Dead Girls Don't Lie Page 15

  Several cries of “yeah” and “what’s going on with that?” filter through the crowd.

  “Agent Herrera of the FBI has taken over the investigation. He will answer all questions.” Eric steps back, looking relieved to let someone else handle the crowd.

  Agent Herrera steps forward. “The gun in question was legally registered to Jose Ortiz and was determined not to be the murder weapon. The suspect was not the Jose Ortiz we originally thought he was, so he was released.”

  “Then what have you found out? Anything? My wife is afraid to leave the kids alone.” This time the question comes from Brent Thompson, father of Mitch Thompson, one of the captains of the football team.

  “We are looking into several leads.” For a second Agent Herrera’s eyes find mine again. I try not to turn away because I don’t want to look guilty.

  “What about the gang connection? I heard the girl who was killed was part of a gang.” I don’t catch who asks that question.

  “We are investigating a possible gang connection, but at this point we can’t say whether the victim was the target, or if this was a random act.” Agent Herrera says “the victim” like Rachel wasn’t a real person. “At this point we haven’t seen any other evidence of gangs in Lake Ridge.”

  “So what can we do to keep ourselves safe? As a single mother,” Claire’s mom says the last part pointedly, reaching for my dad’s arm, “I need to know how to keep this from happening to my daughter.”

  “I’ll tell you how to keep all of us safe,” Brent Thompson again. “It’s time for the police department to start checking green cards again. We all know that ninety percent of the migrants who come here are illegals and are already breaking the law. How do we know where they came from or what they’re capable of? It’s time to get rid of the bad element that’s invaded this town. What do you say, Sheriff, how about doing your job?”

  Eric looks uncomfortable; he clears his throat. “Unfortunately it would be impossible to check all the documents of all the people who come here to work on a seasonal basis. We have to rely on the employers to—”

  “Like they care,” Brent says. “All the farmers care about is cheap labor. It doesn’t matter if the people they bring in are gang members or murderers or—”

  “Easy for you to say,” William Harris, who owns one of the biggest farms around, breaks in. “I want to know how I’m supposed to harvest my crops if I have to keep track of everyone who comes to me looking for a job.”

  Brent turns around to face him. “That’s part of your responsibility as—”

  “This is not an immigration issue.” Agent Herrera’s voice cuts through the arguing. “We have reason to believe that the person who committed this murder was someone the victim knew, someone who lives here.”

  The room goes silent again for a few seconds, and then the buzzing reaches a fevered pitch. People are throwing out accusations about Rachel: “I heard she was a gang member,” “a drug dealer,” “a prostitute.” “How do we know she wasn’t working with the illegals?” And then the questions get stupider: “How do we know she was here legally?” “What about her mother? I heard she had ties with a gang in Mexico.”

  I try to shut it out. Rachel and Araceli have lived here longer than we have. Rachel was born in Pasco.

  “Quiet down.” Eric’s voice booms through the noise. “This kind of speculation will get us nowhere. What’s important is that we come together as a community and send the message to whoever did this, that gangs and violence will not be tolerated in Lake Ridge. We can do this by watching out for our neighbors like we always have, but maybe we should step things up a bit. Keep an eye out for anything strange, watch for and report graffiti or anything that looks like it could be gang related. We do not want this kind of element in our town.”

  “Your sheriff is right,” Agent Herrera says. “Experience has taught me that the best defense against gangs is a strong community. It isn’t the responsibility of the people in this town to find out what happened.” He’s looking at me again. “Leave that to the proper authorities. We just ask that you keep a watch out and report any suspicious behavior. Sheriff Cross and I have outlined some points we would like to go over …”

  The meeting drones on. A lot of talk about neighborhood watches and graffiti patrols. Agent Herrera doesn’t offer any solid answers. I feel like coming here was a waste of my time.

