Dead Girls Don't Lie (18 page)

He grins. “I guess I can’t take you out to lunch then.” He reaches for my braid, lying on my shoulder, and rolls it between his fingers.

My face is on fire; I can’t look him in the eye. “Nope.”

He puts his face so close to mine I can taste his breath. “And kissing you right now would probably be a bad idea.”

I’m having a hard time breathing, either because I’m scared of getting caught or because I do want him to kiss me. “Definitely a bad idea.” Even as I say it, I lean closer to him.

He pulls away, drops the end of my braid, and leaves me hanging. “I guess I’ll just go then.” He turns toward the door. I fight the urge to follow him and make him finish what he started, at least kiss me good-bye. He sets a white box on top of the files I was working on. “I’ll leave this here for you. Kind of a ‘sorry my family is weird’ and ‘thank you for saving my life’ gift.” He looks over his shoulder, giving me the same grin that I’ve seen on Evan. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

It takes me a second to compose myself after he leaves. When I hear his feet on the stairs, I bend over and straighten the files in the drawer. The note from Skyler’s mom is still poking up. I listen for footsteps again and pull it out.

There are only four lines on the paper, written in the same
loopy scrawl I saw on the picture in the darkroom, but the handwriting looks more shaky:

Good-bye, angel.
Don’t give in to the demons.
I’m sorry for everything.
I love you
.

The second line is chilling. It makes me think of what the letter said about Skyler’s mom being mentally ill. She must have been slipping out of reality when she wrote the note. I wonder if Skyler has ever seen it.

I push the files all the way in and lock the drawer, but I stay on the floor for a while, thinking about how hard things have been for Skyler. His dad is obviously a jerk and his mom killed herself. Maybe that’s why he was alone so much at school.

I stand up, looking at the box he left. I cross the room and pick it up. Then I sit down in Dad’s big chair and slide my finger along the taped side, my heart dancing with anticipation, listening for any sign that Dad is coming back from his meeting. A little afraid of what I’ll find, I open the box. Inside is a phone. A nice phone. A really nice phone. One with Internet access, like Rachel’s phone. I pick it up and hold it in my hand in disbelief. The hand-me-down, ancient cell the FBI guy took from me was nothing like this. My stomach twists with a sort of embarrassed guilt, the kind you get when someone gives you something that you know you can never pay them back
for. Almost like Skyler can read my thoughts, the phone buzzes.

Ur welcome. Call me l8tr

Before I can figure out what to say back, the doorknob twists again. I slide the box into the recycling bin under the table and slip Skyler’s present into my pocket.

Chapter 18

Dad walks in; behind him are three men. “Did you finish the filing, Jaycee?” he says without introducing his guests to me.

“Yes.” I study the men who are with him, trying not to stare. They hover in the doorway. I’m sure they’re migrants, they’re all in worn jeans and stained long-sleeved shirts, holding their hats, looking nervous and out of place next to Dad’s white shirt and tie.

“Good, thank you. I need you to go home now, so I can help these gentlemen,” he says.

“Do you want me to get you some food?” I ask, but he’s already at his desk, looking distracted.

“No. I’ll get something later. Go ahead and take the truck. I’ll grab something in town and walk home when I’m done here.” He motions for the men to come in.

“Okay,” I say, trying not to look too eager.

“Straight home, Jaycee,” he reminds me.

“Sure, Dad.” I answer easily enough, but inside I’m shaking. This was exactly what I was hoping for, freedom from Dad and access to the truck. I cover the phone in my pocket with my hand as I squeeze by the men on my way out.

I’m almost out the door when he stops me again. “Jaycee, there’s a town meeting tonight. That FBI agent and Sheriff Cross are going to talk about gangs and what the community can do to stop them. I think I should be there. If you want to come,” he hesitates, and I see his inner struggle to shelter me from everything, “I think it might be a good idea if you came too.”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll go.” I feel a little surge of triumph mixed with fear. I know it’s a big leap for him to let me go to the meeting, like he’s finally letting me see that there are bad things in the world. It almost makes me feel guilty for what I’m about to do.

I start out heading home, but once I’m out of sight of Dad’s office I go around the corner toward the park. One of the pictures of me and Rachel was taken at the Sweetheart Log. I might as well start there.

It’s too hot for anyone to be playing outside, so the park is pretty much deserted. I go to the tree, kneel beside it, and scan the letters that are carved there.

I look for Rachel’s name, and then my name, then our initials. The carvings blur together, and I can’t find anything. I sit down and take the paper out of my pocket. I position myself exactly where the two of us were sitting on the log, but I still can’t see anything.

