Dead Girls Don't Lie (22 page)

I don’t answer him. Luckily Claire and Taylor are already here. They provide a perfect distraction. Claire has her shirt
all the way unbuttoned so I can see the strings and scraps of fabric that pass for her bikini top.

“Is the hot tub open?” Peyton asks.

Evan keeps his eyes on the gap in Claire’s bikini top. “Yeah, I’ll go get the cover off.”

As he heads for the back porch, I have another thought. “Hey, Evan, do you still have your digital arts project?”

He stops. “Why?”

I try to sound casual. “I just want to look at it, so I know what to expect.”

He gives me a funny look, like he’s not sure if he should be suspicious or not. “Maybe. I haven’t gotten around to throwing away my high school stuff yet.”

“Evan, weren’t you going to open the hot tub?” Claire sidles up beside him and puts her hand on his arm.

He looks down at her and hesitates only a second before he says, “Right,” and goes outside.

As soon as they’re on the back porch I head for Evan’s room. I want to see if I can find his project and compare it with Rachel’s. I need to hurry. If this party is anything like the last one, Evan’s bedroom won’t be vacant for long.

I pick his room out pretty easily. It’s a disaster, exactly the kind of room I’d expect a guy like Evan to have. His bed is torn apart and covered with dirty clothes. A pile of dirty dishes is stacked next to the bed, and the garbage can is overflowing with pop and beer cans. The walls are decorated with sports stuff and pictures of girls wearing even less than what Claire is wearing. Guys can be so gross.

His desk is covered with papers. It looks like the assignments from his entire high school career. I shut the door behind me, lock it, and then get started on the pile on the desk, not caring too much where the papers end up after I look at them. I think the only thing that would look suspicious in this room would be if I cleaned it.

The pile is like a reverse history of Evan’s high school career, starting with unaddressed graduation announcements and letters from colleges. I can’t help but skim the letters as I set them aside. They all start with the words, “We regret to inform you …”

I finally reach some actual classwork: essays, math papers, and notes. I’m about a third of the way into the pile when I see it, poking out from below a pile of old school newsletters. I grab the journey map, scattering the rest of the pile onto the floor.

I turn on the desk lamp and lean forward to study it. The back of Evan’s jersey is the first picture on this one: the beginning of a journey instead of the middle, like on Rachel’s. It’s the same picture, down to the three words above it, “making the cut.” The rest are pictures of Evan playing football. They go from his freshman year to the end of his junior season, when they went to the state championship. Except for a couple of pictures taken at practice, Evan’s senior year isn’t here at all. The last picture is one that Rachel had on her picture, a black broken heart, maybe symbolizing the state championship game they lost junior year, the entire wreck of a senior season, or maybe the scholarships he didn’t get. At the top is the grade, a big red A. I guess the whole thing is kind of poetic in a self-centered, poor-me kind of way.

I go back to the first picture and the three words above it, “making the cut.” That part still doesn’t make any sense to me. The football team doesn’t do cuts, everyone makes the team. Maybe he meant that he got to play varsity his freshman year. Did Rachel mean to include the whole picture, words and all, or did she just plunk Evan’s jersey picture in the middle of her collage to fulfill the assignment?

The door handle shakes, like someone is trying to come inside. I scramble to my feet. Someone knocks. “Occupied,” I yell, stuffing the collage in the only place I can think of to hide it, in the front of my bra. Thanks to the push-up feature on my borrowed tank top I actually have a gap to put it in. I pile the papers back on the desk, wondering how hard it would be to get the screen off Evan’s bedroom window and get out that way. Another knock.

“We’re in here,” I yell back, hoping it will discourage whoever is at the door if they think there’s more than one person in the bedroom.

“Jaycee?”

I freeze halfway to the window. It’s Skyler.

“Is that you?”

I stare at the door, weighing the consequences of Skyler catching me in his brother’s room against sneaking out the window, but the window is next to the back porch and the hot tub. I’m sure someone will see me climbing out. I tuck the paper farther down my bra and go to the door.

“Jaycee.” He looks dumbfounded when I open it. He looks over the top of me. “Who is in here with—”

“I’m by myself. Hiding out.” I try to look casual, but I know
I’m not pulling it off. “I thought you’d be here, so I came with Claire and Taylor, but Evan said you had to finish the hay.”