  Just as the meeting is ending, Dad stands up. “In the spirit of community cooperation, I would like to invite everyone here to help with the cleanup at Araceli Sanchez’s house on Saturday. I think it would go a long way toward creating a sense of community.”

  Some of the people are nodding in agreement. Others, like Brent Thompson, are shaking their heads. I see it in their eyes: “She brought this on herself.”

  When the meeting is over, I get up quickly. I’d like to leave before Claire’s mom gets her hooks into Dad and makes him talk to her all night, but more important, I want to leave before Agent Herrera sees me. I lose on both points. Claire’s mom already has her arm looped through Dad’s, talking about how scary it is to be a single parent these days, and Agent Herrera is walking toward us.

  “Miss Draper, I have something to return to you, and I have a few questions,” Agent Herrera says.

  Claire’s mom’s eyes get really big. Dad untangles his arm from hers. “What kind of questions?”

  Agent Herrera’s eyes bore into mine. “We found some things on your daughter’s phone that we would like her to explain to us.”

  Chapter 20

  The four of us—me, Dad, Agent Herrera, and Eric—all squeeze into the sheriff’s office in the back of the town hall building. Agent Herrera takes the chair behind the desk, Eric perches on the edge, and Dad and I take two chairs across from them.

  “I thought you might want to have this back,” Agent Herrera says, sliding my phone across the desk. I take it and turn it over in my hands, waiting for the blow to fall and the questions to come.

  Dad starts first. “What did you find out about Rachel’s phone?”

  Agent Herrera leans forward. “We traced payment of the phone bill to a bank account in Spokane. Unfortunately, the person the account was registered to doesn’t exist. The account was opened with false documentation about eighteen months ago. We haven’t been able to determine who was actually paying the bill. We’ve continued the cell service, hoping that someone will attempt to use the phone and then we can get a trace on it. So far, that hasn’t happened. It’s possible that the phone was destroyed by the murderer.”

  “I don’t see what any of this has to do with Jaycee,” Dad says.

  Agent Herrera looks from Dad to me. “The phone records we recovered show that a large data file was sent from the victim’s phone number to Jaycee’s phone number on the night of the murder. Perhaps a video file?” He catches my eye, holding my gaze. “Do you know what was on that file? Was that what you deleted?”

  I’m confused, looking to Dad for help. “I deleted a text message. I don’t think there was anything attached to it. I didn’t see anything like a video file.” I look around the room. “I promise.”

  “We aren’t saying we don’t believe you,” Eric says gently. “We’re just trying to find out what happened.”

  “Did anyone else have access to your phone that night?” Agent Herrera says.

  “There was this guy at the party, Peyton Harris, he—” I stop myself, realizing that Dad doesn’t know anything about the party yet.

  “Go on,” Agent Herrera says, all three of them are watching me closely now.

  I look down at my hands. “I was at a party, at Skyler’s house. Peyton Harris stole my phone.” I turn to Dad, trying to get him to understand. “I didn’t want to go to the party, but Claire and Taylor were going. I … I wanted to call you to come get me, but I couldn’t find my phone because Peyton had it. Skyler got it for me. Then he took me back to Claire’s house. He didn’t want to be at the party either.” Dad looks so disappointed
that I want to disappear. “I’m sorry. I should have told you—”

  “How long do you think this boy had your phone? Did you see him do anything to it?” Agent Herrera says.

  “I don’t know. He hid it in the laundry room. He was just messing around. I didn’t know about the message, if I had …” But I can’t answer that question. I deleted Rachel’s text, would I have deleted something else, like a video file? I don’t know. I only know that whatever she was trying to tell me was important. I wish I had seen it.

  Agent Herrera leans back, like he’s tired of all of this. “Unfortunately, without the victim’s phone, we have no way of finding out what was on that file, or on the message she sent you. By the time we knew to look for them, the data had been recycled by the cell phone carrier.” I hear the accusation in his voice, this is my fault. I should have come forward sooner. “If you find anything else, please bring it to my attention, or to the attention of Sheriff Cross, immediately.”

