“That sounds pretty scary.”
“I’m not saying all girls are like this. There are plenty of terrific, dynamic girls out there. There’s just a certain pathology with the girls I’m talking about—the ones who organize these wolf packs. They may have been abused when they were young or scarred by a certain experience. Years ago girls had to internalize anything that happened to them like that, but now they’re allowed to act out.”
“So all the girls in these groups have had a troubling experience in their past?”
“I’m talking mainly about the ringleaders. Other girls get lured in simply because they’re needy on some level, they want to belong. Or maybe they’re just seduced by the charisma of the queen bee.”
“The queen bee?” Phoebe felt a chill as she said the words.
“The one at the center who’s running everything and pulling the strings. In a way all the members are queen bees, but she’s—how should I put it?—queenier than the rest.”
Phoebe thought about Blair. Beautiful. Utterly confident. And fearless.
“And that’s enough to sway a nice girl into doing something nasty?”
“Some of them don’t know what’s really going on until they’re fully entrenched. And then it can be hairy for them. I’d love to talk more later, Phoebe. But I’ve got a patient coming in a few minutes.”
“No problem. This has been very insightful.”
When she set the phone down, Phoebe noticed that it had grown dark out. She sprang up from her chair and hurried from one room to the next, flicking on lights. She was out of breath by the time she finished.
She sat back down on her desk and scribbled down notes from her conversation with Dr. Aikens, wondering how it all related to the Sixes. Was their hidden agenda all about bedding boys and adding notches to their belts? Based on her brief encounter with Lily, that seemed so hard to believe, but Phoebe knew she might have misjudged the girl. She also wondered if Blair was really the ringleader. Or was there someone else in control?
Much later, when she couldn’t put off bed any longer, Phoebe took a book upstairs with her and tried to read, but she could barely concentrate. Each time the house creaked or groaned, her eyes shot up toward the open door of her bedroom. At one point she let her eyes drift over the rumpled sheets and thought of Duncan, of making love to him last night. Though sex with Alec had been decent, more than decent at times, in the last year of their relationship he’d come to rely on a paint-by-numbers approach in bed, and she had found herself yearning for something exciting and reckless. And that had defined sex with Duncan. It had been intense, freeing. She also couldn’t deny how safe she’d felt, having him with her. Don’t be a baby, she told herself. Your lock is changed. You are safe.
Her cell phone, which she’d parked on the bedside table, rang suddenly, making her jerk. With Duncan on her mind, she immediately thought it might be him, just calling to check in.
But when she answered, she heard a gravelly voice on the other end.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” the man said.
“Who is this?” Phoebe asked.
“Hutch Hutchinson. We met yesterday.”
“Oh, hello,” Phoebe said, her voice softening. “No, you didn’t wake me.”
“I’ve been thinking about what we talked about,” he said. “About that group of girls you mentioned. And I think I may have some information you’ll find interesting.”
13
HUTCH HUTCHINSON LIVED on the outskirts of Lyle, and his driveway turned out to be about a quarter of a mile long. As Phoebe reached the end of it, she saw that the house was actually a log cabin tucked into a cluster of fir trees at the edge of a heavily wooded area. There was an old red Honda in front of the cabin, as well as a black pickup truck, its hood and windshield scattered with pine needles.
Phoebe had tried to wrestle the information out of him over the phone, but he was adamant about telling her in person. It seemed to Phoebe that he might be craving face-to-face time with another person. She asked if he’d mind meeting at eight thirty the next morning because she was heading out of town.
“Sure, why don’t you come over to my place,” he said. “Coffee’s on me.” It would delay her arrival in Maryland, but she was anxious to hear whatever he had to share.
As Phoebe stepped from her car, her nostrils were filled with the fragrant scent of fir trees. This was the kind of setting she’d envisioned for herself in Lyle, but she now knew she probably would have felt skittish living so far from anyone else. She strode up and knocked on the wooden door of the cabin. No one answered. Could he still be sleeping? Phoebe wondered. Just then she heard a sound behind her, and she spun around. A golden retriever, its muzzle whitened with age, was lumbering toward her from the direction of a large work shed. A tiny Chihuahua suddenly shot right past the retriever and nearly bounded into Phoebe’s arms.
“Okay, Ginger, give her a minute to get the lay of the land,” a voice called. Hutch had now emerged from the shed himself. He wore baggy khaki pants, work boots, and a faded plaid shirt. “We don’t even know if the lady likes dogs.”
“I do,” Phoebe said. The retriever licked her hands with abandon as Ginger pranced at her feet like a tiny reindeer. “Though the combo is a bit of a surprise.”
Hutch laughed deeply, but Phoebe heard a doleful chord somewhere in there.
“Ginger was my wife Becky’s dog,” Hutch said, scooping Ginger up with one hand. “She passed two years ago, and Ginger just goes nuts if she sees a nice looking female.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Phoebe said.
“I appreciate that. I’m not a toy-dog kind of guy. The retriever, Sunny, is more my style. But needless to say, Ginger’s got a special place in my heart. Come on in.”
The inside of the house was cluttered but homey looking and layered with smells from all sorts of things—dog hair, pipe tobacco, fresh coffee, and the smoldering logs in the wood-burning stove. Over the hearth was an oversize framed photo of Hutch and his wife. Becky had been a plump, pretty woman whose face exuded kindness and a fierce devotion to her man.
“Sit wherever you’d like,” Hutch said, gesturing broadly with his large hand, “and just help yourself to coffee.” Phoebe took the couch, figuring Hutch would prefer the big leather recliner for himself. She could practically see the shape of his body in it. On the coffee table in front of her was a tray with a glass coffeepot, mugs, sugar, and milk. Phoebe poured a mug for herself.
“You make a mean cup of joe,” Phoebe said after taking a swig.
“Unfortunately it’s about my only selling point as a bachelor,” Hutch said. “That and the fact that I still have all my hair.”
“Well, those things are at the top of a lot of girls’ lists.”
“Good to know,” Hutch said, smiling warmly. The skin crinkled around his eyes. “Now, I’m not going to take up a lot of your time because I know you wanna be on the road.”
“That’s okay. I’ve recently had a harrowing experience with the Sixes, so I’m anxious to hear what you have to say.” She told him about the rats.
“God damn,” Hutch said, shaking his head in disgust. “Excuse my language, but that just makes me mad. We never had anything as bad as that happen, but after you told me about the group, I thought back, and something hit me. There was an incident that might be significant.”
Phoebe leaned forward expectantly.
“Tell me.”