And When I Die, page 40
She texted Peyton to let her know something had come up, but that she’d fill her in later. Until she knew what was going on with her and Jordan, she’d keep her mouth shut. Then again, she and Jordan might be making it Instagram official later with a selfie of the two of them. Together again.
Whitney peeked out the front window and saw Jordan’s mom’s car in the driveway. She wound a yellow ponytail holder around her hair, then gathered up her keys, phone, and wristlet before throwing on her yellow rain slicker and running into the thunderstorm.
98
ERICA
The door of the Dean house swung open and Whitney emerged wearing a yellow slicker, her black ponytail flying behind her in a dark blur as she dashed out toward the car. She frowned when she opened the passenger door and saw Erica instead of the expected Jordan behind the wheel. Erica smiled.
“Hi, Whitney.”
“H—Hi, Mrs. Mitchell.” Whitney’s voice shook. “What—what are you doing here?”
“Oh, Jordan’s at home. I didn’t want her driving in this bad rain, so I said I’d come pick you up and take you back to the house.”
“But we’re supposed to go to Ferentino’s.”
“Oh, I know, I know.” Erica smiled again. “I told Jordan I’d clear out, give you girls some privacy. You’ll have the house to yourselves. That would be better than going to a pizza place, anyway. Right?”
Whitney played with one of the snaps of her yellow rain slicker. “Yeah, but—”
“It’s okay, really. Jordan’s waiting at the house for you and I said I’d bring you over. Hop in.”
Whitney looked back at the house and Erica bit her lip as she waited. “Okay,” she said somewhat hesitantly before she slid inside.
“So,” Erica said as she backed out of the driveway. “How have you been?”
Whitney looked down at her lap. “Fine.”
“We haven’t seen much of you this school year. I was trying to remember how long it’s been. Summer, I suppose.”
Whitney shifted in her seat, the wet slicker squeaking against the tan leather seats. “Yeah, I guess.”
“So how has junior year been so far?”
“Fine.”
“Jordan hasn’t had a very good school year at all,” she said as she looked over at Whitney, before turning left and pressing the accelerator slightly. “But I guess you already knew that.”
“This isn’t the way to your house.” Whitney sat up straighter. “Where are we going?”
“Oh, I forgot, I have to run a quick errand first. Then we’ll go.”
“Um.” Whitney scrunched up her face like she’d smelled something bad. “Where?”
“You know, you and Jordan have been friends for such a long time. I can remember how you used to share your dolls with each other, the tea parties you used to have together.” She laughed. “That time you girls got into my makeup and smeared lipstick all over each other’s faces. How you used to play in your mother’s high heels. You remember all of that?”
“I guess so.”
“Jordan really, really loved you. Like a sister. Better than her own sister. Didn’t you love Jordan?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Yeah, sure.” Erica nodded and pursed her lips. “That doesn’t sound very convincing, Whitney.”
“Mrs. Mitchell, where are we going?”
“And I mean, I know you’re both popular, you know everybody likes both of you—a lot—but you, well, I guess you’re the most popular girl in school, aren’t you?”
“Jordan’s popular.”
“Oh, I know, I know. But you’re the most popular, right? I mean, if you say to everyone in school, ‘Don’t like Jordan anymore,’ everyone would listen to you, right? Everyone would stop talking to Jordan, wouldn’t they?”
Whitney squirmed in her seat, her fingers dancing nervously over the snaps on her slicker. “I guess.”
“And if you said that Jordan was a whore and trash, everyone would believe you, right? If Whitney Dean says you’re a skank, well, then you’re a skank, right? None of the other girls would want to be your friend. Because Whitney Dean said so.”
“It wasn’t like that, Mrs. Mitchell—”
“Jordan told me you were horrible and I didn’t believe her. I thought she was overreacting. But she was right. You’re the disgusting one. You’re the trash.”
“Mrs. Mitchell, I think you should probably take me home. I don’t feel good.”