  I think about telling them about the card in the cross, the pictures, the gouged-out initials, and everything, but Rachel’s words keep coming back to me, don’t trust the police. She said it more than once. There had to be a reason.

  Dad answers for me. “She will.”

  Chapter 21

  She was sneaking around with a guy. Going to parties she wasn’t supposed to go to. She had a phone her mom didn’t know about. All these things described Rachel before she died.

  And now they describe me.

  I expect a lecture on the way home, for Dad to get mad again, but instead he sounds sad. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me about the party. I would have come and got you, no questions asked.”

  I want to erase the hurt from his face, so I say, “I would have called you, but Skyler offered to take me home. It was just easier, and after Rachel … I didn’t think the party was important enough to make you worry about it.”

  “I guess I’m glad you have a friend like Skyler,” Dad says. “And I’m glad he has someone like you. I know he’s struggled a lot, especially since his mom died, but he seems to be doing well now. Just promise you’ll be careful. Remember what I said about you two not being alone. I meant it.”

  I think about the phone and a hundred other things that maybe I should tell him about, but I can only manage, “Okay, Dad.”

  “I mean later. Right now you’re still grounded.” He sighs. “Another thing, I talked to your mom again last night. She wants you to come stay with her for a little while, until things get settled down here.”

  I’m annoyed that Mom called again, but that she didn’t bother to talk to me. “Why did she talk to you about it, and not me?”

  “Maybe she wanted to ask me about it before she brought it up to you.”

  “So what did you say to her?”

  He won’t look at me. “I said it might be a good idea.”

  I laugh, but then I realize he’s serious. “You honestly think DC is safer than Lake Ridge?”

  “No, but … it might not be a bad idea to give you a break from everything here. Besides, your mom misses you. You haven’t been to see her for a long time.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s her fault, she’s always too busy. She’s always making promises she can’t keep.”

  “She’s doing her best,” Dad says. “We both are.” He’s silent for a while and finally he sighs. “Look, maybe I’ve been too tough on you, about a lot of things. I know I’m just a dad who doesn’t get what a teenage girl wants or needs, but you have to trust that I’m trying to do what’s best for you. I don’t want you to think you can’t come to me with anything.”

  “Okay, Dad,” I answer, but inside I’m squirming. There’s too much I can’t tell him. “But I don’t want to go stay with Mom right now.”

  He breathes something that sounds like a sigh of relief. “Okay.”

  I think about my conversation with Dad for a long time after he goes to bed. I need to cut back on the lies, starting with the phone. I can’t keep it, but I don’t know how to make Skyler understand why.

  I start with: Thanks for the phone, but I can’t keep it.

  His answer sounds hurt: Don’t u like it?

  I love it, but it’s too expensive.

  He answers: I have money, don’t worry about it.

  I don’t ask him where the money came from. I already know he has a trust fund from his mom. I wonder if my dad helped set it up. I wonder if his dad knows about it.

  My dad won’t let me keep this.

  Don’t tell him.

  I don’t need it anymore. I got my other phone back from that cop.

  But this one is better. U don’t have to use ur dads computer.

  I can’t think of an answer for that. He’s right. The phone does give me access to the Internet whenever I want it. Despite everything Dad said, I don’t think I can ask him if I can use the computer without getting a lot of questions. Maybe I should hang onto the phone just for a little longer.

  He texts back: This is just for us. Don’t give anyone else this number.

  I like that idea. Kind of like the note-exchange place Rachel and I had in the old fireplace. I text back: K.

  He ends with: I have to be up early tomorrow, TTYL. Luv you. Night.

  That stops me. On top of my guilt I have another nagging question: is “luv you” in a text the same as “I love you?”

  I feel like things are happening fast between me and Skyler, maybe too fast. I was kissing him in the church parking lot, something I’d never dream of doing before. I’ve known of him my whole life, but in some ways I feel as if I barely know him. We went to grade school and middle school together, but until the end of this year, we’d never really talked.

