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  Copyright © 2017 by Haley Harrigan

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Elsie Lyons

  Cover image © Elisabeth Ansley/Arcangel Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  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—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Harrigan, Haley, 1983- author.

  Title: Secrets of southern girls / Haley Harrigan.

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016053905 | (pbk. : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder--Investigation--Fiction. | Friends--Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.A78145 S43 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016053905

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

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  11

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  Reading Group Guide

  A Conversation with the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my mother, Renee Sterling: best friend, gossip queen, and wine buddy. You are my favorite Southern girl.

  Prologue

  She only has lovers in wintertime.

  In summer, the days stretch long like lazy animals, and the sun’s rays reach like warm fingers down between buildings and slide across her face and arms. It’s harder, then, to think of dark things. But winter in New York is suffocating, and it is all she can do to breathe, to take in the icy air through her nose and mouth, to taste the cold on her tongue as it slips in and leaves her insides frostbitten and numb. It is all she can do to survive. Even Beck must feel it, or something similar, because those little smiles stretch smaller and fade faster.

  Maybe it is the skin in summertime. She can see it, everywhere, when warm weather finally, mercifully, arrives. The skirts swishing and swaying around bare legs like a tribe of dancers, the bright exposed toes peeking jubilant from stylish sandals. Walking to the subway, how easy it might be to brush a hand, light as a kiss, against the arm of another. A common electric accident when so much skin is on parade.

  That can’t happen in the cold. Bundled tightly in her scarf and parka, she is alone, insulated. In wintertime, she doesn’t linger in the streets, doesn’t stop to look in windows, rarely tastes the lacy snowflakes that fall feathery against her dry lips. She scurries along to her destination, a sheet of loose-leaf paper propelled forward by the wind.

  Or maybe it’s the city itself in winter, the way the buildings take on new shapes, imposing and dangerous as dark strangers, the structures climbing upward and leaning down at the same time, peering at her through glass windows like a thousand scrutinizing eyes.

  When cold weather ends, she pretends those nights never happened. Those lovers and their bodies and the touch of their hands and the time she spent with them all fade away like bad dreams. The sharp edges blur in her mind as last night becomes last week and last month. When she sees those men afterward, her cheeks tingle with embarrassment, and she makes up excuses when they try to see her again. She knows Brighton sometimes sees the early flirtation, the exchanging of names and numbers; still, she doesn’t talk about it with anyone. It’s her own secret need, her own secret weakness.

  She is careful in the ways that count. It isn’t a game, although she has been with men who believe otherwise, men who think she’s playing hard to get. Some send flowers; some call the next day just to say hello, as though a simple word can bridge the distance between them. One man spent every night for a month in her bed (January, or she wouldn’t have allowed it), until she finally stopped returning his calls, stopped letting him in. He’d thought she was simply a challenge. Conquerable.

  The men aren’t strangers. She meets them in acting classes, at the yoga studio, through friends of friends. Most of the time, they come to her home, the tiny Grove Street apartment that she and Beck share. She lets them in late, long after she has tucked her daughter into the cushiony pink softness of her comforter, although some nights Beck is with her fathe
r and the room sits empty. She makes the men tiptoe past the closed door of Beck’s bedroom and leave before sunrise. But Beck has never been the kind of child to come searching for her in the night.

  She pours wine. She lights candles in her dark room. Sometimes, she and her guest talk quietly for hours. On those nights, she fills and refills her wineglass until she can talk freely but remember little. She tells lie after lie when he asks her questions. Better, so much better, when things don’t get too personal.

  Sometimes, there is no talking at all. Those nights are easier. On those nights, she drinks very little. She doesn’t need any help taking the comfort her body craves.

  The men aren’t all the same, but they might as well be. When the season has passed, she can hardly distinguish one experience from another. She makes it a point not to. Certain things she shouldn’t have: the soft pleasure of a dinner by candlelight, long phone conversations, fingers intertwined with her own. If there was music, she can’t recall the songs.

