Dead Girls Don't Lie Read online

  “The library? Why? Do you need something to read?”

  For a horrible second I wonder if Evan told him about the books Dad left for me. “No,” I say quickly. “I need a computer.”

  He gives me a funny look. “You guys don’t have a computer?”

  My heart sinks. This is where I admit how weird my family is. “We only have one computer, in Dad’s office. And I don’t have the password.”

  “Seriously? Wow, your dad is strict.”

  “Or just weird.”

  “I bet I can get you into it. I got into the school’s computer once.”

  “Seriously?” Now it’s my turn to be shocked. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing too bad, just excused some absences my dad didn’t know about.” I’m not sure if he’s telling the truth or trying to impress me. “If you make me a sandwich, I’ll hack into your dad’s computer.”

  “I don’t know.” I hesitate, wondering if Dad is coming home for lunch. “How long will it take?”

  “I bet I can do it in less than five minutes.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Trust me.” He opens the front door before I can stop him.

  I follow him inside, trying to keep up without my crutches, guilt and fear churning in my stomach, but I need to figure out how to read the chip. Besides, it would be nice to use the computer any time I wanted to. I could find out more about Rachel’s murder and the other murder and the gang signs. That’s not exactly something I can ask Dad to use his computer for.

  I stop in the kitchen and set down my purse. I’m still not sure I dare let him into Dad’s office. “What kind of sandwich, PB and J, grilled cheese, or turkey?”

  “How about one of those famous PB and Js?”

  “Sure.” I shared my lunch at school with Skyler a couple of times because he said he’d forgotten his.

  He looks around the empty house. “So where is your dad?”

  “At his office in town, I guess.” I reach for the jam on the counter. Suddenly Skyler is behind me with his hands on my waist. With him so close, I’m painfully aware of the stack of dishes that are left in the sink and the countertop that still has crumbs from last night’s dinner. I slip out of his grasp and move toward the cupboard where the peanut butter is. “We should probably hurry.”

  Skyler looks around, avoiding my eyes like he’s embarrassed. “Right. What can I do to help?”

  “The peanut butter is on the top shelf.” I gesture above my head. Skyler leans toward me as he reaches up but purposely doesn’t touch me. He smells like hay and sweat, barely covered by the same cologne. I wonder if he put it on as he drove here. The idea that Skyler might be worried about how he smells around me makes my stomach clench, but in a good way. He gets the peanut butter, retrieves a knife from the drawer, and starts spreading it on the bread I’ve laid out.

  “Yuck,” I stare at his hands, streaked with what looks like grease. “You need to wash your hands if you’re going to make something I have to eat.”

  He looks at his hands sheepishly. “Sorry.” He walks over to the sink and slides the sleeves of his shirt up. As he reaches for the soap, I notice the scar I saw on his wrist goes all the way up his forearm in a long, jagged path. He catches me staring and pushes his sleeves back down fast.

  My mind races; the scar looks like someone cut him. “What happened?” I try to keep my voice even, like it’s no big deal.

  “Nothing.” He pulls away and dries his hands on a towel hanging on the stove. “I shattered my wrist playing football. I had to have surgery to put the bones back together.” His face clouds with a look I’ve never seen on him before. Anger? Pain?

  It looks too jagged to me to be a surgery scar, but then again, I don’t know what a surgery scar is supposed to look like. “Is that why you were gone so long last year?” I had forgotten about it until now, but Skyler missed almost the entire first term last year.

  “Yeah,” he says, but he won’t look at me.

  “You must have really screwed it up. You were gone for a long time.”

  “I dove for the ball and someone else dove on top of me. My wrist was twisted around nearly backward.”

  I cringe. “Ouch.”

  He reaches for the knife again. “Thus ended the illustrious reign of the Cross boys over Lake Ridge High sports.” The peanut butter tears through the bread as he spreads it harder than he needs to.

  I reach for a bowl. “I usually mix the peanut butter and jam together, so it’s easier to spread.” I get a spoon out of the drawer and scoop a glob of peanut butter into it. “So you couldn’t play after that?”

