Sick Girl (A Psychological Thriller)
Table of Contents
Aubrey
Melissa
i
ii
iii
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Sick Girl
A Psychological Thriller
Rachel Hargrove
Copyright © 2018 by Rachel Hargrove
Cover Design by Kevin McGrath
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedication
For the doctors who saved me.
Contents
1. Aubrey
2. Melissa
3. Aubrey
4. Melissa
5. Aubrey
6. Melissa
7. Aubrey
8. Melissa
i
9. Aubrey
10. Melissa
11. Aubrey
12. Melissa
13. Aubrey
14. Aubrey
15. Melissa
16. Aubrey
17. Melissa
18. Aubrey
19. Melissa
20. Aubrey
21. Melissa
22. Aubrey
23. Melissa
ii
24. Aubrey
25. Melissa
26. Aubrey
27. Melissa
28. Aubrey
29. Melissa
30. Aubrey
31. Melissa
32. Aubrey
33. Melissa
iii
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Aubrey
I’ll kill her after yoga class.
Everything I need to end Melissa’s life is tucked in my gym bag, next to the damp towel I forgot to dry and a leaking bottle of Vitamin Water.
I’ve got it all figured out. The only thing Melissa loves more than her yuppie hobbies is her tall non-fat lattes at Starbucks, which she always buys after an hour of Cow Pose and Proud Warrior II. The last image she’ll see is the bottom of a mediocre cup of coffee. Her heart will gallop, her body will seize, and she’ll be gone.
And I’ll be a murderer.
Guilt clenches my stomach as I smooth the yoga mat pockmarked with holes on the polished, cream floor. Several feet away, a bright pink blur slaps the ground. A woman in galaxy leggings and a white T-shirt crouches beside me, a ringed red planet stretched across her thighs. “Hey,” she grunts. “You ready for this?”
“Not really.”
“Thank Jesus. Someone in here is sane. I have to remind myself how good yoga is for my health.”
God bless Emma. She’s fat and doesn’t give a fuck. She joined a month after I did and comes to class wearing spandex and semi-sheer T-shirts emblazoned with phrases such as THICK CHICK in gaudy lettering. The only reason she’s here is to exercise. Weight loss is a bonus for Emma, and that’s why I like her. She’s in no hurry to change herself.
Emma glowers at the doors leading outside. “The weather’s crazy.”
A cool mist had dusted my cheeks while I walked to the studio, but the fog burned away. A bright strip of sunlight sears the asphalt beyond the doors. “The forecast said eighties.”
“Which is way too hot for SF.”
“I guess, yeah.”
Emma lies on the mat, stretching her hamstrings. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” She chews her lip. “What’s your secret?”
The hell is she talking about?
Emma’s gaze runs up and down my body. “You know what I mean. How do you stay so thin? Nothing in the world will stop my weekly Dynamo donuts fix, but my doctor says I need to make healthier choices.” She rolls her eyes at the very suggestion.
Perhaps I should tell her I survive on apple slices and lemon juice. That kombucha changed my life. I intentionally contracted a parasite. My organic vegan, gluten-free, certified humane lifestyle makes food options sparse.
The truth is too depressing.
Growing impatient, she nudges me with her elbow. “Swear to God I won’t judge. How do you do it?”
I meet her gaze. “Cancer.”
Emma stares at me until a sound wheezes from her closed lips. It takes me a moment to realize she’s laughing. At me.
She playfully hits my shoulder. “You’re too funny.”
Screw it. I won’t set her straight. At least someone here has a sense of humor, unlike the dozen women flittering into the studio. They talk in hushed tones as they unwrap their yoga mats and kneel as though the mirrors are an altar. New Age music tinkles through a built-in stereo, which is surrounded by glowing candles and questionable Buddha statues. Getting a membership cost me a fortune, but it was worth it because she’s here.
A straight-backed woman in Lululemon yoga pants sits in front of a wall-to-wall mirror, the logo on her thigh a dead giveaway for wealth. Her white-blonde mane is tied into a dense ponytail. The pink band pulls her hair so tight her eyebrows rise in a permanently shocked expression. All I see is the back of her head, but I know it’s her. No one carries themselves like Melissa. She never hunches, even when she thinks she’s alone. Every morning, she applies a thick coat of makeup on her golden skin, which she maintains with a weekly airbrush spray tan. When she’s in a hurry, she doesn’t run. It wouldn’t be dignified, and Melissa Daughtry is the picture of class. Her name sounds like money.
Melissa takes her sweater off, the light dancing on her back muscles as she pulls it over her head. She’s in that good phase of cancer. Still attractive. Not too thin. She has a dancer’s body. It’s as though she went on a sixty-day kale juice cleanse.
