Page 69 of Good Girls Lie

She closes the cover gently. The vitriol is surprising, she’s always seen Camille as a gentle soul. Not this roiling mass of emotion, spilling hate into her diary.

Tony is on his back now, squirming on the floor, reaching under the dresser. “Thought I saw something...yep...hold on...just about got it... What’s this?”

He drags his arm back and is holding a white bag with a green sticker on the front. It looks like it’s come from the pharmacy in Marchburg, Ford has a few herself.

He opens the bag and out fall two pill bottles. They don’t have the Marchburg Pharmacy label. He reads the label aloud.

“Cytotec. Place two pills in each cheek and let dissolve fully. What is this?”

Ford snatches it away. “Let me see that.”

Camille’s name is on the bottle, along with instructions to take the pills forty-eight hours after returning home. Ford is unfamiliar with the drug name, but Kate isn’t.

“It’s a chemical abortifacient,” Kate says. “Dean Westhaven, were you aware that Camille recently had an abortion?”

43

THE INTERROGATION

The door to the attic office creaks open, and I raise my head blearily. I’ve fallen asleep in the chair; my neck is stiff. Becca is asleep opposite me, one leg pulled up, cheek resting on her knee. I’m filled with a rush of tenderness seeing her like this, so vulnerable, lips slightly open, face relaxed. She looks so young, so pretty. I belong to her now. I am her Swallow. She’s chosen me.

As if she knows she’s being watched, Becca’s eyes open and she looks at me like she’s happy to see me, and my stomach does a flip.

“Ladies?” Dean Westhaven’s voice is soft, regretful. She’s sorry to wake us. “Thank you for waiting for us here. I assume Dr. Asolo told you we lost a student tonight. Ash, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but your roommate, Camille, has died. This is Sheriff Wood, and Detective Wood, his niece, from Charlottesville. They’re going to ask you some questions. Becca, if you’d please stay? I know you’ve been mentoring Ash and it would be helpful to have your support.”

Becca smiles. “Absolutely, Dean. I’m happy to help.”

They’re being so kind. It strikes me, as I so desperately wished only weeks ago, I have found a new life, new friends. A new support system, one based on healthy boundaries and mutual respect. Yes, my roommate is dead, yes, I’ve been tortured tonight, but look at what I’ve gained. Look at Becca, eyes shining. Look at the dean, smiling encouragingly. Pity and love. These are confusing emotions for me, but I’ll take them.

But the other two, the strange man and the young, crow-eyed woman, looking at me with matching dark, unfathomable eyes, make me nervous. The juxtaposition of the two emotions is too much. Tears prick my eyes. I blink hard against them, but one wells up and runs down my cheek.

“Oh, my poor duck.” Dean Westhaven pats my hand. “We’ll get you through this. Just answer a few questions and we’ll get you back to bed. Tomorrow is a new day.”

Becca places her hand on my other arm, which throbs. “You’ve got this.”

Buoyed on both sides, I nod to the strangers, and the interrogation begins.

The sheriff kicks us off with a platitude so insincere I wonder how many times he’s said it over the years: “I’m very sorry for your loss, young lady.”

“Erm, thank you.”

“You were close to your roommate?”

“Not particularly. I mean, we were friends, but she was closer with our suitemates. They’ve known her longer.”

“You’re British,” the female detective says.

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. I’m only surprised. I didn’t realize.”

“I’m from Oxford.”

The sheriff tries again. “You and Camille weren’t getting along?”

“I didn’t say that. We got along fine. She was closer with our suitemates, that’s all.”

“If she were upset, she wouldn’t confide in you?”