  He throws the shredded pieces of bread into the garbage. “I probably could have this year. But I don’t really want to.” He leans against the counter and watches me stir the jam and peanut butter together. “That looks kind of gross.”

  “But this is my secret recipe for making them taste so good.” I spread the mixture on two new pieces of bread. “Why didn’t you want to play football anymore?”

  “Football was Dad’s thing, and then Eric’s thing, and then Evan’s. I was never as good at it as they were. I’m not the hulking mound of muscle that they are.” His face goes dark again. It’s obviously a sore subject.

  I top off the sandwiches and then cut them in half, trying to think of some way to make him more comfortable. It was easier when we talked at lunch, but I guess we weren’t technically alone. “So what is your thing?”

  “Promise you won’t laugh.” He says it seriously, like I would honestly laugh at him.

  “I won’t laugh.”

  “Photography.” He pauses like he just delivered the punch line and I’m supposed think it’s funny.

  I slide the sandwiches on a plate. “Photography?”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m a real geek, huh?” He takes the plate from me.

  “I don’t think so. Actually, I think that sounds really cool.”

  “Thanks.” He looks relieved. “I’ll have to take your picture sometime.” He takes a bite out of his sandwich.

  “No. No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hate having my picture taken. I always come out looking too pale and with a dumb look on my face.” I take a bite of my sandwich and chew.

  “No you don’t.”

  “Yes I do. Every. Single. Time.” I point to a picture of me on the wall. “Case in point.”

  “That’s just because you’re trying too hard to pose, and the photographer didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “And you think you could do better?”

  “I know I could.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He opens it and takes out a picture. When he sets it on the counter I gasp. It’s a picture of me.

  My stomach does flip-flops. I’m not sure what to think. Not only does he have a picture of me that I didn’t know he took, but he keeps it in his wallet. “When did you take this?”

  He suddenly looks embarrassed, like he shouldn’t have shown me the picture. “On the last day of school, when you were walking home.” He rubs his hand across his scar nervously. “Do you like it?”

  I look closer at the picture. It’s black and white; the wind is blowing my hair over my shoulder, the light is just right. I don’t look too pale or stiff. Actually it’s the best picture I’ve ever seen of myself. “Is it vain if I say I do?”

  His face breaks into a relieved grin. “No. It’s honest.”

  “You’re really good. I mean, really. This is the first picture I’ve seen of myself that I’ve liked since before middle school.”

  “Thanks.” His whole face is lit up, both dimples creasing his cheeks. He takes the picture from me. “We’ll have to do portraits for real, sometime soon.”

  I make a face but don’t comment.

  He puts the picture back in his wallet and looks at his watch. “We need to hurry if we’re going to get into your dad’s computer. Where is it?”

  “In Dad’s office, but I’m not sure
…”

  He waits. “If you don’t want to …”

  “No, let’s do it.”

  I pick up my purse, and Skyler follows me into Dad’s office. He sits down at Dad’s desk, and I discreetly push away a stack of books with titles similar to the ones Evan saw, except these all begin with A Christian Parent’s Guide to …

  If Skyler notices, he doesn’t comment. He brings up Dad’s log-in screen. “Okay, what might your dad have for a password?” I shake my head, clueless. “Hmm, we’ll start with the obvious, how about your name?” He types it in. “Nope. When is your birthday?”

  “April 24.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” he says, but that isn’t the password either. He tries JC24, Jaycee4-24, and my dad’s birthday.

  I glance at the clock. If Dad is coming home for lunch he could be here any minute.

  Skyler looks around the room. “Any other ideas? People usually choose passwords that mean something to them.”

  I’m staring at the bookcase beside Dad’s desk and something else occurs to me. “Try Atticus.”

  “Atticus?”

  “Like Atticus Finch. Dad’s favorite book is To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  Skyler types it in and the computer opens to a web page. “Gangs: Are They a Problem in Your Community?” the headline screams.

  “Wow. Good call.”

