The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,79

found Ellie at my cabinet. The way she behaved, as if caught in the act. But of what?

She wipes off the pot and returns it to her desk, moving things around to place it a little farther in, away from errant sleeves.

“See? Good as new,” she says.

Is it my imagination or is her expression slightly off-kilter? How much do I really know about her? She was vetted by the temp agency, but they were concerned with professional references, experience, and the like. She’s too young to have known Becca, but is it possible she knows Lauren? But from where?

“Dr. Cole?”

“Oh, sorry,” I say.

My nails are crusted with dirt, gritty and dark; there’s more stuck to my skin, courtesy of the spilled coffee. Under the fluorescent lights in the bathroom, I turn on the hot water, soap up, and begin to rinse, working my hands against each other. Soap bubbles glisten on the tiny pool of water near the drain; dirt speckles the stainless steel.

Blood on my hands. Dirt beneath my nails.

Dirt in her mouth. I put dirt in her mouth.

I remember running home, washing away the dirt and blood, all of it swirling down the drain. I remember thinking my skin would never be clean and everyone would see, everyone would know, so I used the pot scrubber on my nails, tearing already ragged cuticles, washing away my own blood, knowing there would be no absolution, no matter how much I bled. I remember the slick of the dish soap as I upended the bottle over my palm again and again. Scrubbing until my skin hurt.

As it does now.

With a half-uttered curse, I yank my arms back. The soap is long gone, my skin bright red. Blood pearls from a torn cuticle. But at least the dirt is gone.

My eyes are haunted still; I can only imagine how they appeared then. You can’t hide guilt with makeup. How did no one suspect, especially my parents? How did I hold it in? I rotate my shoulders and arch my neck until my muscles release some of the tension. In the mirror, dark shadows notwithstanding, I appear fine. I am fine.

Back in my office with the door closed, I see a new message in my inbox. From Lauren. TOMORROW NIGHT. 9 O’CLOCK. Along with an address, not hers. All the warning bells are ringing, but Google reveals a building in a small business park not far from her apartment. A business park means good lighting. Open spaces. Security guards.

I’LL BE THERE.

I spend the rest of the day in a mental fog, rehearsing what I might say, deciding yes, that’s it, then having it all flutter away. The fog clears the minute I get home and see Ryan’s forgotten to check the mail. Again. My thoughts narrow in on the conversation I had with Nicole. I should take a long bath, maybe have a glass of wine before bringing it up, but my husband and best friend have been chatting about me behind my back. Why should I wait?

He’s in the family room, drinking a beer and channel surfing. I drop the mail on the coffee table, enjoying the wince it brings. I remain on the other side, arms crossed.

“I talked to Nicole this morning.”

“Uh-huh. Hi to you, too.”

I ignore the barb. “What did you think you were doing, talking to her about me? About my old friend? It wasn’t something for you to run around telling everyone.”

His face contorts briefly, then arranges itself back again. “First of all, I didn’t run around telling everyone, and I didn’t know it was some great secret. I just assumed Nicole knew. And second, I talked to her because I thought she might know what was going on with you. You won’t talk to me, so what else was I supposed to do?”

“If I’m not talking to you about it, then there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Or nothing you want to talk about.”

“The proper response would be to let it go then, not sneak behind my back with my best friend.”

“I was not sneaking,” he says, rising to his feet and circling the table to cup my upper arms. “I love you and I’m worried. She is, too. It feels like there’s more going on, more than just a patient who reminds you of someone you once knew. Could you talk to me? Please?”

Although there’s a haze of anger in the air, there’s nothing on his features. I could tell him everything. I could tell him what’s