The Perfectionists

  EPIGRAPH

  In the midst of life we are in death.

  —AGATHA CHRISTIE, And Then There Were None

  CONTENTS

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Sara Shepard

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  IN MANY WAYS, BEACON HEIGHTS, Washington, looks like any affluent suburb: Porch swings creak gently in the evening breeze, the lawns are green and well kept, and all the neighbors know one another. But this satellite of Seattle is anything but average. In Beacon, it’s not enough to be good; you have to be the best.

  With perfection comes pressure. Students here are some of the best in the country, and sometimes, they have to let off a little steam. What five girls don’t know, though, is that steam can scald just as badly as an open flame.

  And someone’s about to get burned.

  On Friday night, just as the sun was setting, cars began to pull up to Nolan Hotchkiss’s huge, faux-Italian villa on a peninsula overlooking Lake Washington. The house had wrought iron gates, a circular driveway with a marble fountain, multiple balconies, and a three-tiered, crystal chandelier visible through the front two-story window. All the lights were on, loud bass thumped from inside, a cheer rose up from the backyard. Kids with liquor spirited from their parents’ cabinets or bottles of wine shoved into their purses sauntered up to the front steps and walked right inside. No need to ring the bell—Mr. and Mrs. Hotchkiss weren’t home.

  Too bad. They were missing the biggest party of the year.

  Caitlin Martell-Lewis, dressed in her best pair of straight-leg jeans, a green polo that brought out the amber flecks in her eyes, and TOMS houndstooth sneakers, climbed out of an Escalade with her boyfriend, Josh Friday, and his soccer friends Asher Collins and Timothy Burgess. Josh, whose breath already smelled yeasty from the beer he’d drunk at the pregame party, shaded his brown eyes and gaped at the mansion. “This place is freaking sick.”

  Ursula Winters, who desperately wanted to be Timothy’s girlfriend—she was also Caitlin’s biggest soccer rival—stepped out of the backseat and adjusted her oversize, dolman-sleeve shirt. “The kid has it all.”

  “Except a soul,” Caitlin muttered, limping up the lawn on her still-sore-from-a-soccer-injury ankle. Silence fell over the group as they stepped inside the grand foyer, with its checkerboard floor and a sweeping double staircase. Josh cast her a sideways glance. “What? I was kidding,” Caitlin said with a laugh.

  Because if you spoke out against Nolan—if you so much as boycotted his party—you’d be off the Beacon Heights High A-list. But Nolan had as many enemies as friends, and Caitlin hated him most of all. Her heart pounded, thinking about the secret thing she was about to do. She wondered whether the others were there yet.

  The den was filled with candles and fat red cushions. Julie Redding held court in the middle of the room. Her auburn hair hung straight and shiny down her back. She wore a strapless Kate Spade dress and bone-colored high heels that showed off her long, lithe legs. One after another, classmates walked up to her and complimented her outfit, her white teeth, her amazing jewelry, that funny thing she’d said in English class the other day. It was par for the course, naturally—everyone always loved Julie. She was the most popular girl in school.

  Then Ashley Ferguson, a junior who’d just dyed her hair the same auburn shade as Julie’s, stopped and gave a reverent smile. “You look amazing,” she gushed, same as the others.

  “Thank you,” Julie said modestly.

  “Where’d you get the dress?” Ashley asked.

  Julie’s friend Nyssa Frankel inserted herself between the two. “Why, Ashley?” she snapped. “Are you going to buy the exact same one?”

  Julie laughed as Nyssa and Natalie Houma, another of Julie’s friends, high-fived. Ashley set her jaw and stomped away. Julie bit her lip, wondering if she’d been too mean. There was only one person she wanted to be mean to deliberately tonight.

  And that was Nolan.

  Meanwhile, Ava Jalali stood with her boyfriend, Alex Cohen, in the Hotchkisses’ reclaimed oak and marble kitchen, nibbling on a carrot stick. She eyed a tower of cupcakes next to the veggie tray longingly. “Remind me why I decided to do a cleanse again?”