I’m in the wasting away stage. If this were the nineties, I’d be the poster girl for heroin chic. Ribs push against my skin in ghastly white lumps. Hollowed cheeks replace the chubby baby fat I used to hate. My hair hangs limp at my shoulders, but I refuse to wince at my reflection. After a while, you deal with it. People walking the street don’t. They stop and gape at me.
“Okay, ladies! Five-minute warning!” an overly chipper voice chimes. “We’re doing the Sun Salutation today!”
A murmur of excitement rolls through the yoga class, and I spot my hopeful face in the mirrors.
Beside me, Emma frowns. “Damn.”
Judging from the smiles in the mirror, Emma’s the only one who’d rather be somewhere else. I don’t hate yoga. It can be meditative. Once in a while, I’ll close my eyes and allow the mystical music to pull me into a trance, and it feels good. But I can count the number of times exercise wasn’t painful on my hand. Standing is a struggle, and Sun Salutation always starts with a twenty-second hold of the tree pose.
Ignoring Emma’s jealous stare, I yank the hoodie from my head.
“Whoa, you’ve lost weight.” Her smile twitches. “You’re not really sick, are you?”
“Sort of. I swam in a lake and contracted a parasite.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Ew.”
“Yeah. I spent six weeks wasting away before I went to a doctor, who told me I had giardiasis. It turns out if parasites live in your gut long enough, they can destroy the surface of your intestines and make it impossible to absorb food.”
“Well,” she says, apparently at a loss for words. “You look good.”
Not according to the instructor. A few weeks ago she recommended I increase my core strength and suggested that perhaps this wasn’t the right class for me.
No kidding.
I wouldn’t be at this overpriced yoga studio if M
elissa didn’t spend every Monday and Wednesday here. I need exercise like I need more masses in my colon. My doctor’s orders were simple. Bed rest. Lots of calories. I’m sure they were the same for Melissa, but damn it if she takes one day off exercise. Does she think she’ll beat cancer with barre? I watch her through the windows in her house. She spends hours on that goddamn bike, cycling away. Sometimes after her doctor appointments.
How does she do it?
Would it kill her before I got the chance?
“You know, you could just talk to her.”
Emma’s sly voice yanks me from my thoughts. Her smirk carves deep dimples into her cheeks.
My spine zips straight. “What do you mean?”
Her grin widens. “Aubrey, you’re always watching her.”
Heat rises to my face. Am I that transparent?
“It’s fine. You don’t have to be embarrassed.” She glances at Melissa, shrugging. “If I were gay, I’d probably find her hot, too.”
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, okay.”
I open my mouth and close it. Why tell her the truth? It’s better if she thinks I’m harmless.
Growing impatient at my silence, she sighs. “Aubrey, come on. This is San Francisco. Do you think I care who you date?” Emma snorts with laughter, turning her attention to the front of the class.
I swing my gaze to Melissa, who stretches her quads and hops on one foot. It’s hard to imagine her body lying lifeless on the ground. There’s so much resilience in her. The girl never stops.
I’ve got the method and delivery all figured out. After yoga, she goes to the café and drinks a latte—I fished her cup from the trash a few weeks ago. I’ll spike her drink with nitroglycerin, which won’t show in tox screens, at which point everyone will blame Starbucks. Or cancer. And I’ll—we’ll be free. Once she’s gone, I won’t have to come to class anymore, but I think I’ll continue. I like what it’s done to my legs.
A crack splits the air as the instructor for the class, Lucy, claps her hands. Lucy shines like a topaz gem with a thousand lights pointed at it. Her round face beams with positivity. It wouldn’t bother me if it weren’t for her constant, not-so-subtle suggestions that I load up on more fat and protein before coming to yoga. Everybody thinks they’re an expert these days.
Lucy walks across the mirrors in fuchsia leggings and a green tank top, bending to push a button on the stereo. “All right, ladies. It’s time to start!”
Suppressing a groan, I stand and assume Tree pose as hippie music washes over the studio. My foot slips down my left leg, and I stumble. I’m the only person in the class who still can’t master this, and, for some stupid reason, it grates at me. I try again. Holding Tree for more than ten seconds saps what little energy I have. After three aborted attempts, I give up.
Lucy’s stare finds me across the room. Her lips purse into a small show of disapproval.
My hands and knees slap the floor as everyone switches from Cat to Cow.
Lucy focuses her smoky eyes on me. “The next position will be hard, but I know you can do it!” Both palms planted down, she flips herself and rests her legs on her elbows.
There’s no way my sticks for arms will hold my body like that. Lucy’s ombré hair falls in a curtain behind her head as she glares at me between her thighs. Bent over, she waddles forward, her upside-down frown a grotesque smirk. I find Melissa, whose biceps tremble as she attempts the pose. She takes a few tries but manages it, her face frozen in stoic concentration.
For the rest of the class I make sure to half-ass the poses whenever Lucy glances in my direction, and when she shuts off that god-awful music, I take my time rolling my mat.
