Girl Gone Mad by Avery Bishop
English | 2020 | Mystery/Thriller| ePUB | 3.2 MB
They say everything is fun and games until someone gets hurt. Well, someone did—and now the game has changed…
Emily Bennett works as a therapist in Pennsylvania, helping children overcome their troubled pasts—even as she struggles to forget her own. Once upon a time, Emily was part of a middle school clique called the Harpies—six popular girls who bullied the new girl to her breaking point.
The Harpies took a blood oath: never tell a soul what they did to Grace Farmer.
Now, fourteen years later, it seems karma has caught up to them when one member of that vicious circle commits suicide. But when a second Harpy is discovered dead shortly after, also from apparent suicide, the deaths start to look suspicious. And when Emily starts seeing a woman who looks a lot like Grace Farmer lurking in the shadows, she’s forced to wonder: Is Grace back for revenge? Or is Emily’s guilt driving her mad?
Sticks and stones may break your bones, but the Harpies are about to find out just how much words can hurt you.
With a knife, most likely—a paring knife or steak knife pilfered from the kitchen when her parents weren’t around—or maybe she used a pair of scissors already in her bedroom, opening them up and then pressing the tip of one of the blades against her skin.
It was one of the things I would eventually get to, but not today. Today was the girl’s first appointment. An intake, really. All I had was the referral that had been sent from the psychiatric inpatient facility where she’d been for eight days. It didn’t include much information. Her name: Chloe Kitterman. Her age: thirteen. The reason she’d been admitted: cut her wrists with suicidal ideations. The aftercare recommendation: continue med management and start outpatient therapy. Which was what had brought Chloe and her mother to my office today.
Still, even without the discharge summary, I might have guessed Chloe was a cutter. She had that look to her. Thin and petite. Long red hair. A splash of freckles on her face. Her fingernails painted black. But none of that keyed me in to her penchant for cutting.
It was her clothes. She sat on the black pleather couch beside her mother, staring down at her phone. She wore faded low-rise jeans, sneakers, and a gray Hollister hoodie.
It was late April, and the temperature outside had just tipped over eighty degrees. Way too hot for a hoodie. She was trying to hide the cuts on her arms.
Her mother, Mrs. Kitterman, seemed to have perfected her role as a trophy wife. She was in her late forties but looked much younger, her face smooth and bright without the hint of a wrinkle. Her sandy-brown hair perfectly coiffed. Either she ate next to nothing or exercised every day, probably with an extra session of yoga. The diamond on her finger was so big I was surprised she managed to lift her hand without assistance. Her husband probably brought in a hefty six-figure salary; she dressed like she bought all her clothes from Neiman Marcus. Her cotton chinos, block-heel dress sandals, cotton Henley shirt—her wardrobe today alone had to cost more than I made in a week, and that didn’t count the leather Hermès bag she had propped between herself and her daughter.