  I lean forward to read the web page Dad has up. “The gang thing has really got everyone scared, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, crazy that this stuff is coming to Lake Ridge.” Skyler sounds disconnected, like he doesn’t want to talk about it either.

  But I need to talk to someone, so I blurt out, “Why would a gang want to kill Rachel? Why would they come all the way here to do it?”

  Skyler rubs the edge of the desk. “Maybe they were already here. The migrants come from all over. Eric says some of them have ties to gangs in other cities or in Mexico.”

  I’m thinking about the guys I heard talking by the school; they didn’t sound Hispanic. “Are you sure it was the migrants? There are lots of gangs listed here.” I lean forward to read through the list; I had no idea there were so many.

  “The symbol on Rachel’s house is from a Mexican gang based in L.A. called the Cempoalli.” Skyler moves the mouse over the word “Cempoalli” on the computer screen and clicks on the link. A page of red symbols like the ones on Rachel’s door comes up. I can’t tell if they match the one I saw on Eduardo’s back.

  “But why her?” I say it more to myself than to Skyler. I lean forward, trying to read more about the gang.

  Skyler is gripping the edge of the table, making the scar on his wrist stand out, white against his skin. “Maybe it wasn’t her they were after. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe she was just with the wrong person.”

  Eduardo’s face flashes through my head again. “But no one was with her when she died. It was a drive-by, right?” It hurts my chest to say that, because it was my fault that she was alone.

  “Associating with the wrong gang is enough for a death sentence with these people.”

  I think of the red mark on Eduardo’s back. He said that Rachel’s death was his fault, but Rachel said I could trust him. Maybe she didn’t know who to trust. I set my purse on the desk, weighing everything before I pull the chip out, but I need answers.

  “I found something.” I put the chip on the desk. “I think it was Rachel’s, but I don’t know what’s on it.”

  Skyler leans closer. He picks it up between his fingers and turns it over. “It’s a memory chip, a micro-SD chip. I have one like it in my phone, for music. Where did you get it?”

  I hesitate, wondering how much I should tell him. “She left it for me. I should probably take it to the police, but I want to know what’s on it first. Do you know what I need to do to read it?”

  He’s holding the chip up to the light, like he’s trying to see what’s on it. “You could read it on my phone, but I left it on the swather. If you had an adapter you could put it in any computer.” He touches the slot on the side of Dad’s computer.

  “I don’t know if my dad—” but before I can finish, the front door slams.

  “Jaycee, where are you?” My dad is home, looking for me. I’m in his office, with Skyler, and we just hacked into his computer.

  I hear him walk down the hall, the doorknob turns. I freeze, but Skyler reaches for the computer and turns off the screen, so it goes black. He takes a couple of steps so he’s beside the bookshelf when Dad opens the door.

  “Skyler?” Dad looks from Skyler to me in surprise. “Jaycee, what are you and Skyler doing in here?”

  My brain and my tongue can’t coordinate anything, but Skyler steps toward my dad. “Sorry. It was my fault.” I can tell he’s nervous, but he’s taking the blame for me. “Jaycee wanted to show me a book she was reading. Something about dating?”

  I stare at him in disbelief. His voice is shaking, and I don’t think Dad is buying it. His smile is kind of frozen in place. Finally he shakes his head. “I have lots of books I could share with you and Jaycee on dating.” He goes to his bookshelf and pulls out Dating and Intimacy: Why Wait? Skyler’s face goes red, but he takes the book. I want to sink into the floor. It’s like Dad just provided the literary equivalent of polishing his shotgun. Either that or he really expects Skyler to read the book. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with Dad.

  “Thank you. I’ll be sure to read it.” Skyler backs away. “I should go now. I need to get back to work.”

  “You’re welcome. Jaycee, you can walk him out,” Dad says. “Then we need to talk.” I don’t like the way he emphasizes the word “talk.”

  Skyler and I walk side by side in silence until we get to his truck. He reaches in the back and pulls out my crutches. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

  “It’s okay.” I glance back to the window, where I know Dad is watching. “Do you still have the little micro-whatever card?”