Breathless, Emma gets up on a shuddering knee and waves a wordless goodbye as she heads for the showers. The studio gradually empties as I pretend to tie my shoelaces. Lucy chats with stragglers as Melissa pulls a silver cashmere sweater over her damp body.
What’s it like to be rich enough to use expensive wool as an after-workout sweat absorbent?
A throb of envy pulses in my hollowed stomach as she grabs her mat and stands. She’s on her way to the locker room, and then to Starbucks.
This is my chance.
2
Melissa
I’m dying for Starbucks. Twelve ounces of cheap, fast, good stamped on cardboard with a green-and-white logo. When I was working, that coffee chain was my sanctuary. Now it’s the only thing getting me through my twice-weekly yoga classes. In an hour, I’ll have my cup in hand.
The domed space of the Tesla echoes with my sigh. A cool breeze blows through the ventilation as soft indie rock warps the air. I peer out the windshield at the sidewalk blanketed with sunlight and try not to burn with envy.
I wanted to be just like them. The women with perfect smiles who use filters on Instagram photos. Bloggers who take selfies in overcrowded cafés, their posts filled with enough keywords in their hashtags to be the first Google search result. The ones who belong in this coveted zip code. They line outside the studio, wearing designer yoga pants and shirts in varying shades of pastels. Whole Foods is where they shop, and Starbucks is what they drink. Cold-pressed juice stocks their refrigerators and every few months, they go on a lemon water cleanse to clear the toxins from their bodies. Weekdays are a rolling schedule of maids, cooks, and gardeners tending to their various needs. Summers are all-inclusive resorts in Cabo. Winters are weekends in Tahoe.
Dyeing my hair blonde wasn’t a conscious decision to imitate them, but the matcha green tea enema was. Only tried it once.
A broad hand grasps mine. Squeezes. I tear my gaze from the women, meeting my husband’s quiet stare. God, I forgot he was here.
“You don’t have to wait with me,” I say.
The leather squeaks as he leans closer. “I want to.”
All my hairs stand on end as Tom kisses the shell of my ear, his unshaven cheek stinging my skin. He pulls back with a glowing look I do not deserve, the one that says I’m everything he could ever hope for. That I’m perfect.
He’s the one who should be standing on a pedestal. I bought this overpriced car because Tom wanted it, and I can’t say no to him. Distant Swedish ancestry gave him a tall, broad-shouldered figure and blond hair with natural highlights that most women would kill for. Striking would be a good word to describe him.
Through the windshield, a woman in the line steals glances at my husband when she thinks I’m not looking.
Tom doesn’t notice—he’s never realized how attractive he is. “You should mingle with them.”
“What for?” I spent months trying to make friends in this neighborhood. No dice. “All they want to talk about is the importance of co-sleeping and the next diet fad.”
He grimaces. “You need friends other than cancer survivors.”
“I have nothing in common with these people. Just look at them.”
He does. “And?”
“The biggest decision they have to make tonight is pot roast or baked salmon.”
Laughing, he turns toward me. “Oh, come on.”
“It’s true!”
“Don’t be so judgy.” He gestures at a stocky brunette at the end of the line. “What about her? She seems nice.”
That’s my Tom. He always sees the best in people, unlike most tech bros glutting this city.
“Sure,” I say. “I’m just not big on conversation unless it’s about software.”
“One of these days you’ll have to learn how to socialize. That skill can come in handy quite often when dealing with humans.”
“I managed to get you without it.”
“That’s because I did all the talking.” Tom gives me a shadow of a wink and smile.
We met in a dive of all places. He stood head and shoulders above the crowded bar. I saw him before he noticed me, but when he did, he excused himself from the redhead at the counter and made a beeline for me. From the moment we met, I was hooked. There was no resistance, nothing but the soft wing beats of
butterflies when our lips touched. Something about him held my attention and simmered my blood like nobody else. It was a fairytale romance from the beginning; a rare, instantaneous connection you feel humming in your body.
A flurry of warmth replaces the dread in my stomach. It’s moments like this I can almost forget the hell raging inside me. Six months ago our picture-perfect marriage was turned on its head by an unwelcome visitor.
Pancreatic cancer.
Tom drums the steering wheel. “Can I get you anything special for supper?”
Fat and salt. “Barbecue pork sandwiches from 4505? The kids would love that.”
“I’m sure they would, but is that a good idea? The diet plan says to avoid trans fats.”
“Well, get whatever you want. I’ll make myself a salad.”
He blows a frustrated sigh. “You need to keep up your strength.”
I wave at the line of women outside. “What do you think this is?”
“Meditation?”
Leave it to a former college football player to dismiss yoga as physical activity. “Exercise. I’m not sitting on my ass while this disease takes over my body.”
“Okay, but you should put more thought into what you have every day. Eating healthy is the most important thing you can do right now.”
This is what our conversations have become. Debates about my stupid diet. I drag my nails across my legs. “Did you have anything?”