Dead Girls Don't Lie (13 page)

“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.

Claire’s mom nods. “Anyway, he had ties to a gang in Mexico. Looks like she crossed the wrong person and got killed for it.”

I pick up my crutches as quietly as possible. Until now, I’ve always felt like I belong at church, where everyone knows me, where everyone takes care of one another. But I can’t stay here. I can’t listen to them talk about Rachel like that. I can’t listen to a sermon about sin and damnation and lost souls.

I can’t listen and think about the possibility that Rachel is one of them. I knew her better than anyone. She’s not the kind of girl they’re whispering about. At least she wasn’t.

I catch Taylor coming in. “Tell my dad I didn’t feel good and so I went home, okay?”

“Where are you really going?” she says. “You’re going to see Skyler, right? Can I come? I really don’t want to—”

“Just tell him, okay?” It comes out harsh and so loud that Claire’s mom turns around.

Taylor blinks like I hurt her feelings. “Okay. Whatever.”

I shove the crutches under my arms and hurry out the door, ignoring the other members of the congregation coming in.

More than anything I want to run, run as far away from the church as possible. Away from the things those women are saying and away from the feeling that it’s my fault. If I had been a better friend to Rachel, if I hadn’t been jealous, if I hadn’t deserted her, maybe this never would have happened.

If I’d gone to the police.

If I hadn’t been afraid.

I leave the church behind me and walk, skip, and hop with my crutches as fast as I can, wishing I could move faster. I don’t turn around or look to see if Dad or anyone else is following me. I don’t care anymore. As I reach the top of the cemetery hill, I stop, lean on my crutches to catch my breath, and look around. From here, I can see most of the town: houses, duplexes, trailers, and the buildings that the migrant workers live in for the summer, scattered around the fields.

On the hill behind the church is a long expanse of green, dotted with cement markers and flanked on one side by a wall of trees. The cemetery where Rachel is buried.

I make my way up the hill, babying my left ankle as my crutches alternately dig in and slide on the grass, still wet from last night’s rain. Concrete numbers accost me from both sides, the years each person spent on this earth, literally carved in stone. I focus ahead, trying not to subtract the numbers, trying not to think about how many died young, like she did.

I’m drawn back to her grave at the edge of the cemetery, beside a row of trees that frame one side. The dark earth covering her is dotted with bits of green as the lawn starts to come through. There’s only a metal plate to mark where she’s buried,
RACHEL ARACELI SANCHEZ
, and more numbers. Darkness overwhelms me as I lean against the tree and draw in a breath, thinking about my best friend lying underneath all that dirt.

I close my eyes and try to picture her alive, but it’s like my
mind has blocked out her face, and all I can see is a body lying on a bed of white satin.

I brush my fingers across the top of the headstone next to her, and come back with my fingertips wet because of the rain. I think about what the women at the church said, what Evan said, and about what I’ve heard about Rachel. About how different the Rachel I knew was.

She changed after that night in the old house, little by little, until the Rachel I knew was gone. I tried to be loyal. I’ve kept her secrets, even now.

Maybe keeping secrets is what killed her.

Missing her hurts so much now I can barely breathe. A bird twitters from the tree, too cheerful to be looking down on so much pain. I shoo him away.

Skyler is probably at the church by now, waiting for me, but I can’t make myself move. I can’t go back to that church. I can’t face those women and everyone else there. I want to tell them that they’re wrong about my friend. Even after everything that happened. I have to believe that they are.

The bird flutters back down, perches on another headstone, cocks its head, and stares at me. I lean against my crutches, bend over, and brush some of the muddy dirt away from Rachel’s simple marker. “What happened that night? What did you see?”

I’m sure now that it all comes back to that night in the old house: what she saw, why we had to run, and why she was crying.

I’d never seen Rachel cry before, and I was scared. I
wrapped my arms around her and let her cry into my chest. I smoothed her hair and told her it was okay. I asked her if her foot still hurt. She nodded so I got her some Tylenol, but I was afraid to ask what was really wrong.

I should have pushed harder then; I should have made her tell me what happened before it was too late. In the darkest corners of my imagination, I sometimes wondered if the guy she told me about was the one who had texted her, that he had something to do with the kid who was murdered. But I couldn’t believe that Rachel would have anything to do with a guy like that. Now that she’s dead, I’m not so sure.