Dead Girls Don't Lie (7 page)

“But if the first part is true, and I’m gone, I need you to know how sorry I am. I shouldn’t have taken you to the house that night. His secret was mine to keep because I loved him, not yours. I should have never let you get close enough to be involved. I was stupid, and now it’s too late for either of us to go back.”

She pauses a second, swallows, and I hear fear in her voice when it starts up again. “I guess I should have told you everything from the beginning, but I thought it was more important for you to be safe than it was for us to be friends. I’m sorry for that. I probably would do the same thing again, but I’ve missed you so much.” Her voice cracks.

My throat closes over with pain.

“I’m sorry to ask you to do this, but if I’m gone, you’re the only one who can find out the truth.” She waits, like she wants to give me time to take that in.

“I’ve learned a lot in the last ten months. Like who I can trust, and it boils down to two people, you and Eduardo. You, because you always do the right thing, and Eduardo, because he has as much to lose in this as I do. You can trust him, Jaycee: him and no one else. Not the police. Let me repeat that. Do. Not. Go. To. The. Police.”

She looks behind her like she’s worried someone is listening. “Eduardo has a huge attitude problem. He hates this town
and gringos and probably even fuzzy yellow kittens. He’s a hothead. If I left this up to him, someone else would probably end up dead.” She laughs, but I’m not sure she’s joking. “But he has a good heart. Trust him. You’ll need each other.

“I’m sorry to dump this on you, especially now, when you’re confused and grieving the best person you’ve ever known.” She smiles her mischievous smile. “Okay, maybe not the best person you’ve ever known, but certainly in the top ten.” I can’t believe she’s making jokes about her being dead, but it’s so much the Rachel I used to know that I want to replay that part again and again. Then she gets serious.

“I thought I had to do this alone. I’ve done a lot of things you wouldn’t approve of to find the answers I needed. Even broke my best friend’s heart.” She looks away, but I can tell how sorry she is. She shakes her head like she’s struggling to get control.

“I’ve worked so hard, but there’s still something missing, something I think will end this whole thing. I’m going tonight to try and find it. If I do, you’ll probably never see this, except maybe at our twenty-year class reunion.” She smiles again, but it’s a sad, scared smile. “If I don’t make it, it’s up to you to find the truth. I told Eduardo to give you something, something that only you will understand. I know you can help me. You’re the best person I know. You always do the right thing.”

She presses her index finger against the screen, so I can see the tiny line across the tip of her finger, the leftover scar from when we bled together. “I love you,
chica
. I’m sorry for everything. I miss you.”

The video stops on that image. I press my index finger against hers through the glass on my phone, sharing the signal we’ve had since that day on the playground, the signal that we would always be friends.

I sit back, my mind reeling with questions. She knew she was going to die. I’m sure of that now, but why? Whose secret was she trying to keep? Eduardo’s? But she wants me to trust him? Was it worth getting killed for? Eduardo gave me the loyalty pledge, “something that only you’ll understand,” but I don’t understand any of it.

I close my eyes and slump in Dad’s chair, heartsick, wanting to help but knowing I can’t do what she needs me to do. I’m not strong, not like she was. I’m the quiet one, the one who hangs out with little kids and blushes when a guy tries to talk to her.

What can I do?

I’m startled by my phone vibrating. Another text comes through.

tomorrow 10 am answer then delete all

It’s attached to a picture of the grade-school playground.

I don’t know what to do. Answer? Delete? Pretend I never saw the messages? Take it to the police and finally tell them everything? Somehow the video from Rachel is harder to ignore than the text. Maybe because it’s more like she was asking in person.

I scroll back to the text from “E” and compare the number from the forwarded text and from the text I just got. They’re the same. Eduardo. What does he know? What does he think I know?

A truck drives by. It sounds like Dad. I panic, pick up my phone, and delete the last two texts and the original one from Rachel.

I set the phone on the desk, shove the newspaper back into the recycling, and head for the door. As soon as my hand touches the knob, my phone vibrates again. I turn around and pick it up.

4 her

I close my eyes, breathe in, and then quick, before I can change my mind, I text Eduardo:

I’ll be there.

