The Perfectionists (15 page)

Mary Ann smiled sadly. “It's just not like you to walk away from the table. And you've been acting strange lately, sweetheart. I'm just worried about you.” She hesitated. “Have you taken any of that OxyContin Dr. Magnuson prescribed?”

Caitlin did a double take. “What? Why?”

“I'm just . . . curious.” Her mother didn't meet her gaze.

Caitlin wound a piece of dark hair around her finger, her pulse suddenly racing. “A few,” she said carefully.

“When?”

“I don't know.” Caitlin threw up her hands.

Her mother exhaled loudly. “Well, I was hoping you hadn't. If you still had all your prescription, you'd be in the clear.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “What are you talking about?”

Something about her expression was strange, almost suspicious. “Well, the police called earlier. They're calling everyone from your school with an Oxy prescription. They subpoenaed records from all the local pharmacies. Obviously, your name came up.”

Caitlin's heart was thudding fast. “Nolan was a notorious pill popper. He had his own stash.”

“Maybe so.” Mary Ann nodded like she wanted to believe that. But the expression on her face seemed timorous, like she was about to burst into tears. “It's just . . . can you do something for me?”

“Sure. What?”

“Bring me the rest of your OxyContin prescription?”

Caitlin stared at her. “Why?”

“Just humor me, honey.” Mary Ann looked uncomfortable. “You don't need it anymore, right? I'm going to dispose of it for you.”

Caitlin blinked. “Do you think I had something to do with what happened to Nolan?”

“No!” Mary Ann said quickly, her eyes widening. “Honey, I'm not accusing you of anything. I just . . . well, you haven't been yourself lately. And Coach Leah called to say she had to kick you out of practice the other day. Sometimes that medication causes changes in people. I just would rather we have the pills, okay? Just in case . . .”

Just in case what?
Caitlin wanted to ask, fearful of how her mother had drifted off.

Instead, she rose robotically, walked to the bathroom she used to share with Taylor, and grabbed the pills, carefully examining the bottle. All kinds of paranoid thoughts entered her mind: What if there was a tracking device on the thing? What if the bottle could
tell
you, somehow, where it had been—and that it had logged time in the Hotchkisses' house? She shut her eyes and saw herself shaking out a single pill into her palm. Grinding it up and brushing it into that cup. Was all Oxy the same, or was each pill unique, like a snowflake? What if there was a way to track down that the pill in Nolan's stomach had come from her?

But if she balked now, her moms would surely suspect that something was up. Swallowing hard, Caitlin brought the bottle to Mary Ann.

“Here you go,” she said despondently. “I hope that eases your mind.”

“Oh, honey, you know I just want what's best for you,” Mary Ann said, and tried to grab Caitlin for a hug. Caitlin shook free, darting under her arm and slipping into her bedroom, locking the door swiftly behind her. She collapsed on her bed and pushed a pillow against her face, her whole body shaking. The police had already talked to Ava. It was only a matter of time before they called her in, too. And if her own mother thought she had it in her to kill Nolan, why would anyone else think she was innocent?

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, PARKER SAT ON
her front porch in South Kenwood, a town just outside the Beacon Heights line, smoking a cigarette and looking out at the rain. It felt weird to be sitting here; she hated coming home so much that she was rarely here anymore. This neighborhood was a far cry from their old one in Beacon. After her dad went to jail, her mom had sold their sprawling five-bedroom house and moved into this bungalow. The paint was peeling off in long strips. A neglected begonia slumped in a pot on the railing. All the houses on the street were small and crumbling, with overgrown little lawns surrounded by sagging chain-link fences. Empty beer cans rolled in the gutters, and more than one yard had a car up on blocks.

She took a quick, nervous drag, exhaling a sharp burst of smoke. A shadow flashed in the doorway of the house across the street, and she tensed.
Stop the whole paranoid act
, she scolded herself.
No one's after you.

