The Girl in the Wall

  The Girl in the Wall

  Daphne Benedis-Grab

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: Sera

  Chapter 2: Ariel

  Chapter 3: Sera

  Chapter 4: Ariel

  Chapter 5: Sera

  Chapter 6: Ariel

  Chapter 7: Sera

  Chapter 8: Ariel

  Chapter 9: Sera

  Chapter 10: Ariel

  Chapter 11: Sera

  Chapter 12: Ariel

  Chapter 13: Sera

  Chapter 14: Ariel

  Chapter 15: Sera

  Chapter 16: Ariel

  Chapter 17: Sera

  Chapter 18: Ariel

  Chapter 19: Sera

  Chapter 20: Ariel

  Chapter 21: Sera

  Chapter 22: Ariel

  Chapter 23: Sera

  Chapter 24: Ariel

  Chapter 25: Sera

  Chapter 26: Ariel

  Chapter 27: Sera

  Chapter 28: Ariel

  Chapter 29: Sera

  Chapter 30: Ariel

  Chapter 31: Sera

  Chapter 32: Ariel

  Chapter 33: Sera

  Chapter 34: Ariel

  Chapter 35: Sera

  Chapter 36: Ariel

  Copyright

  For my mom

  Acknowledgments

  I am extremely lucky to be represented by Sara Crowe, the best cheerleader and sharpest businesswoman a writer could hope to have in her corner. Huge thanks to my editor Jacquelyn Mitchard, who has been wonderful and wise throughout. Donna Freitas, Marie Rutkoski, Rebecca Stead, Lisa Graff, and Eliot Schrefer are my dream team of readers and I owe them many thanks, as well as a plate of scones. Thanks to my family and friends who supported me through all kinds of neurotic meltdowns, with a special shout out to my husband Greg. And last but not least, my kids Ainyr and Erlan, who made it clear they’d tolerate me writing a book so long as I put their names somewhere in it.

  CHAPTER 1

  Sera

  What do you wear to the birthday party of your ex-best friend? The one who dumped you flat in the middle of junior year, turning the entire student body against you in the process, and who has made your life hell for the nine months and four days since?

  I debate calling my dad and asking yet again if I really have to go to Ariel’s seventeenth party, the first one we didn’t plan together since she turned eight. But that would be a waste of time, I know what he’ll say. He’ll talk about his friendship with Simon Barett, my dad being the only person in the world who calls Mr. Barett by his first name, about how they were best friends in college, about how my dad’s investments in Barett Pharmaceuticals helped make it the thriving, billion-dollar business it is today. About how friendships have ups and downs but some things, like the Barett and French family bond, are forever. Which means that regardless of a “small tiff” (his words), I need to be there for Ariel’s big day.

  With a slight crackle the intercom in my room comes to life. “Honey, the car will be ready to take you in ten minutes,” my mom says.

  Yes, our house is big, like all the houses in our town of New Canaan, Connecticut. But my mom could walk the distance from her bedroom down the hall to tell me this. She, however, is avoiding me. The thought of going to this party has made me “difficult” (her word) and she’d rather not deal with me face to face. In fairness I have picked an awful lot of fights with her in the past nine months and four days.

  Ten minutes to select the outfit that will be ridiculed all night by the senior class of New Canaan Country Day School, along with my hairstyle, shoes, and the way I breathe. The school is small with an elite group of hand-selected students, each of whom treats me like a total pariah.

  I lose no matter what choices I make, so I opt for comfortable: jeans that show off my yoga body (lots of time for working out when you have no social life), black cami, and a silky black cashmere sweater. It’s October and the nip of fall is in the air. I slide my feet into comfortable black flats, pull my hair up in a loose ponytail with a few wispy curls floating around my face. I grab my little black purse that I’ve already stuffed with my wallet, house keys, and cell phone, plus the Swiss Army knife my dad insists I carry with me at all times, and my overnight bag. Because, of course, this is no ordinary party, not with Mr. Barett funding it. It’s a full weekend of celebration, starting with a private concert with Hudson Winters.

