The Good Girl. Christy Barritt

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СКАЧАТЬ And that was only the beginning. My heart still twisted at the thought of the train wreck back home.

      Candy walked toward the kitchen, and I had no choice but to follow. Good Girls Rule #14: Be nice to guests, even the annoying ones who won’t leave. “I’m going to grab some water from the kitchen before I hit the road. You don’t care, do you?”

      She breezed past me, and I caught the scent of cigarette smoke. I glanced at her retreating figure and frowned. The woman had a swagger, even in her platform shoes. I was pretty sure Candy was the type of person who didn’t care what anyone thought. On second thought, maybe I should hang around her. I could use a few tips in that area.

      She stopped in her tracks at the kitchen door. “Whoa.” She muttered the word in a low voice, a touch of awe to it.

      My muscles tightened. I didn’t like the sound of that. “Whoa?”

      “I knew Lana had a wicked sense of humor, but wow.”

      I pulled Gaga closer. What? A dirty kitchen? Fake dog poop? Twenty pages of instructions on how to care for Gaga? I peered over her shoulder and into the cozy, small kitchen where early afternoon sunlight poured through two windows. Gray walls. Stainless steel appliances. A butcher knife standing devilishly on end in the wood cutting board.

      A butcher knife? Standing on end?

      I looked closer. A piece of paper lay like a corpse underneath the knife.

      I pushed past Candy and glanced at the words scribbled there.

      I’m still here.

      “I’m still here? Who’s still here?” Shivers shimmied down my spine.

      Candy’s eyes widened, some of her cool confidence leaving for a moment. “You’re asking me?”

      I looked at her, suddenly realizing she might be my only friend here in St. Paul. “Is Lana still here?”

      “Nope, she’s definitely in Tuscany. Sent me a picture this morning.” Candy peered at the knife again. Her gaze changed from fearful to curious. “I’m totally getting this on video.”

      She already had her phone out and aimed at the cutting board.

      “Absolutely not.” My hand went to my waist—an assertive stance, if you asked me—as realizations began to click in my head. “Are you guys punking me or something? I know Lana is amused by the strangest things, but really?”

      “Punking is so 2006. I, Candy Cornelius, am all about today and being on the edge of all that is cool and worthy. This would be perfect for my YouTube channel.” She held up her phone again. “And no, I had nothing to do with this. I’m fame hungry, but not when it comes to stuff this twisted.”

      “Any idea who might have left this?” I kept my voice even, as if I’d played detective a million times before. I hadn’t. But I had been questioned by detectives before, so maybe some good would come out of that experience as I tried at the moment to imitate them.

      Candy shrugged, shoving her phone back into the pocket of her tight black jeans. “I have no idea. There was that weird stalker guy who Lana told to get lost.”

      Weird stalker guy? Why hadn’t I heard about him? Was I really that wrapped up in my own little world? I already knew the answer—yes, I was.

      “Stalker? What stalker? And more importantly, was this stalker violent?”

      She shrugged. “He seemed more like a pitiful little puppy dog to me. I can’t imagine him doing this, but who really knows?” She paused and straightened her head. “Are you sure I can’t get this on video?”

      I had to draw on every ounce of strength and politeness inside me not to scream. You know, Good Girls Rule #5: Practice patience even when you want to throttle someone. The last thing I needed right now was some stalker sneaking into the house where I was staying and leaving notes underneath a terrifyingly sharp knife. I was no Nancy Drew. I had no desire to add a little mystery to my life. I just wanted to grasp that ever-elusive peace that dangled just out of reach.

      I cleared my throat, deciding to try a different approach. “Listen, it’s like this. I hate video cameras. All cameras, for that matter. Like, I really hate them.” They’d followed me around for months as my face had been splashed across the news. Lana promised me that she hadn’t told anyone here about what happened.

      Candy stared at me a moment. Did she know about my past? My cheeks reddened at the thought. She crossed her arms. “Fine. I won’t make you an instant celebrity after all.”

      “I’m thinking I should call the cops. The note by itself may not be that threatening, but the knife definitely sends a message.” As I looked at it again, fear trickled down my spine until I shivered.

      “I agree. Can I stick around long enough to see what they say?”

      “Aren’t you allergic to Gaga?” I looked down at the perky little dog who sat at my feet.

      She flicked a piece of lint from her shirt. “No, I just told Lana that so I wouldn’t have to dog sit. Of course.” She shrugged as if that was the most natural explanation in the world.

      I sucked in a deep breath, considering my options. Finally, I settled with, “No pictures.”

      She grinned. “Deal.”

      This was one deal I hoped I didn’t regret.

      Chapter 3

      I’d envisioned coming to St. Paul, being dropped off on Lana’s doorstep by one of my sister’s semi-responsible friends, and fading into blissful oblivion. If I haven’t already mentioned it, things were not going according to my plan. The same could be said for my entire life, I supposed.

      I’d followed all the steps and done everything correctly. Kind of like the time I’d built a model airplane, one of my dad’s favorite pastimes. I’d followed all of the directions. At the time, I couldn’t see my work turning out to be an airplane, but I told myself I needed to finish before I’d see the big picture.

      The final product looked more like a Transformer than a FW 190.

      A Transformer that had been destroyed by the Decepticons, at that.

      Little did I know that my life would parallel the building of that model airplane—I’d followed the rules but the end result was nothing like the picture on the box.

      The police had been here fifteen minutes—an unglamorous fifteen minutes, at that. There was one uptight, middle-aged officer who’d taken my statement. Along with him was a younger guy with spiky hair and a shirt that read CSU. He was snapping some photos and dusting for fingerprints.

      What had I just walked into? What was going on in Lana’s house? I knew things here couldn’t possibly be as normal as they first appeared, and I was right. Something was seriously not normal.

      Why would someone leave a message like that? And who? Had Lana made someone seriously upset before she left on her trip? The message had to be intended for her. All of my “enemies” were back in Florida and preferred the public humiliation brand of justice to the “scare you out of your mind” kind. СКАЧАТЬ