  “Oh, I put it in my pocket.” But he doesn’t offer to give it back. “I have an adapter for it. You could come over and …” He looks at the window. “Or I can copy it on a CD and give it to you at church.”

  “Church?” No one in the Cross family has gone to church as long as I can remember.

  Skyler nods toward the window. “I need some way to get on his good side, so he’ll let me see you.”

  I like the way that sounds, but I’m not sure I should let the chip out of my sight, so I hesitate.

  He reaches into his pocket, but he doesn’t pull the card out, he just covers it with his hand, like he’s protecting it. “I’ll be careful with it. I promise.”

  “Okay,” I answer. The only way I’m going to get to see what’s on it is if I let Skyler help me.

  “How was lunch?” Dad asks when I make it back in the house. He picks up Skyler’s plate and puts it by the sink. “Did you at least offer him a pop?” I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to decide if Dad is really mad that Skyler was here, or if he’s teasing me. He sighs and screws the lid back on the peanut butter jar, puts it in the cupboard, and then turns back to me. “I like Skyler. He’s a nice kid. And so far, he seems to have avoided the mistakes his older brothers have made.” He pauses again, and I wait for the but. “But I don’t want you to be alone with him. Not at our house, not at his house, not in a car, not anywhere.” He looks into my eyes, and I know he’s serious. “Promise me you’ll always have someone else with you, that you won’t ever be alone with him. Promise me you won’t ever go to his house.”

  I nod because I know that’s what he expects, but somehow, I’m not sure it’s a promise I can keep.

  Chapter 14

  “What did you do to your foot, dear?” Mrs. Francis says to me as soon as she walks into the church.

  “I slipped when I was running,” I answer with a patient smile. Church doesn’t start for ten minutes and I’m already tired of people asking what I did to my ankle. I’m waiting at the door because I want to catch
Skyler as soon as he walks in, so he doesn’t have to wander around the church looking for me. Dad’s already in his seat, but he’s talking to the pastor so he hasn’t noticed I’m missing yet.

  “Oh, that’s terrible. You need to be more careful.” She pats my shoulder, picks up the church bulletin, and goes to sit next to Mrs. O’Dell.

  Mrs. Francis puts her glasses on and peers at the bulletin. Almost immediately she starts to click her tongue. “‘A grieving support group for teens affected by the tragedy,’” she leans over to Mrs. O’Dell and reads loud enough for me and anyone close to hear her. “I hope that doesn’t interfere with bingo on Tuesdays. Tracy Fisher had another baby? What is that, number six? Like we need another Fisher kid running wild in the streets.” She shakes her head and keeps reading, this time to herself, her lips moving silently. She stops again, like she’s shocked. “I thought the ‘People in Need’ section was reserved for parishioners.”

  “No,” Mrs. O’Dell answers. “Pastor is big on reaching out to the community. Why?”

  “Look at this.” Mrs. Francis leans closer to Mrs. O’Dell but doesn’t lower her voice. “‘We’re asking for volunteers to help with the cleanup of Araceli Sanchez’s home and yard, following the tragedy with her daughter. We will be working in conjunction with Father Joseph in this effort.’” She clicks her tongue again. “Every time one of those poor Mexicans gets into trouble, we’re called on to help.”

  “I feel for that woman,” Mrs. O’Dell says, “losing a child like that.”

  “If you ask me, that child was lost a long time before she got herself killed. Did you see what she’d done to her hair, the eyebrow ring, and the way she walked around town half-dressed?”

  Claire’s mom sits down beside them. She looks at me and then lowers her voice, but not enough. “That Mexican girl who was killed? They say she was part of a gang. That she was into drugs, selling her body for money, about everything else you can imagine. I read in the paper this morning that they found a gun in the migrant housing, possibly the murder weapon. It belonged to Jose somebody.”

  “They’re all named Jose,” Mrs. Francis points out. Mrs. O’Dell chuckles.