  Okay, I have to admit that is the one thing I’m excited about. I love Hudson’s music. Not the few pop songs that made him famous but the ones that are more like folk rock with a dash of something almost like bluegrass thrown in. The ones with the lyrics that are so honest they resonate somewhere deep inside each time I listen to them. Which is pretty much daily since I’m not going out a lot these days and I need something to keep me company.

  My phone chirps, a sound I used to hear hundreds of times a day. Now it makes me jump. I pick it up and see the text from my sister Samantha.

  Good luck 2nite

  She remembered. It’s like drinking a hot cup of cocoa after being out in the sleet.

  Think it may kill me I write back.

  Hi-school sucks. Remember in 11 months you will be here

  Sam is a sophomore at Brown and she loves it. I still have to get in but it’s a pretty sure thing. My grades are stellar, my extracurriculars pitch perfect, and the huge donations my alumni dad gives every year don’t hurt.

  Love u she writes.

  My sister is probably the only reason I’ve survived these past months.

  I type and send a heart icon, and then slip my phone back in my purse.

  There’s no avoiding it: I’m ready. I go down the huge curving staircase to our foyer that is filled with orchids, my mother’s passion. I complain that it smells like a perfume shop every time I open the front door but really I love the rich, gentle scent of the velvety pink, lavender, and white blooms. The car driving me is waiting. I take a last, longing look at my house, then slide onto the buttery leather seat and accept the fate that awaits me.

  It’s impossible not to be impressed as the car drives through the carefully cultivated woods guarding the Barett estate from the road and you see the mansion for the first time. New Canaan houses are big but none as big and elegant as this. Its cream-colored wings and turrets and towers make it seem more like a plantation from the Old South than the modern-day suburbs of New York City. Ariel and I went through a brief Gone with the Wind phase back when we were eleven and it truly felt like we were at Tara.

  That was also when we discovered the secret passages that twine through the walls of the house. We had a great time spying from inside the walls until the terrible Saturday night when we peeked through the grate into her father’s bedroom. Mr. Barett was in there with Stella, the woman who became his second wife two months later, and it was possibly the night that Abby, Ariel’s baby sister, was conceived. That image of the two of them, which is unfortunately seared into my brain forever, still makes me feel like I ate a rotten clam.

  The rolling green lawns are broken up by gardens and artfully placed trees. I see a few of the gardeners lurking about, which is unusual on a Saturday evening. I guess Mr. Barett is making sure everything is perfect.

  My car rounds the circular drive and stops at the front door, which is flanked by columns.

  “We’re here, Sera,” Evan, the driver, says.

  We don’t have a regular driver but the car company we use often sends Evan and he’s really nice. For a moment I play with the idea of asking him to drive me away, into town, into the city,
anywhere, really, that isn’t here. But I’m sure he’s under strict orders from my dad.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Have a good night.”

  He smiles and I step out onto the smooth stone path that leads up to the house. The door opens before I knock but it’s not James, the head of household who usually opens the door at the Barett’s. Something else that’s changed I guess.

  The man who opened the door has blond hair and a tight smile, and he seems awkward as he ushers me into the huge foyer of the Barett home. James definitely had better social graces. I wonder what happened to him.

  The huge marble staircase sweeps up to the second floor, famous paintings placed along the way. The huge black-and-white marble foyer has two actual trees in it, bonsais with dark, twisted trunks and artfully shaped branches. There is a large white chest where I realize I am to put my overnight bag. I hesitate. What are the chances it will mysteriously disappear if I leave it with the others?

  Over the past nine months and four days I have gotten a hard lesson in what it means to be a pariah and I know the chances are high, so the bag stays with me. I smile at the blond guy and keep my backpack on. He starts to say something but the doorbell rings again. He goes to answer it and I slip off toward the west wing of the house. The east wing has the fancy living room, dining room, glassed-in sunroom, and library. Around back, in the newest wing, is Mr. Barett’s home office suite.

