The Dolls(9)

“I call that one Medusa,” Drew adds in a whisper. He nods slightly toward the girl with the cocoa skin and the killer curls, the one who’s still staring at me.

“Because of her hair?” I vaguely remember the story of Medusa from Greek mythology; she was a monster with serpents growing out of her head.

“Well, that’s one reason.”

I’m trying to puzzle out what he means as the minister asks everyone to bow their heads and pray. As he begins to read from the Bible, I sneak a look back at the Dolls and am unsettled to see the Medusa girl still staring at me. She holds my gaze for a moment then reaches into her purse and whispers to it. Something moves inside, and I clap my hand over my mouth when I realize it’s a fat black snake, which is weaving back and forth, its eyes fixed on her face. I take a big step back, nearly tripping over Drew’s foot.

“Drew!” I whisper urgently, pointing shakily in the direction of her purse.

“Like I said,” he replies with a laugh. “Not just her hair.”

I shoot him a look; I don’t see anything funny about this. “Who in their right mind would bring a snake to a funeral?”

“Who says she’s in her right mind?”

My heart is still pounding when I notice something else; although Medusa and her blond friend have finally looked away, and most of her group appears to be paying attention to the ceremony, one of the guys is staring directly at me, an indecipherable expression on his face.

Suddenly, I recognize him: it’s the gorgeous jogger I caught a glimpse of the day we moved to Carrefour, and he’s even hotter than I’d originally thought. He has smooth caramel skin, close-cropped dark hair, and pale blue eyes, and judging from what I saw that day out the car window, he has a hot body hidden under his crisp, charcoal suit. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, but I’m finding it impossible to look away.

The minister puts the Bible down then and begins to speak. “It is with great sadness today that we lay to rest one of this town’s daughters, only seventeen years old. She was a member of our church, and I knew her as a kind, good-hearted young woman. I pray that the Lord is welcoming Glory Anne Jones into his kingdom.”

My heart skips a beat, and I momentarily forget all about the hot jogger. “Wait, it’s Glory Jones who died?”

Drew looks surprised. “You knew her?”

“N-not really,” I stammer. “We just met once. She was picking herbs in my yard on Saturday night and I interrupted her. She seemed . . . nice. Normal. Not like she was planning to kill herself.”

“Wait, you saw her Saturday night?” Drew asks. “What time?”

“Maybe eight, eight thirty.”

“Eveny,” he says, his voice hollow, “that was the night she died. You may have been the last person to see her alive.”





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................





4


The rest of the ceremony goes by in a blur. I’m reeling as the minister drones on about how much Glory will be missed, and leads the group in a closing prayer. All I can think is, The only new person I’ve met so far in Carrefour is dead.

After the funeral, I’m still deep in thought and staring at the tomb where Glory has just been interred when I hear Drew say, “Brace yourself.” I look up to see the group of four stunning girls and three perfect guys approaching. I open my mouth to say hi, but the girl in the middle, the one with the Medusa curls, speaks first.

“You’re new,” she says bluntly. Up close, she’s even more stunning. Her dark skin is flawless, and her eyes are a startling violet. I glance uneasily at her big black bag.

“You have a snake,” I reply and immediately feel like a fool.

After a tense silence, she surprises me by laughing. “You’re very observant, new girl,” she says, her silken voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s your name?”

I take a deep breath. I’m not ready to be marked as the poor little daughter of the suicidal lady just yet, so I shoot back, “What’s yours?”

She looks caught off guard. Behind her, I see the guy with the blue eyes hide a smile. “You must be the only person in a hundred mile radius who doesn’t know,” she says.

“I must be,” I reply, trying to sound a lot more confident than I feel.

When she replies, her words are clipped and cold. “Have it your way. I’m Peregrine Marceau, and this is Chloe St. Pierre.” She jerks a thumb at the Barbie doll girl beside her and adds, “Obviously.”

“Wait, I know you. I mean I knew you,” I clarify.