The New Girl: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist perfect for fans of Friend Request. Ingrid Alexandra
20th August 2016
4.17 a.m.
The smell of blood lingers. It’s on my clothes, though they have been washed clean. On my skin, though I’ve scrubbed it raw.
Light is shining through a crack in the door. The yolk-orange glow steals across the bedroom like an intruder, illuminating the white, pinstriped shirt that hangs from the clothes horse. The empty sleeves dangle, twitching now and then in the breeze from the window.
I tune my ears to the sounds in the next room. He’s pacing, thinking. ‘Mary,’ he mutters. ‘Mary, Mary.’
As I curl against the cold wall, my skin tingles with adrenalin. He always said I couldn’t be trusted. Now, he’s right. In the closet, under a pile of dirty laundry, there’s an overnight bag. It’s an old one of my mother’s with white daisies embroidered on dark green canvas. A toothbrush, some make-up and a few items of clothing are all it contains. They’ve been waiting there, waiting for the right moment.
Footsteps sound in the hall and stop outside the door. I hold my breath. The tide is rising, and I can hear the waves as they swell and crash on the nearby shore.
The door opens and he stands, silhouetted by the hall light.
‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary,’ he slurs, the hint of a sneer in his voice. ‘What are we going to do with you?’
Three months later
I heave over the basin, but there’s nothing left to come up. I spit, turn on the tap and splash my face. It’s bad this time, worse than usual. But I know it won’t stop me. I’ll only do it again.
Gulping a mouthful of stale water from the mug on the sink, I take a deep breath and tiptoe out of the bathroom. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lead to the balcony, making me squint. The sky glares sapphire blue, the overzealous shrieks of children and families drift up from the shore below. People out and about, doing whatever it is regular people do on a Sunday afternoon.
Cat is in the open-plan kitchen by the counter, bent forward and shaking out her shower-wet hair. Her fingers comb the long, raven-black strands and fat beads of water drip onto the kitchen floor.
‘I’m still freaking out about that accident,’ she says through her hair. ‘You could have been killed.’
I watch her upside-down face, forcing down my irritation. I could slip in the puddle she’s making and crack my skull on the tiles. Then I might really be killed. ‘It’s nothing, just a dent.’
‘It’s not the car I’m worried about.’ Cat tilts her head, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched. I wonder if she knows I lied about how much I’d had before getting behind the wheel.
I sip the coffee she’s made me but it tastes too bitter. ‘The car barely hit me. Nothing a little buffing can’t get rid of.’
‘Which I’ll sort out,’ Ben interjects, winking at me over his shoulder as he nudges past Cat to get to the kitchen sink. He pours himself a glass of water and swallows it back in three large gulps. ‘Once the hangover wears off.’
‘Ugh. I guarantee mine’s worse than yours,’ Cat moans, flipping herself back upright and pushing her wet hair over her shoulder as she leans against the kitchen counter. She looks fine to me. I’m positive I’m the most hung-over. ‘Whose idea was it to crack open the vodka?’
Ben and I exchange a look, but before I can be found guilty, Cat’s phone rings and she jumps, knocking over the empty cocktail pitcher. It clatters loudly into the sink and my head pounds in response. ‘Shit. I’ll get that in a sec. This could be about the room.’
Retrieving the pitcher, I make a half-hearted attempt at clearing some of the house-warming collateral while Cat takes the call.
Ben steps over a squashed lime wedge and right into the puddle on the floor. He slips and yelps, arms shooting out, hands finding my shoulders and clamping on. His fingers dig into my flesh.
I gasp, my chest contracting. Ben’s laughing, his feet skidding