“You don’t feel well, Whitney. It’s, ‘I don’t feel well.’” Erica scoffed. “You may be the most popular girl in school, but you have atrocious grammar. Perhaps you should pay closer attention in English class.”
“Mrs. Mitchell, take me back home. Now.”
“Jordan is … far superior to you. You know that, don’t you? That Jordan is not your equal, she’s not inferior to you in any way, but your superior.”
“Yeah, Jordan’s awesome.” Whitney folded her arms across her chest. “Jordan’s the best.”
“That’s right, she is. Way, way better than you.” Erica sniffed. “Now. At school on Monday, you’re going to let Jordan back onto the pom squad—”
“I don’t have any control over—”
“And then you’re going to get back on Twitter and apologize for all those disgusting things you said about my daughter.”
“Mrs. Mitchell, I didn’t have anything to do with that—”
“Oh, shut up. Of course you did.” She rolled her shoulders back in indignation. “What do you think, I’m stupid or something?”
“I mean, you might be crazy—”
Erica stomped on the brake, both of them jerking forward, her arm automatically shooting out across Whitney’s body to keep her flying out through the windshield, like the metal bars on a rollercoaster. They squealed to a stop, the wheels slipping a little against the rain-bloated street. Thunder shook the car. She grabbed Whitney’s arm.
“What did you say to me?”
Whitney struggled against her grip as she narrowed her eyes. “Let go of me.”
“Answer me!”
“I said you might be crazy,” she spat. “I think you might be straight up cracked in the head.” Erica reared up, her ears unbelieving. Was this little snot giving her attitude?
“Excuse me?”
“Making my mom invite Jordan to my party, driving around in the rain, babbling on about pom and tweets, always bothering Jordan about her clothes and her hair. Jordan used to say all the time, ‘My mom is nuts.’ I never believed it until now, but she’s totally right.”
Strands of lightening burst across the black clouds rolling over the horizon as Erica gasped. “You nasty little bitch.”
“My mom says the only reason anybody cares about you is because of your husband, that nobody likes you, that nobody can stand you—”
Red rage descended across Erica’s vision as she blanched, the dagger of Whitney’s words knocking her backward. Her eyes slid shut as she took several deep, pronounced inhales.
“You owe me an apology, you entitled piece of garbage,” she breathed, fury sluicing through her. “Apologize to me now.”
“No way,” Whitney scoffed. “I’m not apologizing to you or your ho bag daughter.”
Thunder roared as a fresh round of relentless rain pummeled the car. Without thinking, Erica lunged across the armrest and slapped the girl’s face. Tears pricked Whitney’s eyes as she cradled her cheek, momentarily stunned into awed silence.
“I know all about girls like you, Whitney.” Erica shot a finger into the girl’s face, smugly satisfied when she flinched. “I grew up with girls like you. Pretty, popular princesses. Straight-up nasty, mean bitches. Just like you.”
“I can’t wait to tell my dad what you just did to me,” Whitney half-hissed, half-sobbed. “He’s going to destroy you.”
Erica laughed. “Whitney. You really think your father is any kind of match for me? You really, really think I can’t stomp you and your father out like roaches?”
“I’m going to tell everyone about you and how crazy you are,” Whitney said, her voice shaking as she seemed to regain her footing. “Everyone is going to know about you.”
Shannon flashed across Erica’s mind. She shook her head to wipe away the memory.
“Shut up,” Erica said, grabbing for Whitney again and catching her wrist. She dug her nails into her skin, which forced a pained yelp from the girl’s lips as she writhed against her grasp. “Shut your fucking mouth,” she snarled.
Whitney pulled away, tugging Erica with her. She smashed against the door as she attempted once again to yank her arm from the clamp of Erica’s hand.
“Let go of me, you freak,” she screamed through clenched teeth.
Time turned sideways in that moment, Shannon’s ghost, her vicious words rising from the past, swirling around her like a foul wind.
I had no idea you were a fucking freak.
“Take that back,” Erica whispered.