Chapter 8

Evan said Rachel’s house was still a mess, but I wasn’t expecting this. I stare in disbelief at the front yard that until a few months ago was so familiar. The house is small, only one level, and old, but Araceli had painted it a bright yellow with white trim and a red door. There were always flowers in the yard, red geraniums in the boxes in front of the window, and the wide front porch was always clean.

Now the house looks like the wounded remnant of a war zone. The flowers in front have been trampled. Yellow police tape, now ripped and blowing in the breeze, hangs around the perimeter of the porch, and shattered pots of dying geraniums litter the ground. The front door, the porch railing, the sidewalk in front, and the shed have all been tagged with red graffiti—circles full of the same eye shapes painted in red. I don’t know what they mean, but they’re familiar enough to make me shiver.

Rachel had the front bedroom because Araceli works
nights and it was easier for her to sleep in the back of the house. I expected a bullet hole, or maybe two, but the front of the house is peppered with them. Rachel’s bedroom window is shattered. The leftover bits of glass line the frame like jagged, gaping fangs. The window is covered by a quilt, tacked on the inside. I wonder what I would find if I went inside Rachel’s bedroom.

Dad reaches for the door handle and rests his hand there without opening the door. “I’m sorry. I would have never brought you here if I’d known it looked like this.”

I should have told Dad I was still sick. I don’t want to face Rachel’s mom, or go to a house Rachel will never come back to, but my conscience got to me, so I said I would come. After everything, visiting Rachel’s mom felt like the least I could do.

I’m half a breath away from asking him to take me home when the front door opens and a man in a dark suit comes out, followed by Rachel’s mom. For the first time I notice the blue car parked in front, too clean to have spent much time in Lake Ridge. Araceli looks small, alone, and lost. She’s wrapping what looks like a dish towel around and around her hand. Dad opens the door and climbs out. He stands between my door and Araceli’s porch, like he’s trying to be a human shield between me and the awfulness. At the same time I know he’s waiting for me to get out. I force myself to open the door. When I reach him, Dad wraps his arm around my shoulders and we walk toward the house.

We’re almost up the stairs before the man on the porch
turns. “It looks like you have visitors, Ms. Sanchez.” His eyes fall on us only for a second, but in that second I can feel him measuring our guilt and innocence, like someone who does that kind of thing on a daily basis.

“Jaycee, Travis.” Araceli says our names with a mixture of shock and relief. “I’m so glad you came.”

Dad steps forward, and since his arm is still around me, so do I. He kind of herds me up the steps to the front porch and toward the door. I keep my eyes on Rachel’s mom, the only thing about this place that feels familiar anymore.

“This is Rachel’s best friend, Jaycee Draper,” Araceli says. The title makes my stomach twist around itself. As soon as I’m within reach she pulls me toward her, the way she did at the funeral. For a second I don’t think she’s going to let me go, but as soon as she does, I want to bury my face into her chest again, anything to avoid the hard black eyes of the man standing next to her.

“Rachel’s best friend.” The man repeats it slowly, like being Rachel’s friend makes me a criminal.

“Since kindergarten,” Dad says, pulling me away from both of them. He reaches his hand to Rachel’s mom. “Araceli, I want to extend my deepest sympathies.” I’ve never heard Dad talk to Rachel’s mom so formally, but when he extends his hand Araceli takes it as if he were keeping her from falling into a bottomless pit.

“If you’re Rachel’s friend, maybe you could answer some questions for me.” If the man speaking has a complete face, I can’t tell. All I can see are his eyes drilling into me.

“We haven’t been friends for a while,” I blurt out. To the left of the dark eyes, the pain lines on Araceli’s face deepen. I feel the weight of my disloyalty, but it feels like an association with Rachel spells guilt to the eyes in front of me. “I mean for a few months. We stopped hanging out about six months ago.”

“Oh? Why?” His stance stays stiff, and his eyes don’t leave mine.

I lick my lips, but I can’t find an answer that would satisfy his accusation.

“Rachel and Jaycee just took different paths,” Dad intervenes. “You know how teenagers are.”

“That’s all it was? No fight or anything?” The man directs his question back at me.

“No.” I say it slowly, positive he’s not interested in a fight between two teenage girls over a guy.