  But while it’s happening, he—whomever he happens to be—puts his hands on her and becomes more than just a man she’s brought home. He becomes a part of her, and for those moments, she loves him. For those moments, she can pretend that she isn’t alone in that way.

  On those nights, she falls asleep with arms wrapped tightly around her, skin pressed against naked skin, the tiniest beads of sweat on her inner thighs. She doesn’t dream about a field or a bridge or a dead girl. She doesn’t dream at all. She always moves away from him in her sleep, before the sun comes up. And then he is gone and candle wax has formed hard, dark rivers on her nightstand.

  It’s her own twisted survival tactic, and it is enough.

  1

  NEW YORK CITY, 2008

  “But…I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill her,” Julie whispers. “She was my friend. I loved her. Please…please believe me.”

  Usually, she wants to be pulled into the charade, the dazzling drama of the stage. She was born for it, made to tell stories that aren’t her own. It’s all she’s ever needed, isn’t it—this spotlight, a bit of recognition? But this ridiculous scene about friendship and betrayal… She wants no part of this. It’s almost over, though, and there is no way out of it anyway, short of admitting in front of the entire class that this silly soap-opera-style plot (written by the youngest person in the group) has affected her in such a visceral way.

  So, she plasters an expression of false innocence on her face and tries to focus on the man in front of her. She doesn’t know him, can’t even think of his first name. In the scene, he is her lover, but in reality, he can’t hold her attention. He is taller than she is and she has to look up to see his face, but she keeps looking over his shoulder instead, her eyes shifting up to the ceiling, where exposed pipes slither, snakelike, across the metal ceiling of the converted warehouse. It’s always so cold in here, while those pipes hang idle, strange adornments.

  Classical music plays softly in the background, but it seems very far away. Julie’s body resists everything about playing this role, so she has to force her behavior: the fast, frantic rhythm of her breathing, hands wringing together in a nervous dance. She is supposed to be nervous, because her character is, after all, guilty.

  She tries, fails, to keep the images from springing to her mind: a forest at night, fireflies blinking in the dark, a young girl with golden hair and a big secret. And then it isn’t so difficult to connect with the role. She looks at the man in front of her with what she knows are pleading eyes. He isn’t as good an actor as she is, but the disdain in his expression feels real enough.

  “Love?” he says softly. “Your love is like poison. Your love is death.” She gasps, and he turns away from her and stalks off the stage while she sinks to the floor in pretend sorrow.

  “And…that’s our scene.”

  Julie rises to her feet and faces the small crowd with a tight smile, a mock curtsy. She sits down and tries to shake off this ominous feeling. It should be over now, but she has let herself fall too far into character, and all she can think about is Reba, her soft laugh, her thoughtful eyes. Julie has always believed what her drama teachers told her, that the best acting comes from forging a connection between her own memories and the role she plays. But sometimes the memories are too vivid—like photographs flashing through her mind—and in the end it isn’t worth it, not even for authenticity. She wipes the heel of her palm across one eye and then the other, trying not to smear mascara. She isn’t fragile this way.

  “Nice job, Julie,” says Lila, the instructor. “You too, Jonathan.”

  “Thank you,” Julie murmurs.

  Jonathan—that’s his name—nods and takes his seat near the back of the room.

  “Now, who wrote this scene?” Lila asks as if it isn’t obvious, as if everyone doesn’t know it was the kid. The overly dramatic tone of the scene and the clichéd dialogue mark it as his as surely as if he’d spilled his own blood onto the pages they all hold in their hands. Still, Lila looks around the room with interest (real, or maybe pretend; she is an actress, after all) as she leans against the stage.

  The boy, all of eighteen years old, raises his hand tentatively. He is perched on the edge of his folding chair and looks as though he might topple out of it and onto the concrete floor. His hands clench his knees, and his slender face, pockmarked with acne, is flushed with excitement. Or nerves. He rights himself in the seat just in time and settles into an uneasy position.

  Julie crosses her arms to warm herself. She’s shivering now, and she doesn’t know if it’s the chill in the room or something else entirely.

  “Okay, Robert,” Lila says, waving her hand toward the kid. “Tell me what your scene was about.”