I look from the picture to the log, but nothing comes. Hot
and frustrated, I think about heading home, but then the bells at the Catholic church chime one o’clock. The picture of Rachel and the group at the baptism was taken there. Father Joseph might know who was in the picture.

The sanctuary is empty. The candles in the front aren’t lit, but it still smells like burned incense. I’ve been here with Rachel a few times, so I know Father Joseph’s office is through a door behind the pulpit. I go to it quick, before I lose my courage.

When I knock he calls, “Just a minute.”

While I wait, I pull out the collage. Rachel was standing almost where I am now, on the other side of the podium, with a big group. The woman in the middle is holding a baby wearing a long white gown. As the door opens I fold the paper so only the picture from the baptism shows. I stand forever, watching the clock tick by precious minutes. I’m not sure what Dad will do if he finds out I didn’t go straight home.

Finally Father Joseph comes out of the office. “Why, hello, Jaycee.” He looks surprised to see me. He’s older than my dad, with a large bald patch down the middle of his round head, pleasantly plump wrinkles across his tan face, and a surprisingly small body. “What can I do for you?”

I show him the picture. “I was hoping you could tell me who these people are.”

He takes the paper from my hand. “What is this for?”

I prepared myself for this one, even rehearsed the lie while I was waiting. “I was thinking about putting a scrap-book together for Araceli.”

He pats my shoulder. “That’s a nice idea.” He peers back
over the picture. “The baby’s name is Esme. They named her after her grandmother, Esmeralda. The boys are the baby’s cousins: Beto Ramos, Eduardo Perez, and Manuel Romero. The woman in the back …”

I don’t hear anything else he says. I’m stuck on one name, Manuel Romero, the boy that died in the old house. Rachel met him, at least once. I can’t think of a delicate way to say it so I just jump in. “Did Rachel know him?”

“Who?” Father Joseph looks startled.

“Manuel Romero, the boy in the picture, did Rachel know him. Were they friends or … something?”

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t say if she knew him. He wasn’t here very long before …” He sighs. “Manuel was in some trouble in California before he came here, gangs I guess. His uncle had hoped to straighten him out.” He rubs the silver hairs left on top of his head. “Why do you ask?”

I look at the worn wooden floor. “I just think it would be ironic if … if they were somehow connected.”

“That would be a sad irony indeed.” His usually smiling wrinkles droop across his face. “It’s always sad for me to see young people heading down the wrong—”

“Do you think his family would be okay if I went to visit them? To find out some things … for the scrapbook,” I add quickly.

A strange look crosses his face. “They don’t live here anymore. They moved soon after he died. I don’t know where they went. Sorry, I’m not very much help.”

“No. That’s okay,” I say. I wish I could talk to Manny’s
family, but it sounds like that’s impossible. “I need to get home. Thank you anyway.”

He grips my hand. “I hope you’re doing okay.” His pale-brown eyes meet mine. “This is such a hard thing for you young people.” I nod but can’t answer him around the lump in my throat that his kindness brings out. “Give your father my best,” he says and releases me.

I nod again.

Once I’m back in Dad’s truck I make a quick decision. I know I’m pushing it, but now that I know what I’m looking for I need to go back to the Sweetheart Log.

I go over it again, looking for the initials RS and MR, but I can’t find them. Finally I step back, hold the picture up, and compare the log to what I see in front of me. The image is small, but I can make it out. The letters—their initials—are there, carved just below Rachel’s leg in the picture. I go back to the log and look at that spot again, but they aren’t there now. A big chunk of the log is missing where they should be. There are a lot of initials on the log that have been crossed out or carved over, but this one looks like it has been gouged out.

The message is clear. Manuel and Rachel did have something going on, and someone wasn’t very happy about it.

Chapter 19

The tiny town hall is packed with people, all talking at once. Eric is at the front. He’s talking to Agent Herrera, who’s half paying attention and half scanning the crowd. Dad leads me to a seat near the front of the room, next to Claire and her mom. I wish it was in the back, because Agent Herrera picks me out immediately. I avoid his gaze and try to make myself smaller as Eric calls for quiet.

“Thank you for coming,” he says when the room has quieted to a buzz. “I know this is a busy time of year for all of you, so we will try to keep this meeting as brief and as informative as possible. First, I would like to assure all of you that we are working closely with federal authorities to insure the safety of—”

“What about the man you arrested?” The question comes from the back of the room. Without turning I recognize Mrs. O’Dell’s voice. “The man who had the gun.”

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.”