But that was easier said than done. For the past few days she'd been a complete mess. Everywhere she went, she could feel eyes on her.
Why
, she wasn't sure . . . but she just felt watched. Cops were crawling all over the school, and students were being called in right and left to confess anything they knew about the party. It was turning into a witch hunt—kids were dropping the names of rivals and enemies to try to get them hauled in for questioning, claiming they'd seen so-and-so talking to Nolan that Friday night.

Ava had called everyone this afternoon to tell them that someone had seen her taking Nolan upstairs. “I denied it,” she'd said flatly. “But we have to be careful. People might have seen more than we think.”

So far, no one had asked Parker any questions—and she could only hope it would stay that way. But what about all the pictures kids had taken that night? What if someone had caught her black-hoodied figure slumping in the background? Someone might whisper to the cops about how sullen and withdrawn she'd become after her attack. The rumors might swirl about how Nolan had drugged her the night she was beaten.
Parker Duvall has a motive
, people might say.

And then there was an even more horrible thought: Although Parker wanted to trust these new friends of hers,
could
she? Who was to say one of them wouldn't crack and give her up? She didn't think Caitlin would be a problem—Caitlin still hated Nolan's guts too much to go out of her way to help the cops. And of course Parker could count on Julie. But Mackenzie? She'd looked ready to spill her guts at the funeral. And Ava . . . well, the cops already
were
onto her—Parker doubted that princess would hold up well in jail. It wasn't as if Parker contributed much to the circle of friends. Maybe they'd see her as expendable. An easy scapegoat. An already damaged girl with nothing left to lose.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a Lexus—five years old, but still way nicer than any of the other cars in this neighborhood—pulled into the driveway. Her mother stepped out, slamming the door behind her, and stared at Parker.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped, hands on her hips.

Parker made a face. “Nice to see you, too.”

Mrs. Duvall opened the back door of her car and started pulling out bags of groceries. Parker watched her mother coolly, not offering to help.

If the house was a step down in the world, her mother's outfit was a total fall from grace. Since the trial, Mrs. Duvall had worn the same long-sleeved shirt and yoga pants almost every day, though they'd gotten baggier and baggier on her bony frame as she wasted away. Her once perfectly colored hair had grown out to a dull, graying mousy brown, and it hung in limp locks around her face. And more than that, she just looked . . .
tired.
Like she'd battled the world and the world had won. She never smiled anymore. Never laughed. Everything was a struggle.

Mrs. Duvall looped the bags over her arm and staggered up the steps with them.

“Are you just going to sit out here on the porch all day?” she snapped.

It was surprising how much this still stung. She shot to her feet. “
You're
the one who messed up, you know,” she sputtered, not sure what had come over her. Maybe it was her talk with Elliot, but she felt bolder than usual. “It's a mother's job to protect her family. But you just
let it happen.
”

The color drained from Mrs. Duvall's cheeks. For a moment, she looked as if Parker had slapped her. Then she pressed her lips together and unlocked the door. “Jesus Christ,” she snarled. “Haven't you done enough already?”

She pushed her way in the door and dragged the grocery bags behind her. Before Parker could follow her, she slammed the door shut. Parker heard the firm
click
of the lock from the other side.

Parker stood there for a moment, staring at the faded welcome mat.
Fine. Whatever.
She turned around and kicked the potted begonia with the tip of her steel-toed boots. It made a satisfying shattering sound against the slate pathway below.

Well then, back to Julie's. She headed up the street toward the bus stop, past the dilapidated houses and the convenience store. But then her hands started to shake. What had she done that had been so bad that she'd deserved such horrible treatment? Why did
both
her parents hate her so badly?

She remembered one night when she'd been sitting at the kitchen table, not long before the night that changed everything. She'd been on the phone with Julie, laughing about something Nolan had done at school that day. Then she'd heard the door slam hard—her father was home. His footsteps were heavy, his breathing hard. Parker knew the signs, but instead of getting up and scurrying to her room like she usually did, she'd stayed at the table, the phone pressed to her ear.
It's my house, too
, she'd thought defiantly.
I shouldn't have to hide.

