Free The Good Girls by Sara Shepard Page A

upon it years later when she was cool and successful and Blake really, really didn’t matter.
    She dropped the dress back to the bed, rolling her eyes. It probably didn’t even fit. Maybe she should just stay home—she really wasn’t up for this. But then she remembered the talk she and the other girls had had at Ava’s yesterday. They were off the hook for Granger’s murder. It looked like they weren’t suspects in Nolan’s case anymore,either. It was like she’d been given a whole new life, right? She might as well make the most of it.
    And as for that talk about the list, the idea that someone else had overheard who they’d wanted dead and was acting on it? Well, that was crazy.
    Okay, she decided—she was going. But she definitely wasn’t wearing that peony dress. She walked over to the closet, pushed aside some hangers, and selected a dark teal bouclé-knit shift dress she’d bought in New York when they’d toured Juilliard last year. Her mother had objected—it was kind of short—but maybe that was a good thing. She picked out a pair of boots and a lot of beaded necklaces. Much better.
    A few minutes later, she dabbed her lips with a bit of gloss, popped an orange Tic Tac in her mouth, and headed for the door. “Bye!” she called over her shoulder to her parents, who were sitting in the study, listening to a Wagner opera with their eyes closed.
    Thirty minutes later, Mac handed her keys over to the valet outside a tiny Brazilian restaurant called Michaela in downtown Seattle. She took a deep breath and stepped inside. A bossa nova remix thumped through the speakers, and Edison bulbs in metal cages hung everywhere, shedding a flattering amber light on the scene. Bartenders were mixing up virgin mojitos behind the bar, and platters fullof fried plantains and chicken-cheese coxinha were making the rounds. A long table outside the space held name stickers for all of the attendees. There, folded in half, was Mac’s name. A thrill went through her as she picked it up. She’d done it—she was going to Juilliard. Her skin tingled with excitement and pride.
    â€œWell, well, well. You came after all.”
    Mac blinked in the dim light and saw Claire’s sneering, pixie-like face looming just inches away. She’d already pasted her sticker on her left boob: Hello, My Name Is Claire Coldwell.
    Mac swallowed hard, shoving her glasses up her nose. “Uh, I have to . . .” she fumbled, just wanting to get away.
    Claire stood in the arch, not letting her pass. She was six inches shorter than Mac, her teeny body always something Mac envied, but she suddenly seemed taller. “Blake dumped me, you know,” she hissed. “All because of you.”
    Mac stared at her chunky heels, thinking about what Blake had told her the other day. So it was true. Whatever. Blake breaking up with Claire meant nothing.
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that,” Mac said. And then: “Excuse me.” Because, really, what else did she have to say? They weren’t friends anymore. They weren’t anything.
    She elbowed past her ex-friend and stepped up to a group of kids—any kids—just for something to do. Theywere several nervous, twitchy boys in jackets and ties, and one girl in stiletto ankle booties and a black lace dress that Mac instantly adored.
    â€œHi, I’m Mackenzie.” She held out her hand to a skinny, effeminate boy with delicate-looking hands and long eyelashes.
    The boy gestured to his name badge. “Hello, my name is Lucien,” he said ironically. “I play the flute.”
    â€œGreat to meet you!” Mac smiled.
    The others went around the circle saying their names and instruments. Then they started talking about New York City. “Has anyone ever been there?” a girl named Rhiannon asked with wonder in her voice.
    Lucien nodded. “My parents took me for my birthday last year. It’s