Poor Little Dead Girls by Lizzie Friend Page A

guess.”
    “What did you do instead?”
    Even after everything, she couldn’t believe they were asking her this.
    “Third base, a few times. Mostly just out.”
    “Did you like it?”
    She couldn’t take it anymore.
    “I said, did you like it?”
    The hand was on her neck again, playing with her earlobe, flicking it back and forth. She swallowed hard and tried to fight back tears.
    “Fine. Yeah, of course I liked it. I’m not a robot.”
    “Have you dated other guys?”
    Sadie shook her head.
    “Speak your answers,” the hood demanded. “Have you been tested for STIs?”
    Sadie folded in on herself further. “No.”
    Right hood leaned over and whispered something in first hood’s ear. They bent their heads together, then turned back to Sadie. This one wasn’t a question.
    “Tell us about your mother.”
    Sadie’s anger flared, and her shoulders jerked back. They could humiliate her and scare her and do whatever else they wanted, but they didn’t get to bring up her mom.
    “No,” she said, teeth clenched. “She’s dead.”
    “How did she die?”
    “She killed herself.”
    “How?”
    Sadie shut her eyes tight but the tears were already flowing. They seeped out from under her lids and dripped down her cheeks. Her hands were tied, and she couldn’t wipe them away.
    “She hung herself at a hospital.”
    “You mean, a mental hospital?”
    Eyes still closed tight. “Yes.”
    “Was your mom crazy?”
    “She was depressed.”
    “Was she a drug addict?”
    Tighter. “Yes.”
    The next time the hood spoke, her voice was louder, almost baiting. “Was she a whore? Addicts usually are.”
    Eyes open. Wide.
    “No.” Sadie spat out the word. “And my mom is none of your business.”
    The girl cocked her head to the side in a gesture that was both condescending and completely familiar. “Oh, honey. You have no idea how much it is my business. If your mom was a whore, how can we even trust that your dad is your dad? How can we trust that you are who you claim to be at all?”
    Sadie took a deep breath, and when she finally spoke her voice was low and even, perfectly controlled. “My dad is my dad, and he’s ten times the man that your dad will ever be. My mom was not a whore, and she died of a disease that has no cure. And you, Thayer Wimberley, can go fuck yourself. Next question.”
    She stared deep into the shadow beneath the girl’s hood, the tears now dry on her cheeks. No one moved, and nothing but darkness stared back.

Chapter 8
    She woke up feeling as if she had barely slept, her head pounding like her skull was suddenly two sizes too small. She felt like she was emerging from a bad dream, or from one of those drunken nights on TV where all the actor has left is a bunch of blurry flashes with nothing to connect them. It came back slowly — the hand over her face, the chemical smell, the dark room, and the voice spitting in her ear. She pulled the covers over her head and burrowed back into the darkness, determined to stay there until her dad could come and pick her up — take her away from here and never mention Keating again.
    The questioning had gone on for what felt like hours. After her mother it was more questions about her past — whether she had ever stolen anything, whether she had ever cheated on a test, whether she had ever tried drugs or gotten drunk or been arrested. Then they had moved onto her family, asking questions about her relatives, how they died, whether they had had cancer, heart disease, questions Sadie barely even knew the answers to. She told them her mom was basically an orphan, that she didn’t even know her maternal grandparents, but that didn’t satisfy them. They had wanted to know everything about her, and by the time they were finished her head had drooped weakly against her chest, and her eyes had felt like they were filled with sand. Then, just as it had begun, it was over. The hands were on her again, pressing something cold and wet against her mouth. The