“Forget it, freak,” Whitney panted. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
Before Erica knew it, the scissors that she’d grabbed at the last minute as she left the house were in her hand, hastily yanked out of her purse and pointed at Whitney, the handle blue this time, not orange like the ones with Shannon. The girl gasped, her eyes wide as she pawed at the lock on the car door, finally understanding, it seemed, that actions did indeed have consequences.
“Oh my God, help, somebody, help me—”
“I said take it back. Take back what you said about me,” Erica shrieked.
The lock gave way and the door flew open. Whitney tumbled out of the car, dropping to the wet ground. She darted away, whipping her head back once. Erica bolted after her, the scissors warm and heavy in her hand. She pumped her arms, rainwater splashing against her ankles and the backs of her legs as her feet pounded into the shallow puddles. Whitney was screaming, the deafening downpour swallowing her cries as she went slipping and sliding against the slick carpet of grass. She fell, a crater of mud grabbing her foot, slamming her into the spongy ground. Her eyes popped wide against her face as Erica drew closer and she scrambled to her feet, scurrying toward a patch of nearby black-eyed Susans.
Erica drew heavy, frantic breaths as she closed the gap between them, close enough now to see the dots of rainwater sliding down the back of Whitney’s yellow slicker. Whitney screeched as Erica grabbed her ponytail and yanked her backward. She pulled Whitney in a bear hug and tackled her to the ground, both of them grunting as they landed in the cold, wet grass. Whitney held her arms over her face, screaming.
“Please, please don’t hurt me, please, I’m sorry for everything, please. I don’t want to die.”
Erica plunged the scissors into Whitney’s stomach.
Her chest.
Her stomach.
Her arm.
Her neck.
Her neck.
Her chest.
Whitney’s screams soon gurgled in her throat like a bubbling water fountain and her face went slack, her head drooping to one side. Warm, salty blood splashed against Erica’s face. Lightning splintered above her, followed by an angry growl of thunder.
Blood continued to pump from the girl’s wounds as she whimpered like a distressed puppy. Erica raised the scissors over her head and rammed them into Whitney’s chest one final time.
She continued to straddle her, staring as Whitney Dean drew her last breath.
For several moments, it was just the two of them, the rain battering the two very different bodies. One heaving with frenetic breath, her hand clutching the scissors, suspended in mid-air. The other still and eternally quiet, rain falling into the dead, dark eyes. Both bodies drenched in blood.
Another snap of thunder broke the spell and spurred Erica to work, searching Whitney’s pockets and extracting her phone, before plunging her hands into a puddle, swishing them around until the blood swirled into the murky water. The yellow of Whitney’s ponytail holder against that wet black hair winked at Erica. She extended a shaky hand toward it then jerked it off in one smooth motion. She grabbed the scissors and jumped up, running blindly to her car as the rain pelted her face like hot rocks. She threw the scissors on the passenger side floor and stomped on the accelerator.
Blood pounded in Erica’s ears as she drove away, mindlessly dropping the ponytail holder into the inside pocket of her purse. Her mind raced as it frantically unpacked all the tasks she would need to accomplish. Though she thankfully had on all black today, she’d still toss her clothes in the trash bin. She’d find one of those self-car washes so she could quickly wipe down the inside of the car, then trade it in for a new SUV on Monday. Dump the scissors and both phones in the lake, but not before destroying the SIM cards. She’d buy Jordan a new one and would fall all over herself, apologetic about having ruined the phone—how, she didn’t know just yet, but it didn’t matter. Teenage girls always wanted a new phone.
As always, she had a plan.
She looked at the clock on the dash. Two-forty-five. Hours before anyone would be home.
Her own phone jangled with Jay’s ringtone and Erica gasped, vacillating between picking up and letting it go to voicemail. Her eyes flailed uselessly around the car in search of an answer.
Pick up the fucking phone. Act like everything’s fine. Smile.
“Hello, darling,” she said brightly, forcing the words out of her mouth, hoping they sounded normal and cheerful.