“I broke down. Something’s messed up with the baler. I don’t know how to fix it, and I can’t get ahold of my dad, so I came home.” He looks kind of dazed. “What are you doing in Evan’s room?”

“Your room was occupied?” It comes out as more of a question than a statement.

He shakes his head. “They aren’t allowed in my room. Ever.”

I can’t tell if he’s hurt or angry or something else. Everything he says comes out cold and measured. He just keeps looking at me, like he can’t believe I’m here.

“And why are you dressed like that?” he finally says.

“Claire and Taylor … these are Claire’s clothes … they …” I suddenly feel really stupid for letting them dress me.

“I don’t like it. It isn’t you at all. Unless”—he looks beyond me, maybe still looking to see who I was sharing the bedroom with—“you aren’t who I thought you were.”

I lean against the door frame, so tired of trying to hold everything in and keeping secrets. Wanting to somehow erase the look on his face and prove to him that I am whoever he thought I was. Finally I settle on the truth. “I was looking for this.” His eyes get big when I reach into my bra, but he looks away. When he looks back again, I smooth out the paper to show him.

“But why?” he asks.

The sounds of the party—loud music, squealing girls,
splashing from the hot tub—suddenly feel too close. “Can we talk about it somewhere else?”

Skyler waits so long to answer that I think he’s going to say no. Finally he sighs, “I guess so.”

I follow him out of the room and into the hall. Peyton and some girl I’ve never seen before are coming from the opposite direction. He has a towel around his waist and his skin is bright red, like he just got out of the hot tub. I start to turn away, not sure if he’s wearing anything besides the towel. Then I see his chest.

“You two leaving?” He grunts to Skyler.

I don’t hear how Skyler answers. I’m too busy staring at Peyton’s chest and the number 34, standing out against the red, a scar carved into his flesh.

Chapter 24

“What’s up with Peyton’s chest?” I whisper to Skyler when we’re outside on the way to the darkroom. It looks like the number I saw in the pictures, only it isn’t the same; that one was 20.

Skyler’s eyes get icy and cold, like it bothers him that I noticed Peyton’s chest. “Guys like him do stupid things.”

When it comes to describing Peyton, “stupid” is usually a corrective adjective, but I get the idea that there’s more going on than that.

“Why thirty-four? Wasn’t that his jersey number? Why would he, why would anyone—” I’m a breath away from admitting what I saw in the darkroom. “Is that part of the whole hazing thing that happened a few years ago?”

Now Skyler looks scared. “How do you know about that?”

I backtrack. I can’t tell him I was snooping in the darkroom. “My dad helped Coach with the case, I remember him talking about it. Is it still going on?”

Skyler lets out a disgusted but shaky breath. “We aren’t supposed to say, but since I don’t have any loyalty to any of them anymore, I guess I can tell you.” He turns around to see if anyone is listening. “Yes, it’s still going on. They call it ‘making the cut.’”

I catch my breath, gripping the piece of paper tighter in my hand.

“They take the players that, according to them, are the least worthy to be on the team to some secret location. Then they make them do stupid things to get on the team, one of which is carving their jersey number into their skin. ‘Supposedly’”—he makes air quotes—“the coach knows nothing about it.”

“That’s insane,” I say. “Did you have to do it?”

“No.” His voice goes cold again. “If you’re good enough, and you have someone to vouch for you, then you don’t have to do it. Lucky for me, I had Evan.” He says “lucky” like it has a bitter taste to it.

“But Peyton was pretty good, right? And Evan has a tattoo with his number on it, and a scar. I’m sure he didn’t—” I stop when I see the icy look Skyler gives me.

“No. The great Evan Cross didn’t have to ‘make the cut.’ He did it voluntarily.” He shakes his head. “Peyton too. Most everyone on the team does it at some point, out of some twisted sense of loyalty. I didn’t want to. I was never much of a team player. Maybe that’s why Evan jumped me so hard in practice.” He rubs his wrist, like the memory actually causes him physical pain.

I stay back, afraid of the anger I see in him. “Wait. Evan was the one who broke your wrist?”