  “Because you’re insane?” Alex raised his eyebrows mischievously.

  Ava gave him an uh-duh look and pushed her smooth, straight, perfect dark hair out of her eyes. She was the type of girl who hated even looking at cross sections of the human body in biology class; she couldn’t stand the idea that she was that ugly and messy inside.

  Alex swiped his thumb on the icing and brought his hand toward Ava’s face. “Yummy . . .”

  Ava drew back. “Get that away!” But then she giggled. Alex had moved here in ninth grade. He wasn’t as popular or as rich as some of the other guys, but he always made her laugh. But then the sight of someone in the doorway wiped the smile off her face. Nolan Hotchkiss, the party’s host, stared at her with an almost territorial grin.

  He deserves what he’s going to get, she thought darkly.

  In the backyard—which had high, swooping arcades that connected one patio to another; huge potted plants; and a long slate walkway that practically ended in the water—Mackenzie Wright rolled up her jeans, removed her toe rings, and plunked her feet into the infinity-edge pool. A lot of people were swimming, including her best friend, Claire Coldwell, and Claire’s boyfriend, Blake Strustek.

  Blake spun Claire around and laced his fingers through hers. “Hey, watch the digits,” Claire warned. “They’re my ticket to Juilliard.”

  Blake glanced at Mac and rolled his eyes. Mac looked away, almost as if she didn’t like Blake at all.

  Or perhaps because she liked him too much.

  Then the patio door opened, and Nolan Hotchkiss, the man of the hour, sauntered onto the lawn with a smug, I’m-the-lord-of-this-party look on his face. He strolled to two boys and bumped fists. After a beat, they glanced Mac’s way and started whispering.

  Mac sucked in her stomach, feeling their gazes canvass her snub nose, her glasses with their dark hipster frames, and her large, chunky knit scarf. She knew what they were talking about. Her hatred for Nolan flared up all over again.

  Beep.

  Her phone, which sat next to her on the tiled ground, lit up. Mac glanced at the text from her new friend Caitlin Martell-Lewis.

  It’s time.

  Julie and Ava r
eceived the same missives. Like robots, they all stood, excused themselves, and walked to the rendezvous point. Empty cups lay on the ground in the hall. There was a cupcake smashed on the kitchen wall, and the den smelled distinctly of pot. The girls convened by the stairs and exchanged long, nervous glances.

  Caitlin cleared her throat. “So.”

  Ava pursed her full lips and glanced at her reflection in the enormous mirror. Caitlin rolled back her shoulders and felt for something in her purse. It rattled slightly. Mac checked her own bag to make sure the camera she’d swiped from her mom’s desk was still inside.

  Then Julie’s gaze fixed on a figure hovering in the doorway. It was Parker Duvall, her best friend in the world. She’d come, just as Julie hoped she would. As usual, Parker wore a short denim skirt, black lace tights, and an oversize black sweatshirt. When she saw Julie, she poked her face out from the hood, a wide grin spreading across her cheeks and illuminating her scars. Julie tried not to gasp, but it was so rare that Parker allowed anyone to see her face. Parker rushed up to the girls, pulling the hoodie around her face once more.

  All five of them glanced around to see if anyone was watching. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Mackenzie admitted.

  Caitlin’s eyebrows made a V. “You’re not backing out, are you?”

  Mac shook her head quickly. “Of course not.”

  “Good.” Caitlin glanced at the others. “Are we all still in?”

  Parker nodded. After a moment, Julie said yes, too. And Ava, who was touching up her lip gloss, gave a single, decisive nod.

  Their gazes turned to Nolan as he wove through the living room. He greeted kids heartily. Slapped friends on the back. Shot a winning smile to a girl who looked like a freshman, and the girl’s eyes widened with shock. Whispered something to a different girl, and her face fell just as quickly.