  As he stammers on about the meaning of his scene, Lila reaches into the purse she’d tossed on the edge of the stage at the start of class and pulls out a silvery metal lighter and a pack of cigarettes. She produces one powder-white stick, presses it to her lips, and lights the end, a hot little fire in the chilly room.

  Smoking is all but outlawed in New York City, but here she is, lighting up inside the warehouse. Julie leans forward, as though the tiny flame might warm her, might help her to forget. Lila sips from the cigarette, an elegant movement that makes Julie wish for an instant that she were a smoker. She thinks of her cousin, Toby, of the crude way he would suck on the ends of his Camels, cheeks sinking in and puffing out like a fish. Revolting.

  Julie wants to listen but can’t concentrate. The writing doesn’t matter to her anyway. Her job, the only thing she’s interested in, is becoming someone else, whatever character is provided for her.

  Screenwriters and performers alike attend this workshop. The writers create the scenes, and the actors take them, learn them, and perform them in front of the class for critique and discussion of the scenes themselves and the actors who bring them to life. The mixing together of it all creates near-constant chaos. But from that frenetic energy (according to Lila, at least) comes great inspiration. Everything is connected, Lila told them on the first day of the workshop. You’ll see what I mean.

  “Ultimately,” a man says from the back, “I think the writing was lackluster. Sorry, dude. But the acting… Julie, is it?”

  She sits up taller and looks behind her to where the man is sitting.

  He speaks to Lila and then Julie, looking back and forth between them. “The acting was so good that it almost made the whole thing believable. Julie, your guilt was so real. You really looked as though you had killed your best friend. I mean, were those tears in your eyes? It was good, really good.”

  Julie smiles a weak thank-you, nods, and turns back to the front as though his words only affect her in a professional sense.

  Lila pulls her iPod from its dock and the classical music stops, the signal that class has reached its end. Julie grabs her bulky tote bag and rushes to the restroom, shutting the door and locking it before she lets h
er head sink into her hands, breathing in and out deeply and evenly, the way she tells her yoga students to do. She dabs at her eyes with toilet paper and checks her face. She looks calmer, at least. She rinses her hands with ice-cold water and faces herself in the mirror.

  It’s not your fault she’s dead. It’s the same thing Julie has told herself, over and over, for ten years.

  But it’s a lie, and she knows it.

  2

  Julie is running late, again, and her tour guide uniform is a wrinkled mess. The so-tacky-it’s-almost-cool-again I Heart NY tee (for sale at every street stall in the city), the red thermal she wears underneath, and her dark skinny jeans are in a tangled pile on the floor from the last time she wore them. Julie shakes each garment out and pulls it on anyway. She looks in the mirror and ruffles her hands through her hair to make the shortish strands stick out at odd angles. Cheesy chic, she thinks, frowning at her reflection. Her tour groups like her style, at least. They find her believable, authentic, a native New Yorker. No one would believe she’s a country girl from backwoods Lawrence Mill, Mississippi. Most of the time, she doesn’t believe it herself.

  She’s run out of deodorant without realizing it, and the oval-shaped plastic tray scrapes against her underarm. Click, click, useless. Why didn’t she stop at the market on her way home last night? She bends down, rocking on her heels as she rummages through the cramped cabinet beneath the sink in the bathroom that she shares with Beck. Finally, she finds an acceptable substitute and reaches past the towels to the white container in the back. She squeezes the baby powder into her hands with a cloudy, white poof! before patting it gingerly under her arms, trying her best to keep the powder from making snowy prints on her jeans. The scent of baby powder always makes her think of Beck as a baby, evoking the familiar, frightening newborn smell of her daughter at her youngest.

  Beck is awake already, of course, and Julie finds her in the closet, pulling out her school uniform. Beck is better at mornings than Julie. At five years old, Beck is already better at most things. Her skirt is green and black, with a white button-down shirt and a winter jacket, a deep-green fleecy thing with her school’s golden crest on the right pocket. It reminds Julie of the Girl Scout jackets she and Reba wore when they were young.