  I go into the west wing, through the living room, my chest tight as I try to ignore the fact that this used to be my second home. It smells exactly the same, like a mix of grapefruit-scented cleaner, fresh roses, and burning wood from the fireplace. One wall is all windows and I take a second to slow my breathing, looking out on the French garden. The sun is low in the sky and the two gardeners out on the lawn are bathed in shadow. A third joins them holding some kind of weird lawn equipment. Or is it a gun? For a moment my insides clench and then the obvious hits me: They aren’t gardeners, they’re security. Hudson Winters is here and Mr. Barett must have hired top-notch security.

  As I get closer to the game room I hear voices, laughter, the sound of glasses clinking, and my stomach suddenly twists tight. I close my eyes for a moment. I can survive this.

  Everyone looks toward the door when I walk in and then looks away, in that way you avert your eyes when you see a homeless man peeing on the sidewalk. I hear whispers, the word “backstabber” hissed just loud enough to make it to my ears. But I am invisible, vapor, a reaction that still makes me feel like garbage.

  I try to walk normally, not slink in like a beaten dog, but it’s hard, especially when my legs are shaky and I don’t have quite enough air in my lungs. I avoid looking at anyone, especially the group sitting on the sofa and chairs around the unlit fireplace. That’s where the inner circle, Ariel’s circle, will be. I don’t want to see Mike, state-ranked soccer player who I used to let cheat off my geometry tests; Ravi who kissed me at the eighth-grade dance, my first ever kiss; Cassidy, queen of slicing gossip who I thought was hysterical until I became the source of the gossip.

  And then there’s Bianca, my replacement as Ariel’s best friend, who is flaunting the necklace Ariel gave her a few weeks ago, the one that matches her own solid white-gold heart necklace from Tiffany. You could actually call Bianca Ariel’s twin because aside from the matching necklaces, Bianca started dying her hair at Vivian’s the exact same shade of buttery blond Ariel was born with, and they go together for weekly bangs maintenance and to pick up the French lavender hair products Vivian imports from France. I sat behind Bianca in English and the first time she came in with her new hair, smelling just like Ariel with her wafting lavender, I had to go to the nurse with a crushing headache and eyes that wouldn’t stop tearing.

  But of course the person I most want to avoid is Ariel herself. I know how she will glance past me like I am invisible, her features hardening just the tiniest bit. I wonder if her new best friend recognizes her sign for pure hatred.

  I stuff my purse in my bag and stow it behind the sofa in the back corner of the room and walk over to the bar that has every non-alcoholic drink under the sun and two bartenders ready to serve it. The alcohol is hidden in another room, I’m guessing the study because people seem to be slipping in and out. I won’t be welcome in there but that’s okay. I’m better off staying sober and alert. Less chance of getting beer “accidently” poured on me if my reflexes are sharp.

  I am given a sparkling seltzer fruit punch that is probably delicious but I can’t really tell. My taste buds, like the rest of me, go numb when I am near anyone from school.

  I drift off to an unoccupied corner of the room. The game room is massive, with leather sofas and armchairs, a pool table, and a huge TV with every video game console sold. Usually small stuffed stools and tables are scattered around but now they, along with the pool table, have been pushed aside to make room for the concert setup.

  I feel a tiny shiver of delight when I see the amplifier, guitar, stool, and single mic, with rows of chairs arranged in front. I can’t believe I’m going to see Hudson Winters live like this. In the few interviews he’s done he comes off as a snob but it’s hard to care when his music is so awesome. A big guy lurks nearby, probably Hudson’s private bodyguard or something.

  “Sera,” a commanding voice calls.

  I straighten up as Mr. Barett approaches. In his wake is John Avery, his top assistant and Ariel’s godfather. He’s more like a father to her than Mr. Barett.

  “How’s your father?” Mr. Barett asks, giving me a solid shoulder slap that nearly topples me.

  “Well, thanks,” I say. I’ve known Mr. Barett forever but he still makes me nervous. “He sends his best.”

  “Trying to get out of that money he owes me on our last round of golf,” he says. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out his sleek phone, a model that hasn’t even been released on the market yet, checks a text, and tucks it back in.