“Babe, I want to do a dinner party tonight with Lance and Gabby and the Deans. About seven—”
Terror shot through her like a rocket and her chest clenched. “Did—did you say the Deans, darling?”
“Look, I could give a shit about what happened at that party. Lance needs an architect, Steve Dean is a good one, and Lance and Steve may need to remember down the line that I put the two of them together. That was personal. This is business.”
Erica blinked rapidly, the full weight of what was about to crash down around her starting its descent. A whole evening of playing nice with Lauren Dean after she stabbed her daughter to death.
But by God, Whitney had it coming.
And for Jay, she’d play the charming, gracious hostess. After all, it was pretend. And if there was anything Erica had gotten good at over the years, it was pretending.
She licked her lips. “Of course, darling. Of course. Did you say around seven?”
“Yeah. Seven. And get that caterer, you know the one that does those puff things that I like.”
She wanted to pound the steering wheel. Scream at him to do it himself for a change, to jump through the hoops just one fucking time. Once, just once.
Except Jay, like most men, relied on a wife, girlfriend, mother, sister, secretary, daughter to keep the trains running on time. As long as there was a dutiful and devoted woman standing beneath the ledge with a net, there was never a need to worry about the consequences of a fall.
And like the good little wifey she’d trained herself to be, instead of telling him to do it his damn self, she smiled. Always the gracious, perky, carefree wife who could do it all with the biggest, brightest of smiles, the most buoyant wave of her hand. “Consider it done, darling.”
“You’re the best, babe.”
They cooed I love yous before ending the call. Erica came to a stoplight, grateful for the few moments to be still and think. She could do this. She would do it. She had hours and hours to make it all work flawlessly and beautifully. The light turned green and Erica called the caterers, jabbering on cheerfully about the menu for tonight, knowing she’d have to pay triple the rush fee to pull it off. They’d do whatever she wanted, though. Of course they would. Saying no to Jay Mitchell would have sounded the death knell for them.
Erica looked at the clock again as she commanded her phone to find her a self-car wash. By the time she got done with everything, she’d just make it home ahead of the caterers’ arrival at the house around five-thirty.
She had hours and hours.
Hours and hours to forget all about Whitney Dean.
99
RUTHIE
Ruthie Stowers was in jail for exactly two thousand, nine hundred and twenty days.
She was sent to Giddings State School, about two hours from home, to serve her sentence. Her lawyer had told her what to expect at the juvenile correctional facility, but it was still like being tossed flailing and screaming into the deep end of an ice-cold pool. There was the indignity of being strip searched and the scalding two-minute shower to ‘delouse’ her. The wrinkled old Ziploc bag with her hygiene kit: a small blue plastic comb, soft bristle toothbrush, toothpaste, bar of soap, and a small bottle of watery shampoo that smelled faintly of tar. A razor was out of the question and in due course, her legs resembled those of her brother and father. The pair of gray sweats, socks, brown rubber shower shoes she was to wear at all times, a package of plain white underwear, and one beige bra.
The days were long, every minute regimented, every minute documented. Giddings was filled with murderers, drug dealers, burglars, carjackers, and gang members. It was drilled into them every day that they were in serious trouble and any hope of getting out meant they’d better get with the program.
The ‘program’ meant they were to wake at the crack of dawn and quickly make the worn, scratchy sheets fit with precision over the flat, dirty pad they said was a mattress. She struggled at first with the morning runs and drills, the two-mile obstacle course. Meals were served three times a day, and you had to eat, whether you were hungry or not, whether it was filled with bugs and dirt and fingernails or not. She still had to attend school every day, though unlike some of the other girls, Ruthie didn’t labor with that aspect of her day—she’d always been an above-average student, excelling particularly in English and history. She even helped tutor some of the girls. Her afternoons were first spent on laundry duty, then the kitchen. Any free minute of time, which were precious few, she was confined to her cell. Sometimes at night, she was allowed to watch movies in the common area with some of the other girls, usually a corny PG movie or Disney romp that she mostly tuned out.
