The Perfectionists

Chapter 15

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, MAL SAT ON her front porch in Dragon Hall, a town just outside the Auradon 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 Auradon. 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.

Audrey had called everyone this afternoon to tell them that someone had seen her taking Ben 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 Mal 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 Someone might whisper to the cops about how sullen and withdrawn she'd become after her attack.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 Ben had drugged her the night she was beaten. Mal Moors has a motive, people might say.

And then there was an even more horrible thought: Although Mal 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 Uma would be a problem—Uma still hated Ben's guts too much to go out of her way to help the cops. And of course Mal could count on Evie. But Jane? She'd looked ready to spill her guts at the funeral. And Audrey. . . well, the cops already were onto her—Mal doubted that princess would hold up well in jail. It wasn't as if Mal 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 Mal.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped, hands on her hips. Mal made a face. "Nice to see you, too." Maleficent opened the back door of her car and started pulling out bags of groceries. Mal 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, Maleficent 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 colored hair had grown out to a dull, graying mousy purple, 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.

Maleficent 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.