  Mr. Avery smiles and leans over to kiss my cheek. He smells like the lemon lozenges he sucks to soothe his smoker’s throat. Mr. Avery sometimes read us bedtime stories when I had sleepovers here, and from the sympathy in his eyes, I’m guessing he realizes me not being over here for the past nine months and four days means bad things for me. That and the fact I’ve been totally ignored by my classmates.

  “Is Abby here?” I ask, glancing around for signs of Abby who was five the last time I saw her but would be six now. Mr. Barett and his second wife Stella had a nasty divorce and he rarely gets visits with Abby, but Ariel adores her sister so I’m guessing she’ll make a birthday appearance at some point.

  “Not until tomorrow morning,” Mr. Barett says.

  It’ll be nice to see Abby, if she even remembers me. We used to include her in our games whenever she was over and it made her so happy. Ariel said Stella neglected Abby and that made Ariel really protective of her, probably since she’d been pretty neglected herself.

  “So are you looking forward to the concert?” Mr. Barett asks in a proprietary way.

  “Yes,” I say. “I once read that Hudson Winters doesn’t do private shows so this is really cool.”

  Mr. Barett smiles. “He does if the price is right,” he says. Then he frowns as he glances outside. “Though he does seem to require an extraordinary amount of security. Who’d have thought a singer needed that many guards with machine guns?”

  I follow his gaze and see several figures standing in the yard, machine guns resting over their shoulders. At least I assume they’re machine guns because that’s what Mr. Barett said.

  “That’s what his people said he needed,” Mr. Avery says. He would know because he’s usually the one to handle details like that for the Barett family.

  “And whatever he needs, he gets,” Mr. Barett says dryly. “I should have been a rock star.”

  It’s hard not to laugh at that.

  “The concert is about to start,” Mr. Barett says, apparently having received some kind of signal from somewhere. “Com
e up front with Ariel. I know she’ll want you next to her.”

  Yeah, she wants that like she wants to give up a kidney.

  “Um, actually my ears are kind of sensitive so I think I’ll stay back here,” I say.

  Mr. Barett is about to insist when we hear a commotion, raised voices, a few shrieks. Hudson Winters has arrived. He’s wearing beat-up jeans and a black T-shirt and he’s even cuter than he is in his videos, with piercing hazel eyes, messy brown curls, and the perfect planes of his face. He’s muscular and wide, like a jock, but he moves with a feline grace that makes him even sexier as he picks up his guitar from the stand and settles on the stool, not really looking at anyone. His bodyguard guy lurks near the front of the stage but he mostly looks bored.

  Mr. Barett rushes across the huge room, almost tripping over the edge of the hundred-year-old Oriental carpet to get to the mic.

  “It’s my great pleasure to present Hunter Winters,” he says grandly.

  I wince at the mistake. Of course Mr. Barett has no idea who Hudson is; he just asked around for the name of the hottest, most exclusive singer and decided that was who needed to headline this party. Ariel’s preferences played no part in the choice, not that I feel sorry for her. She is sitting primly in the center of the first row, Bianca on one side of her and her dad now settling in on her other side. John Avery slips out, probably to the upstairs office suite. This kind of music isn’t usually popular with old guys who crunch numbers for a living.

  The lights overhead are giving off a soft golden glow but it’s mostly dark, with the last bit of daylight coming in through the huge windows that line the west side of the room. The right side has the oversized fireplace, the one that’s not yet lit. Paintings hang along that wall, one is even an actual Van Gogh, but right now they are just black squares melting into the scenery. The focus is all on Hudson as he strums his guitar lightly and pauses to tune one of the strings.

  By now everyone has a seat and I feel safe sitting. Pariahs need to choose seats with care, something I learned the hard way when I went to the end-of-sophomore-year picnic (my mom acted like she might suffer a spontaneous brain aneurysm if I skipped). That night when we were watching the class movie and people were sneaking off to get beer from a keg AJ Green hid in the woods that morning, I was sitting toward the back when a cup of beer got dumped over my head. Sneaking home with beer-soaked clothes and dripping hair was no easy feat and not something I’d like to repeat.