  That was the kind of power Nolan Hotchkiss had over people. He was the most popular guy at school—handsome, athletic, charming, the head of every committee and club he joined. His family was the wealthiest, too—you couldn’t go a mile without seeing the name Hotchkiss on one of the new developments popping up or turn a page in the newspaper without seeing Nolan’s state senator mother cutting a ribbon at a new bakery, day care facility, community park, or library. More than that, there was something about him that basically . . . hypnotized you. One look, one suggestion, one command, one snarky remark, one blow-off, one public embarrassment, and you were under his thumb for life. Nolan controlled Beacon, whether you liked it or not. But what’s that saying? “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” And for all the people who worshipped Nolan, there were those who couldn’t stand him, too. Who wanted him . . . gone, in fact.

  The girls looked at one another and smiled. “All right, then,” Ava said, stepping out into the crowd, toward Nolan. “Let’s do this.”

  Like any good party, the bash at the Hotchkiss house lingered into the wee hours of the morning. Leave it to Nolan to have an in with the cops, because no one raided the place for booze or even told them to cut the noise. Shortly after midnight, some party pics were posted online: two girls kissing in the powder room; the school’s biggest prude doing a body shot off the star running back’s chest; one of the stoners grinning sloppily, holding several cupcakes aloft; and the party’s host passed out on a Lovesac beanbag upstairs with something Sharpied on his face. Partying hard was Nolan’s specialty, after all.

  Revelers passed out on the outdoor couch, on the hammock that hung between two big birch trees at the back of the property, and in zigzag shapes on the floor. For several hours, the house was still, the cupcake icing slowly hardening, a tipped-over bottle of wine pooling in the sink, a raccoon digging through some of the trash bags that had been left out in the backyard. Not everyone awoke when the boy screamed. Not even when that same someone—a junior named Miro—ran down the stairs and screamed what had happened to the 911 dispatcher did all the kids stir.

  It was only when the ambulances screeched into the driveway, sirens blaring, lights flashing, walkie-talkies crackling, that all eyes opened. The first thing everyone saw were EMT workers in their reflective jackets busting inside. Miro pointed them to the upper floor. There were boots on the stairs, and then . . . those same EMT people carrying someone back down. Someone who had Sharpie marker on his face. Someone who was limp and gray.

  The EMT worker spoke into his radio. “We have an eighteen-year-old male DOA.”

  Was that Nolan? everyone would whisper in horror as they staggered out of the house, horrifically hungover. And . . . DOA? Dead on arrival?

  By Saturday afternoon, the news was everywhere. The Hotchkiss parents returned from their business meeting in Los Angeles that evening to do damage control, but it was too late—the whole town knew that Nolan Hotchkiss had dropped dead at his party, probably from too much fun. Darker rumors posited that perhaps he’d meant to do it. Beacon was notoriously hard on its offspring, after all, and maybe even golden boy Nolan Hotchkiss had felt the heat.

  When Julie woke up Saturday morning and heard the news, her throat closed. Ava picked up the phone three times before talking herself down. Mac stared into space for a long, long time, then burst into hot, quiet tears. And Caitlin, who’d wanted Nolan dead for so long, couldn’t help but feel sorry for his family, even though he had destroyed hers. And Parker? She went to the dock and stared at the water, her face hidden under her hoodie. Her head pounded with an oncoming migraine.

  They called one another and spoke in heated whispers. They felt terrible, but they were smart girls. Logical girls. Nolan Hotchkiss was gone; the dictator of Beacon Heights High was no more. That meant no more tears. No more bullying. No more living in fear that he’d expose everyone’s awful secrets—somehow, he’d known so many. And anyway, not a single person had seen them go upstairs with Nolan that night—they’d made sure of it. No one would ever connect them to him.

  The problem, though, was that someone had seen. Someone knew what they’d done that night, and so much more.

