Page 17 of The Woman I’ve Become

Lips tight, chest full of fury, I stalk over to the girl in question. She’s at the drink machine refilling. She’s every bit as tall as me but thinner. Not as old. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. She turns to look at me, and there is no arguing about how hot she is. Sleek, smooth dark skin. Her complexion is flawless—the kind of perfection we all want. Her eyes are so dark, they appear bottomless. Like you could drown in them. She’s crazy beautiful, and suddenly I’m scared again. My red hair, blue eyes and fair skin abruptly feel utterly basic.

“Hi.” I smile despite the emotions running wild inside me. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I only know that I can never say no to him. “I came over to tell you my boyfriend”—I hitch my head in Casey’s direction—“thinks you’re superhot. Would you like to join us for a little while?”

She stares at Casey a moment, then shrugs. “Why not?”

The idea that she follows me back to our table shocks me. Didn’t anyone ever teach her not to talk to strangers, much less accept any sort of invitation?

Your mother told you, and did you listen?

I shake off the memory of climbing into Casey’s car the first night I laid eyes on him. We didn’t go anywhere, just sat in the parking lot of the theater where I had been watching a play with my former friends. Sneaking out was the best part of the night. Besides meeting Casey. He kissed me that night. Just a soft, undemanding one. But I could think of nothing else after that.

Casey and I sit together for a little while with our new friend opposite us. Her name is Dream, and she’s fifteen. She lives in the neighborhood, has two brothers, and she hates school. Her plan is to run away to Los Angeles and become an actress.

We only stay a few minutes more. Just long enough for Casey to assure the girl that he has contacts in Los Angeles. He gives her his number and says she should call him.

As we leave I wonder what else I don’t know about him. He puts his arm around me as we fly down the road in that convertible, and then I don’t care what I don’t know about him. I just want him.

Now

10

Westport, Connecticut

I’m shaking as I tear through every drawer, the closet, every shelf in search of anything that shouldn’t be here. Relentless, overwhelming fear pounds inside me. I can’t seem to pull myself together. It’s as if my emotions have taken over and I am no longer in control of anything.

The necklace. Touching it. Remembering the words.

Friends forever.

I have thought of that moment a million times. The images . . . the words . . . they fire in my brain, flash in my eyes. I cannot make them stop.

When I have gone through every possible nook and cranny, I stand in the middle of my room and turn around slowly, my heart thudding against my ribs. I close my eyes and tell myself over and over that I am okay. That I shouldn’t be surprised.

I have always known how this could go, when and if it happened.

It’s happening.

Anxiety twists like a knife in my chest. Pull it together. There are things that need to be done. I have to be ready, prepared . . . able.

However many times I tell myself this, I cannot make the fear and dread stop rising inside me like a swollen river with no place to go except over its banks. It’s like the worst panic attack imaginable, and I cannot regain control of my feelings. I cannot pull myself together.

Breathe slowly. Deep. Hold it. Release. Over and over I do this to no avail.

Finally, I gather my wits well enough to separate the facts from the rampage of fear funneling through me. There are only two potential ways the necklace ended up in my bedside table. Either an intruder brought it into the house, which is highly unlikely, or . . .

I steady myself a little more. Or Acacia did. She was in my room. She unpacked my things.

A new stream of uncertainty trickles through me. I lower onto the end of the bed and review the possibilities. First, I have no actual proof that Acacia is working against me. She came into our lives at a time when I was in no position to make decisions or even aware of those being made, for that matter.

But there are little things that nudge at me. Like the way I sometimes catch her watching me. The comments she has made from time to time that reveal things she shouldn’t know. Things we have never discussed. Or the idea that her emotions never seem to show other than in practiced smiles and fake surprise. Not to mention the glaring fact that she has no past that the PI can find—never a good sign. Still, I have told myself on occasion that I’m imagining things. That I’m overly suspect of her simply because I don’t know her. And that she was with Eleanor when she died.

Whatever it is, I need that damned private investigator to get the job done and find out her deal. How hard could it be? If I hadn’t been battered like a broken Barbie doll in the hands of a hyper toddler, I would have done it myself.

Under the circumstances, I can either wake her up and demand an answer about the necklace—no doubt she will lie—or I can search the entire house. Ensure there is nothing else here that shouldn’t be and then have a chat with her in the morning.

Wait . . . wait. Rick helped her bring the luggage upstairs. What if he put the necklace there?

A new wave of adrenaline floods me, and I turn all the way around again, making my head spin even worse. I’ve made a total mess of the room. I stand as still as possible and close my eyes. More deep breathing.