The Good Girls

Chapter two

"EVIE?" A HOARSE CRY SOUNDED through Evie Grimhilde's bedroom door on Monday.

Evie rolled over, pulled the covers all the way over her head, and willed herself back to sleep. It was quiet for a moment, but then, "Evie? Evie!" This call was more urgent.

With a grunt of frustration, Evie kicked off her crisp white duvet and sat up in her hospital-cornered bed. Her silk camisole felt smooth against her skin. Soft morning sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains. Lilting birds welcomed the day outside, and a gentle breeze washed over her face through the open window. Her room was in perfect order, just as she had left it the night before. Except for her crumpled James jeans and gray cashmere cardi—both from last season, bought secondhand—which she'd peeled off and let fall to the floor before collapsing into bed.

All around her, the day was dawning beautifully, perfectly . . . but Evie felt only darkness and grief. She heard the mewling and scratching of cats—hordes and hordes of cats—outside her bedroom door. And her mother's desperate voice.

"EVIE!"

Evie bolted from the bed and stomped across her room, past the extra twin bed where her best friend, Mal, usually slept. Mal hadn't come here last night—again.

She flung open the door. The precious, invaluable, beloved door, the only thing that separated her world from her mother's. The only thing that kept the moldering mess at bay, protecting Evie's domain from the contamination on the other side. As the door opened, the pungent stew of mildewed newspapers, food-caked dishes, crusted tins of cat food, and wet fabric wafted over her. She swallowed hard to suppress her gag reflex.

"What?" she growled at her mother, who stood in the crowded hallway. Guilt spiked through Julie when Mrs. Grimhilde's fleshy face crumpled, but she pushed it away. The last thing she could handle on top of everything else was her mother. Evie rubbed both hands over her face, trying to will her brain into some form of Zen state. No luck. The best she could muster was a calm exterior. She took a couple of deep breaths. "I mean, yes, Mom?" she said, her voice now neutral and controlled.

Mrs. Grimhilde pushed a strand of greasy hair out of her eyes. "School's already started, you know," she barked. "But since you're already late, you might as well pick me up some Diet Sprite and cat litter for later."

Evie set her jaw. "I can't. I'm never going out again."

"Why not?"

Evie looked away. Because of you, actually. Because of a horrible email that someone sent around to the whole student body about you.

She could practically see the taunting looks on her classmates' faces; they'd surely read Crytal White's email by now. She already knew the catchy nicknames they'd scrawl on her locker: EVIE ROTTING, DROOLY EVIE, and the one she dreaded most, PUSSY GALORE. It was what the kids at her old school had called her, after all.

So there was no way she was going back, ever. Evie hated to admit it, but Crystal had even outdone Ben Florian in the I'm-going-to-make-your-life-hell department. And, oh yeah, there was also all that bullshit about Jay's murder. The story had broken on the news yesterday afternoon; no doubt Auradon would be buzzing with it. What if kids also knew that Evie and the others were suspects? In Auradon, things had a way of getting around even when they were supposed to be private. She could just hear the whispers. Not only does Evie Grimhilde live in a trash pit, she also killed Ben Florian and her teacher! Didn't you hear she was arrested?

The Jay thing was really messing with her mind.

Just when she and the others thought they'd found Ben's killer, he turned up dead. Did the same person who killed Ben—the same person, in other words, who set them up the first time—kill Jay, too? But who could that be? Individually, Evie and the other film studies girls had made a few enemies—like Crystal White. But who hated them collectively?