She didn't even have time to hang up the phone before he hit her. After her father was through with her, her mother had crouched next to her on the floor, placing a bag of frozen peas on her bruised ribs—her dad had learned to hurt her where others couldn't see. “You need to learn to stay out of your father's way,” her mom had admonished. “You're making it worse.”

Snap.

Parker wasn't sure where the sound had come from. She swiveled around and stared down the street, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Was someone following her? Taking pictures?
Watching?
Three teenagers came out of the convenience store holding slushies and talking loudly in Spanish. A block away, an old woman hobbled out to her mailbox. Three birds lifted off the telephone wire all at once.

No one is watching
, she told herself angrily.
Do you really think anyone cares about you?

The bus grumbled from the next block. Parker picked up speed to get to the stop on time. Suddenly, all she wanted was to be on the bus in an anonymous crowd of commuters, hoodie pulled around her face, headphones on her ears with the music turned up loud. The bus whizzed past the stop just as she turned the corner. “Hey!” Parker cried, waving her hands at the driver as she sprinted to catch up. The driver kept going.

“No!” Parker screamed, slapping her arms to her sides. Now she'd have to wait twenty minutes for the next bus.

Snap.

Parker's skin prickled again. She looked around, watching as a Nissan Maxima peeled away from the curb. As it passed, she caught a glimpse of the driver through the tinted windows, but she couldn't make out the face. It looked like a man. Almost like her father.

She could feel that sinking, pounding sensation of another headache coming on, but she tried to fight it. What had Elliot told her to do as a coping mechanism during their session? She couldn't remember a thing. Her vision felt swirled and distorted. Dizzily, she fumbled for her phone, finding herself dialing a number.

“Hello?” came Elliot's voice.

“Uh, Dr. Fielder—Elliot?” Her voice was high and thin, nothing like her own.

“Julie?” Elliot said uncertainly.

“N-no, it's Parker. Parker Duvall.”

“Ah. Parker. Of course.” There was a swishing sound behind him, as though he were in traffic, perhaps, talking on a cell phone. Parker wondered if this was a terrible time to call. He had a healthy life. A
normal
life. He didn't want to be bothered by her.

“You're busy,” she said. “I'll go.”

“Wait, Parker,” Elliot said. “I'll always take a call from you. Are you okay? What's up?”

“It's . . .” Parker swallowed hard. “
Everything.
My mom . . . this neighborhood I'm in . . . I feel like someone's following me. . . . I'm sort of having a hard time coping. I can feel myself slipping away, and you said to call, so . . .”

“And I'm glad you did.” Elliot's voice sounded closer now, not so muffled. “You've got to hold on, Parker. Try to stay in the here and now. Focus on something real—your hand, your foot—and tell yourself that it's going to be fine.”

She was sitting on the bench at the bus stop now, her head between her knees. “But I don't
feel
fine,” she admitted. “I feel like no one sees me.”

“You know that's not true.” His voice was steady and trustworthy. “
I
see you, Parker.”

Parker gazed shakily out at the road, staring at the median divider until she came back into herself. Cars passed steadily now, none of them looking suspicious. Her heart rate began to slow. Her breathing wasn't so shallow anymore, either. It was amazing: Just hearing Elliot's voice had brought her back to earth.

A few moments passed. “How are you feeling now?” Elliot asked.

“Better,” Parker admitted. “Not as . . . tight. I can see everything again. I feel focused.”

“Good,” Elliot said. “Listen, Parker, let's move up your next appointment. Do you think you can make some time?”

Parker's throat felt dry. “I—I think so,” she said.

“Great,” Elliot said. “And listen. If you feel any more attacks coming on, if you need me for
any reason
, I'm always here. Please call. I always want to talk.”

“O-okay,” Parker said. She hung up and hugged her chest tightly. The paranoid feelings had disappeared completely, and in their place were visions of Elliot's therapy room. That comfy couch. That soothing lighting. And Elliot's safe, open face, smiling at her, helping her, saving her.