“Stupid, freak accident, at least that’s what he told Dad.” He keeps his eyes straight ahead. “But I knew the real reason. He didn’t want me on the team. He didn’t want me to screw up their perfect season.”

“But they didn’t have a perfect season. They lost every game.”

“I know. Ironic, isn’t it?” Skyler flips the lights on in the darkroom, shuts the door behind us, and crosses his arms. “Any more questions about my brother and the football team, or are you ready to tell me what’s really going on? Why were you in Evan’s bedroom anyway?”

I hold out Evan’s assignment. “I found this. It’s just like the paper Rachel left for me.”

Skyler takes the paper from me, but he barely glances at it. “Yeah. They were in the same class. So?”

“She put that file on a micro-SD card, hid the card in her necklace, and left the necklace in a place only I could find it. It has to be important.” I’m talking fast, trying to convince him that I’m not completely insane.

He looks at the paper again, licks his lips, and then talks slowly, like he’s worried about hurting my feelings. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Digging up stuff about Rachel, trying to figure out what happened. It could be dangerous, and I don’t want—”

“I can handle it,” I snap at him. He’s starting to sound like Eduardo.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I just think …” He sighs. “Rachel is dead, Jaycee. Nothing you do is going to bring her back.”

“I know that.” But when he says it, I wonder if somewhere inside I thought figuring things out
would
bring her back.

“Why don’t you just take all this to the police and let them figure it out?” He waves the paper in the air like he’s annoyed.

“It has to be me. I’m the only one who …” I don’t know how to explain it to him. His brother is the sheriff. I can’t tell him Rachel didn’t trust the police, or that I’m not sure if I do either.

“I know you and Rachel used to be close, but that doesn’t mean—”

“She asked me to help her. She tried to call me the night she died, but I ignored her because I was—” I cover my mouth. I’ve said too much. Now he’ll know how horrible I am.

“Was with me,” he finishes.

I nod, afraid if I open my mouth I’ll start crying.

He sets the paper down on the table and puts his hands on my shoulders, his blue eyes soft with concern. “That doesn’t mean it’s your fault that she died.”

“What if it is?” I grit my teeth to keep the tears from falling.

He pulls me against him, even though I go stiff and don’t return his embrace. He breathes into my hair. “No. It’s not your fault. I promise, it’s not your fault.”

“But I have to do something. I can’t just pretend it never happened. I can’t let everyone condemn her and say it was her fault. I can’t—” I close my eyes and lean against him to keep from crying.

He holds me for a long time without saying anything. Finally he kisses the top of my head. “Okay.”

“Okay what?” I look up at him.

“Okay, I’ll help you. I’ll help you find out what happened to Rachel.”

I pull away, shocked. “What? Wait. No. You don’t have to—” I think about the note in my room and the symbol on Dad’s door. I can’t drag Skyler into this mess too.

He puts his finger on my lips. “Yes, I do. To keep you safe. Besides, I have access to things you don’t. Things like crime scene photos and coroner’s reports and—”

“Wait, you can get that kind of stuff?” The idea scares me and excites me at the same time.

“Remember how I said I wanted to be a crime scene photographer? Eric lets me look at that kind of stuff sometimes. I don’t think he’s supposed to but … he does, and anyway, I know where the files are in his office. I might be able to get you what you need.”

“You’ll help me?” I feel like a huge burden has been taken off my shoulders. If Skyler helps me with this, I don’t have to be all alone.

He smiles, but it’s kind of a sad, resigned smile. “On a couple of conditions. First, don’t do anything stupid without me. I mean it.”

I nod. His concern makes my stomach do flips. “And second?”

“Give me tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Forget about all of this, just for tonight, and be with me.”

“I can’t …” Now my stomach is doing an entire tumbling routine.

“Not like that.” He ducks his head. “I just want to spend time with you, away from all of this.” He sweeps the room with his hand, but I get the idea he means more than just the room or even Rachel’s death.

I look around, thinking about how nice it would be if I could forget, even if it was only for one night. “Okay.” I breathe.

“Great.” His smile gets bigger. “But first, will you please change out of that outfit and wash off some of this?” He brushes his hand across my cheek. “You don’t need it, any of it.”

I’m not sure how to take that. “What am I supposed to wear?”