  And someone was going to make them pay.

  FIVE DAYS LATER

  CHAPTER ONE

  ON A SUNNY THURSDAY MORNING, Parker Duvall fought her way through the crowded halls of Beacon Heights High, a school that handed out MacBooks like they were, well, apples, and boasted the highest average SAT scores in all of Washington State. Overhead, a maroon-and-white banner read CONGRATULATIONS, BEACON HIGH! VOTED BEST HIGH SCHOOL IN THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST FOR THE FIFTH YEAR IN A ROW BY U.S. NEWS & WORLD REPORT! GO SWORDFISH!

  Get over yourselves, Parker wanted to shout—though she didn’t, because that would seem crazy, even for her. She looked around the corridor. A gaggle of girls in their tennis skirts congregated around a locker mirror, diligently applying lip gloss to their already impeccably made-up faces. A few feet away, a guy in a button-down shirt handed out flyers for the student government elections, his smile blindingly white. Two girls came out of the auditorium and brushed past Parker, one of them saying, “I really hope you get the part if I don’t. You’re just so talented!”

  Parker rolled her eyes. Don’t you realize none of this matters? Everyone was striving for something or clawing their way to the top . . . and for what? A better chance at the perfect scholarship? A better opportunity to score that perfect internship? Perfect, perfect, perfect, brag, brag, brag. Of course, Parker used to be like that. Not long ago, Parker had been popular, smart, and driven. She had a zillion friends on Facebook and Instagram. She made up complicated polls that everyone participated in, and if she showed up at a party, she made the event. She was invited to everything, asked to be part of every club. Guys would escort her to class and beg her for dates.

  But then It happened, and the Parker who rose from the ashes a year ago wore the same hoodie every day to hide the scars that marred her once beautiful face. She never went to parties. She hadn’t looked at Facebook in months, couldn’t imagine dating, had no interest in clubs. Not a single soul glanced at her as she stomped
down the hall. If she did get a look, it was one of apprehension and caution. Don’t talk to her. She’s damaged. She’s what could happen if you aren’t perfect.

  She was about to walk into the film studies classroom when someone caught her arm. “Parker. Did you forget?”

  Her best—and only—friend, Julie Redding, stood behind her. She looked perfectly polished in a crisp white blouse, her reddish-brown hair gleaming and her eyes round with worry.

  “Forget what?” Parker grumbled, pulling her hoodie tighter over her face.

  “The assembly today. It’s mandatory.”

  Parker stared at her friend. Like she cared about mandatory anything.

  “Come on.” Julie led her down the hall, and Parker reluctantly followed. “So where have you been, anyway?” Julie whispered. “I’ve been texting you for two days. Were you sick?”

  Parker scoffed. “Sick of life.” She’d bagged class for most of this week. She simply hadn’t felt like going. What she’d done with her time, she couldn’t quite recall—her short-term memory was a tricky thing these days. “It’s contagious, so you might want to keep your distance.”

  Julie wrinkled her nose. “And were you smoking again? You smell disgusting.”

  Parker rolled her eyes. Her friend was in what Parker had always called Mama Bear Mode, fierce and protective. Parker had to keep remembering that it was endearing, especially because no one else cared whether she lived or died. Julie was the only remaining vestige of Parker’s old life, and now that Parker was shrouded in shadow, Julie was Beacon’s new It Girl. Not that Parker begrudged her the title. Julie had her own demons to battle; she just wore her scars on the inside.

  They swept down the hall, passing by Randy, the hippie janitor, who was working his hardest to keep the school squeaky-clean at all times. The auditorium was ahead, and Julie pushed open the heavy wooden door. The large room was filled with kids, yet it felt eerily quiet. A lot of people were sniffling. More shook their heads. A knot of girls hugged. As soon as Parker saw the big picture of Nolan on the stage, her blood pressure dropped. The letters RIP were spelled out in flowers beneath his photo.