Page 79 of Bad Intentions

The first thought in my head is, It can’t be.

She smiles, her teeth gleaming in the dim light. Then her smile vanishes abruptly. “What did you do with Derek’s body?”

I recognize her, but it doesn’t make sense, because she’s the woman from Derek’s basement, Mallory Blain.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, confused.

There’s nothing shy or timid about her, nothing of the scared victim I saw at the precinct. She sniffles, then scratches the side of her head with the barrel of her gun and rests it on her lap. The way she looks at me is almost in disgust.

“I’ve dealt with Karen before,” she says. “The old woman should’ve been nicer to me. Then I hung out with your bitch of a mother, Alysha. Bootsie two-point-oh.” She snorts with laughter. “Let’s hope you are easier to deal with. Or you’ll end up like them.”

She chuckles. It is guttural, nasty, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Right away, her lips curl in a nasty smirk, her cheerfulness gone.

“Let’s have a little chat, Bootsie three-point-oh. You see, Derek Sickler was the love of my life.”

42

MALLORY BLAIN

God, I hate this small hillbilly town. Growing up here ruined my life. I’ve hated my life since the day I was born.

First, schools. There's always competition. In big cities, if you don’t make the cut, you can find a different clique, a new gang, and get away from all the idiots trying to harass you.

Not Burnville.

Alysha was always the bossy one. Victoria the pretty one. Both popular girls, raised by single mothers who spoiled them rotten.

Me, I was always, “Do that, Birdie.” “Don't be a wuss, Birdie.” “Just follow my lead, Birdie, and maybe one day, you’ll get to shine.”

They both hated it when I shined.

My folks were the drinking kind, from a farm property outside town, with a dilapidated barn and a junkyard that code enforcement got tired of fining. My brother was an idiot. My father an abusive asshole. My parents stayed away from the police, unlike Al’s and Vic’s moms, who had connections with the chief of police and basically ran the town. I couldn't get away with half of what my friends did.

But I was proud to be friends with the two popular girls. Admittedly, I was willing to do almost anything for them. Beggars can’t be choosers, but I hated every one of them.

I was used to being invisible. A sidekick. White trash, they used to call my folks. I didn’t even know why those two ever took me under their wing. That’s what they called it. “Stick with us, Birdie.”

Much later, after what happened, I understood that mean girls always need someone to watch their backs and clean up their messes. Or in case of a "breakup.” And those two fought like cats. Mostly over boys, though the dating pool in Burnville wasn’t impressive. For them, I was always the Just-in-Case-Birdie, and they made sure to remind me.

“Know your place”—Al’s exact words when, at a tailgate party before the Super Bowl in high school, she saw Dougie sling his arm over my shoulder and whisper, “How about we go back to my truck, blow off some steam?”

Al didn’t hear what he said and wasn’t even dating him at that time. They’d broken up. For the dozenth time. But she took me aside and hissed a reminder that her leftovers were off-limits.

Dougie was just that, leftovers.

We were drunk one night, after a house party, when Al and Vic snuck out to the nearby town.

That was another thing about Al and Vic. They’d do anything to kill time, and growing up in Burnville, there was a lot of time to kill. Their moms worked the bars and didn’t want their daughters to be “in that business.” Like they were raising them for something better. But I was fine. I worked as many shifts as I could at Ma Shirley’s. As a minor, I couldn’t serve, except behind Karen’s back. So I scrubbed the floors, the bathroom, the dishes. All while Al and Vic were living it up. Get that—Al forbade me to tell Karen, her mom, that we were hanging out together. She called it a “conflict of interest.” I called it what it was—Al was ashamed of me, even in front of her mother.

Only their mamas didn’t know what their precious girls did, where they went when they drove out of town. That they drove to other places. Hooked up with boys. Partied where no one knew them, then came back before midnight so they didn’t get caught.

The moral of their little inglorious adventures? Don’t tell your secrets to your sidekick and treat her like shit. I knew that one day, those secrets would come in handy.

Then one night, at a party, those two were ready to leave. Al swung her blond hair over her shoulder. Vic puffed up her brunette mane and adjusted her lipstick.

“We have better things to do,” they announced and left. Without me.