The Last Good Girl

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Authors: Allison Leotta
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“Tell them to send an ambulance.”
    Anna plucked several tissues from a box and held the wad firmly to Barney’s head wound to stanch the flow of blood. Crimson quickly soaked through the Kleenex to her fingers. She kept the pressure firm and steady. Her hands were already covered with his blood. At some point tonight, she’d have to find time to go to a hospital and get hepatitis meds.
    Barney blinked and looked at Anna. He brought his hand to his head and found her wrist and the tissues there. He pulled away his red-stained fingers with a look of confusion, tried to stand, and collapsed back onto the pillows. “Stay still, Mr. Shapiro,” Anna said. “An ambulance is coming. We’re going to get you to a hospital.”
    He nodded and closed his eyes. Several pink flower petals clung to his hair.
    Sam took out her handcuffs with a sigh. This was not what they wanted or needed to be doing now, but it had to be done. Sam fastened the metal bracelets to Beatrice’s wrists, behind her back. “Ms. Shapiro, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you . . .”
    â€œAre you joking?” Beatrice interrupted. “My daughter is missing and you’re arresting me?”
    â€œIf I witness an assault, I’m obliged to make an arrest. Even if I wanted to hit him myself. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
    Three minutes later, two marked police cruisers and an ambulance screamed up to the president’s house. The EMTs bundled Barney onto a stretcher and hustled him off to the hospital. The police officers took Beatrice into their patrol car and drove her off to the central cell block.
    Anna stood with Sam on the president’s columned porch, watching the parents of their missing girl being carted off by the local authorities, red and blue lights flashing away into the night. She glanced at her watch. Thirty-seven minutes had passed in this house, and they were no closer to finding Emily.

VLOG
RECORDED 9.18.14
    I can’t sleep, but I can’t really wake up. At night, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about what happened. For hours. In the morning, I sleepwalk my way to class. I can’t focus on the lecture. I can’t focus on anything really.
    I can’t eat, either. My stomach’s tied in knots. The idea of getting food in there is ridiculous. All the other girls worry about the freshman fifteen, but my jeans are getting looser. The one perk to all this, I guess.
    Preya keeps asking me if I’m okay. I keep telling her I’m fine—but I know she doesn’t believe it. She’s got this worried look every time she sees me. I get it, I’m a mess. I don’t put on makeup anymore. All my cute back-to-school clothes are hanging in the closet with their tags still on. I have one pair of sweatpants I love, and I’m wearing them over and over. They’re soft and warm and I’ll take comfort anywhere I can get it right now. They . . . um . . . yeah, they might be smelling a little funky. I can’t bring myself to care.
    Preya wants me to go out with her. To parties, to the bar, to the honors retreat. I just don’t want to. I want to sit in my room, watching Netflix. In the last three days, I’ve watched every episode of Downton Abbey . I was never into Downton before. But there’s something soothing about watching the Dowager Countess fight for her family.
    And I like to walk the dogs. You know the dogs they use to practice surgery at the vet school? They always need walks and stuff. When I was a kid, I loved to volunteer; it was like my favorite thing to do, but I hadn’t done it in a long time. Years, I guess. I never thought it would be my only extracurricular activity in college. But you know what? Dogs don’t ask you a bunch of

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