

“Oh, come on,” I say. “It was fun.”

“Our merry little band of criminals,” she says.

Slowly, I rub my palms together, my skin gone clammy. “And the ritual we did? With the candles and all the chanting?”

A faraway look from Gia. “Vaguely. Pretty sure it’s a law in the rule book of girls. Bloody Mary in the mirror, all that woo-woo ghost story stuff.”

“We pricked our fingers, said some silly chant, and afterward we all had bad dreams.”

“Wait, I do remember. And Becca insisted it was all real, didn’t she? Then got mad at you when you said it wasn’t?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I can’t believe we never got caught sneaking in.” She sets her fork down, picks it up. “I can’t believe we never told.”

“Why would we have, though?” I say.

“True, but I’m just surprised Rachel didn’t say something, especially after all the stealing drama.”

She looks at me like I should know what she’s talking about, but I can’t help frowning.

“The stealing?” It sounds like a bad eighties horror flick.

She’s frowning now, too.

“Didn’t you know?” she says. “Rachel’s dad caught Becca taking cash out of his wallet. Apparently money had been going missing for a while and they figured it was one—or all—of us. But they weren’t sure, not until he caught Becca in the act. She said Rachel told her to do it, which was a lie, but it turned into this huge thing, and afterward they wouldn’t let us hang out with her anymore.”

I sit back. Rake through my hair. “But … I thought it was because of the stories.”

“The stories?” One corner of her mouth lifts. “Yeah, I think she ended up telling her parents about them, but that’s not why they were so upset. I can’t believe you didn’t know. I’m pretty sure all our parents talked about it. Mine were up in arms, like yanking a five-dollar bill from a wallet was tantamount to murder.”

The words hang in the air, clinging like a bad smell.

“I’m sorry,” she says, blinking rapidly. “I wasn’t thinking. I—”

“It’s okay,” I say.

“I mean, I may not have kids, but I can’t imagine hurting your own. Did she ever tell you what was going on? Back then?” Her eyes are filled with genuine curiosity.

“No, she didn’t,” I say.

You can’t ever tell anyone.

My fingers curl toward my palms, the edges of my nails digging into my skin.

“Would you like a refill?” the waitress says, holding a carafe, and Gia and I answer by sliding our mugs toward her.

After she leaves, Gia runs a hand across her breastbone, pinkening the skin. “I don’t remember talking about it much when it all