Page 132 of Good Girls Lie

You get half, the nasty little voice in the back of my mind says.No matter what, you can go anywhere, do anything, with half of Damien Carr’s estate. You have nothing to lose, not anymore.

The dean is staring at me as if I’m speaking in tongues.

I straighten to my full height, which puts me a full head above her. Even this simple motion makes me feel more in control. I’ve been slouching around for months now, trying to look smaller, wider. More like her.

“I know who did this. We aren’t safe. We need to get everyone inside and block off the tunnels to the school.”

“What are you talking about?” Westhaven asks, her voice edging toward hysteria. “Who did this?”

“Trust me. Please.”

The dean doesn’t move, and the sheriff is standing next to her like an avenging angel. Rumi is at her side, too.

“Rumi—” I say, and the sheriff explodes. Everything happens at once.

“Are you saying Rumi is responsible? You are blaming him?” he says, loudly enough that the remaining girls hear, and the whisper campaign starts again in earnest, a few squeals and “catch him” filling the street between us and them.

Rumi goes white. “I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

The dean puts a hand on the sheriff’s arm. “He was with me, Tony. He didn’t do this. Becca was troubled. I have letters from her mother, emails, records from her psychiatrist. The senator was worried about her daughter, worried enough that she sent me the doctor’s notes.”

They barely notice me pleading, “No, no, she didn’t kill herself, there’s no way. Please, we can’t stay out here, can we have some privacy?”

But the damage is done. The girls of Goode need a logical explanation for this atrocity, and Rumi Reynolds, the son of the notorious campus murderer, is the perfect target. Whether he killed her or she killed herself because of him, the buzz is flowing hard, the angry hive looking for blood.

The sheriff has a hand on his cuffs.

Rumi is shaking his head, shock on his features.

I have to fix this. I speak loudly, so everyone can hear.

“No, Sheriff, you’re wrong. Rumi didn’t do this. Please, can we go inside?” I say again, and finally, he seems to hear me.

“You’re saying it wasn’t Rumi.”

“That’s right. But I think I know what happened, and it’s a convoluted story. We need to get everyone safe, first.”

The dark-eyed female cop has arrived, and the teachers are on the scene now, too. I see Asolo and Medea, pale and teary, standing together with their hands covering their mouths, and the dean goes to them, gives them instructions. She turns back and marches toward me. Gone is the kind, friendly woman who has been sheltering me since I arrived in America. She is a glittering Valkyrie now, furious and intent.

“Come with me,” and she grabs my arm and drags me toward her car. “We’ll go in the back.” Yes, we can hardly drive through the gates.God, Becca.

“Rumi?” she says, calling her dog to heel.

Something flickers in his eyes and he cocks his head ironically as if to say,Yes, Dean, anything for you, Dean, then tosses her the keys. “Drive yourself,” he says flatly. “I’m going to search the grounds with the sheriff’s deputies for anything amiss.”

“Look at the tunnel coming from the graveyard,” I call to him. “She’s been using it to get in and out.”

“She?” the dean, the sheriff, and the detective say simultaneously.

It doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t hide any longer. It’s time to come clean.

“My sister,” I reply. “The real Ashlyn Carr.”

79

THE SISTER

“But you’re Ashlyn Carr,” the dean says, brows drawn together in confusion, but there’s something alight in her eyes. Is she pretending? Does she know?