  Rachel talked to him sometimes, but she talked to everyone. I remember they sat together on the way home from the eighth-grade field trip. Some guys were teasing him on the bus, I’m not sure what about, but she left me alone and sat by him. I wonder if he remembers that. I wonder if he heard her tell me she thought he was weird the day he was behind us on the way home from school. I hope not.

  I glance at the text again. Maybe he’s as nervous about this as I am. Maybe that’s just what having a boyfriend is like. I wish I could ask Rachel. I’m sure she wouldn’t think he was weird now, not if she got to know him.

  I answer simply: Night.

  Then I try to put it out of my mind. I have other things I need to worry about. I put the page of pictures on my bed, pressing out the wrinkles with my hand, trying to make sense of it. I think about what I found out today. I’m sure now that Manny was the guy she was talking about. She was in love with him, and then she found him dead. I feel sick, thinking about how she cried all night, and how she wouldn’t talk about it. It must have been so horrible for her. I know she was afraid to go to the police, but why didn’t she tell me?

  I wonder how long she knew Manny, but I’m not sure it matters. In just a few weeks Skyler has become a huge part of my life, like I can’t remember what it felt like not to have him in it.

  Maybe I do love him.

  I touch the new phone sitting on my bed beside me. Who texted her that night? Manny? Or was he already dead?

  I look at the pictures again, trying to find something easy, something I can go after tomorrow if Dad leaves me alone. The number 18 stands out again. It was Evan’s jersey number, but I don’t think that’s what she meant.

  I search the number 18 and gangs on my new phone. I come up with a gang called the 18th Street Gang. I skim the article. Words stand out to me like “multi-ethnic” and “transnational.” It says there are members of the 18th Street Gang in 120 cities and in 37 states. Are they here? Could Evan be part of a gang?

  I push that idea out as soon as it hits my brain. Agent Herrera said there was no evidence of other gang activity in Lake Ridge, and the symbols were all for one gang, the Cempoalli.

  I look at the paper again. The words above the number don’t make any sense. “Making the cut.” It seems
like that should mean something to me, but I can’t figure out what.

  I need to sleep, but first I have to check on one more thing. Something that’s been bugging me. I pull up a Spanish to English translator and type in “boba.” It comes up with words like “silly,” “stupid,” and “naive.” I close the browser, disgusted.

  I should have guessed.

  I hide the paper and my phone in my bottom drawer, next to Rachel’s broken necklace. That drawer is getting stuffed with too many secrets. I lie on my bed and try to turn my brain off by concentrating on what it felt like to have Skyler standing close to me, twisting the end of my braid in his fingers, inches away from kissing me. Then by remembering what it felt like when he kissed me the first time … and when I kissed him …

  I’m drifting off, my brain getting fuzzy, when I think I hear something outside. I sit up fast, listening. I hear it again. It sounds like someone is standing by my window. I left it open to let the cool air in.

  I stay in bed, too afraid to move.

  The wind billows my curtains away from the window. Then I see it. A piece of paper stuck to my screen, fluttering in the breeze like a trapped moth, and making a soft scraping noise. I listen again, but I don’t hear anything but the paper and the wind. I climb out of bed and creep across the room. The picture of Rachel’s room is burned into my mind, so I avoid walking in front of the window.

  As I get closer I realize the note is on the inside, slipped through an opening cut in the corner of my screen. I reach for the paper, free it with trembling fingers, and read the message inside.

  The police couldn’t save her, and they won’t be able to save you. Keep your mouth shut and mind your own business, bitch.

  The bottom is signed with a symbol I’ve come to recognize, the sign for the Cempoalli.

  I slam the window shut and run to Dad’s room. I pause outside and listen to him breathing. I reach up to knock, the note clutched in my fingers, but there’s another piece of paper stuck to his door, no words, just the same symbol.