“Well, Jaycee. That being said, I still have a few questions I’d like you to answer.” The dark eyes find me again, shrinking behind Dad.

“And you are?” Dad’s voice holds a challenge that I’ve only heard a couple of times, when I watched him in court.

“Special Agent Herrera.” The man reaches inside his coat and pulls out a badge. “I’m part of the Spokane Violent Crime and Gang Task Force. Through the FBI.”
FBI?
My heart stops. “I specialize in drug- and gang-related crimes.” He slides the badge back in his pocket. “When was your last communication with Rachel?” I swallow hard. I can feel him weighing my expression, my breaths; my every move. “Her last phone call, or text?”

I’m suddenly confused. Does the video message I saw this afternoon count? It was from Rachel, but not directly. She told me not to talk to the cops, begged me. In spite of everything I’ve been taught about telling the truth, I’m not sure what’s right anymore. I start small. “She tried to call me a few nights ago.”

He flips open a little notebook. “When exactly?”

I want to look away, but I don’t dare. “Friday.”

His eyes flash with surprise, and I hear Dad and Araceli both draw a breath. “The night she was murdered?”

I flinch. “Yes.”

He writes something down. “Approximately what time was the first call?”

“Late. I’m not sure when.” I glance up at Dad, wondering if Detective Herrera is going to ask me where I was when Rachel tried to call me, knowing I can’t lie to him.

“I see. And did you have a conversation with her that night?”

“No. My phone was off. I didn’t see that she had called until later,” I say. His eyes are still boring into me so I include, “But she sent me a text.”

Dad and Araceli exchange shocked looks.

Agent Herrera stays steady. “And what did the text say?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t read it. I deleted it.” The lie and the truth come out with one breath. If I don’t admit what it said, I’m not responsible. Phone records can be traced. I’m sure Detective Herrera can find out what the text said without me.

“Oh?” Special Agent Herrera says.

Araceli looks shocked, hurt, and confused. She turns to me. “Jaycee, I don’t understand. A text? Rachel didn’t have a cell phone.”

Now it’s my turn to look shocked. Somehow I didn’t think that Rachel would have kept the phone a secret from her mom this whole time.

But Agent Herrera is nodding. “You aren’t the first of Rachel’s friends to tell me about her having a phone. But the other person couldn’t tell me where she’d gotten it. Can you?”

I swallow, look from Araceli’s hurt face to my father’s disappointed one. “She said her dad sent it to her. That he was paying for it.”

Araceli’s eyes widen. “No. No. She has no contact with her father. He wouldn’t have given her a phone.”

“But it seems she did have a phone.” Agent Herarra writes something down. “Perhaps of unknown origin.” He turns to me. “How long would you say she had this phone?”

“Almost a year.” I look up at Dad for help. “She showed it to me last summer. I didn’t know she hadn’t told her mom about it.”

“Do you have any idea where that phone is now?” Agent Herrera’s eyes are measuring me even more closely than they were before.

“No. I thought … I mean, she had to have had it with her. The text came the night she died.” I’m floundering again, not sure what the truth is.

“So I assume you have the number?” Agent Herrera holds his little notebook, poised and ready to write.

“It’s in my phone,” I answer, “but I don’t have it. My dad …”

“I’ve got it right here.” Dad pulls my phone out of his pocket. I don’t know why he brought it with him; maybe he was planning to give it back to me.

“I’m going to need to take that as evidence.” Detective Herrera reaches for my phone and Dad passes it to him. I feel like he’s handing over my life to a complete stranger. I’m suddenly very grateful I deleted everything, including the text I sent to Eduardo. But I’m not sure how cell phones work. Can Detective Herrera see what I’ve deleted? Can he tell I got a video message I didn’t tell him about? And what if I get another text from Eduardo? He turns the phone on and goes to my contact list. “I assume the number is listed here.”

I nod. “Under Ray.” When my dad gave me the phone as a surprise the day I started high school, Rachel’s number was the first one I put in. I’ve gone to delete it a hundred times, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

He writes down the number and then seals my phone in a plastic bag from his pocket. “Now, back to the text message you got the night she died. Why did you delete it?” The question comes from Agent Herrera, but I can feel it coming from all sides.