The Good Girls

Chapter 4

SOMETHING SHARP SCRATCHED MAL'S cheek. She swatted at it, but it just bounced back and jabbed at her again. She opened her eyes and saw the world sideways, but before she could figure out why she was lying down—and why she was in what looked to be a field—her head began to spin wildly.

She clamped her eyes shut to stop the woozy motion and suddenly felt the urge to puke. Aha. I've been drinking. Just a little clue to the puzzle.

Slowly, carefully, she tried to open her eyes again. This time she was able to keep the spins at bay and take in her surroundings. It was light out, the sun halfway up the sky. Dry, spiky stalks of half-dead grass jutted out of the ground as far as she could see. Off in the distance, a massive building loomed. Where the hell was she?

Finally, Mal managed to prop herself up on one elbow. Moving as slowly as she could, she eased herself to a sitting position. Stale cigarette smoke wafted off her hoodie. So, I've been drinking and smoking. Must have been a crazy night.

She hadn't been hungover in forever. But back when she was Auradon's golden girl, when her arrival at any party meant the event was a true hit, she'd been a pro. Downing booze with the rest of them. Matching the boys shot for shot. Waking up the next morning feeling like shit, but laughing it off, knowing she'd had an awesome time.

It was easy to reminisce about the golden days: She'd had purple hair and was beautiful, with a gaggle of friends and an even bigger bevy of hangers-on. She'd aced all her classes without even having to try. She had Ben Florian's seal of approval—they were tight, one of those platonic friendships that was even closer and cooler than any couple's. And she had a wonderful best friend in Evie Grimhilde, their bond strong and meaningful in a sea of superficial relationships.

Her life was perfect, right? Except, oh yeah, her family. A mom that hated her. And a dad that was basically never with her. But whatever. Maybe that's what made her so good at being the life of the party—because at home, she was better off dead. She would have kept up that life, too, if it hadn't been for Ben. . . and her father's wrath. And now, everything had changed. Her father was locked up for life. She didn't have a home to go to anymore. And she'd become a different girl—a harder, edgier, angrier girl, a Bizarro Mal. No one invited her to any parties anymore. Well, screw them all.

Mal shivered, suddenly realizing how cold she was. The air had a distinct morning chill, and it felt like it was going to start raining any minute. Gradually, the building in the distance came into focus—a low, wide, cheap stucco structure in dirty beige with evenly spaced brown metal doors. A teenage boy in a bright orange uniform and wearing an apron and a paper hat stepped out of one of the doors with a giant garbage bag. He tossed it into a Dumpster and headed back inside. So a strip mall, maybe? Someplace with a bunch of crappy little take-out places? But how had she gotten here?

She shut her eyes and tried to think. The last thing she remembered, though, was leaving the police station with Evie. Welcome to Mal 2.0, she thought. Complete with scars, sullen moods, and memory blanks!

Mal looked down at herself. At least she was in the same clothes, even though they were caked with dirt.

She patted her pockets. Her hand knocked against a hard lump in her hoodie, and she fumbled for her cell phone. Tuesday, October 25, it said at the top of the screen, as well as the time: 10:04 AM. Okay, so she'd only missed one night—she remembered parts of Monday. She quickly dialed Evie, but it went straight to voice mail.

Mal swallowed hard. It was rare that Evie didn't pick up her phone. Had something else happened? Something to do with the Jay investigation? All at once, she remembered the serious-looking file she'd found at Jay's house when they were looting it for clues. It had said EVIE GRIMHILDE across the envelope, and it didn't look like a folder full of old essays. Did it have something to do with her mom's hoarding, their quick and shameful exodus from Charmington? It was a secret Mal had known for a while, something she'd worked hard to keep safe. Before Mal had realized what she was doing, she'd slipped the file out of Jay's drawer and stuffed it into her pocket.

Or had it been about something else? Mal was sure she'd read the file—while still in Jay's house, in fact—but she had no memory of what it said. Typical, she thought, patting her pockets, wishing she had the file with her now, though she'd undoubtedly left it back at Evie's place. Her brain only worked half the time and remembered the least important of details, courtesy of her dad's last beating.

She stood up and started to walk to the front of the strip mall, her legs feeling heavy and useless. The shops were open for business, their lights on, a little easel advertising a daily deal sitting in front of the Verizon store at the end of the strip. Then, she jammed her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt and felt a stiff scrap of paper in the left-hand side. It was Elliot Fielder's business card, with his cell phone number scrawled on the back. Call me anytime, he'd said to her at their first meeting, which was also Mal's first-ever visit with a therapist.

But that was before she'd caught him stalking her. And that was before she confronted him and he grabbed her arm roughly, saying she needed to listen. Listen to what? Evie had hissed in Mal's ear when they left. And Mal had felt like an idiot—she'd let Fielder into her inner circle, decided she'd trust him, and told him everything about her life. And then he'd betrayed that trust by following her.

Mal turned the business card over in her hands. Call me anytime. His words tugged at her. She remembered his caring voice. But she couldn't call. No freaking way.

Someone gasped, and Mal looked up. A pimply guy in his early twenties in a Subway tee stood just outside the door, smoking a cigarette. He stared at Mal, then looked away. Mal gritted her teeth and turned around, heading in the opposite direction—but not before her reflection in the nail salon next door caught her eye. She was dressed in dingy black jeans and a dirty black hoodie pulled tightly around her head. Her hair falling over her eyes. Then her gaze traveled to the taut, ropy knots of a scar on her cheekbone. It was just like all the others that formed a disgusting web back and forth across her face.

Shame welled up in her throat, and she choked back a sob. No wonder that Subway worker had flinched: She looked like a monster. Then again, everyone looked at her that way these days—like she had no business being here on earth, like she should just crawl back under the rock from which she'd come. It hurt every time. Only two people in the world didn't flinch when they saw her: Evie . . . and Fielder.

Ducking around the corner and out of view, Mal pulled out her phone and looked at the keypad. Mustering up her courage, she punched Fielder's number into her cell phone and hit SEND. Evie would be so pissed, but she needed to talk to someone.

The phone rang once, and Mal's breath came fast and shallow, her heart pounding.

The phone rang a third time. Finally, the line clicked, and she heard a familiar voice on the other end. "Is this . . . Mal?" Elliot Fielder said, sounding surprised.

Mal blinked. She hadn't expected him to recognize her number. "Um, yeah," she said. "Hi."

"Hi," Fielder answered. "Are you . . . okay?"

Mal drew her bottom lip into her mouth. Suddenly she felt ridiculous for reaching out to someone she barely knew—and someone who had tricked her. She would find her own way back to Evie's, then they would figure everything out together. "You know what," she decided. "Never mind. I'm cool."

"Listen, Mal—I know why you're calling."

She almost dropped the phone and looked around. Had he followed her here, to this crappy strip mall? She tried to spot him in the distance, but she didn't see anyone around.

"I know about your dad."

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. "What about him?" she asked harshly.

Fielder exhaled slowly. "Wait, you don't know?"

"Don't know what?" There was a long pause. "Don't know what?" Mal practically growled.

His voice was shaky when he finally spoke. "I didn't think I'd have to be the one to tell you. Mal-" He paused. "There was an accident in the prison yard. Your father . . . well, he's dead."