Good Girl, Dead Girl (Valencia Lamb Book 1), page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Also by Emily Kazmierski
Emily Kazmierski
Copyright © 2023 Emily Kazmierski
Dedication
Untitled
Questions with No Answers
Lies I Tell Myself
The Universe Throws a Vicious Curve
My Brain is On Fire
As God is My Witness
I am Not as Slick as I Thought
Not in the Mood for Pancakes
Sweet Potato of Fortune
After the High
You Must Be Joking
I Did Something Stupid
The Pissing Contest
Frenemies with Benefits
One Door Opens and
Calling in My Favor
The Lick Test Yields Mixed Results
One Off
Protocols Suck
Liar Like Pinocchio
All That’s Left to Do is Jump
Fine, I’ll Talk to McCandles
Sticky Fingers
Between Rock and a Hard Place
Rock Almost Gets His Kisser Kicked
Burning a Couple Bridges
My Boyfriend is an Idiot
Playing Chicken
Folly and Ignorance
You Seeing This?
Way Too Much Puke
Too Soon
Janice Catapults the Crap
Keeping Pace
Not Going Out Like That
Pouring One Out for Agatha Christie
Valencia and Rock
Acknowledgements
Also By
About the Author
Also by Emily Kazmierski
Don’t Look Series
Don’t Look Too Close (a prequel novella)
Don’t Look Behind You
Don’t Close Your Eyes
Embassy Academy Trilogy
Deadly First Day
Lethal Queen Bee
Killer Final Exams
Ivory Tower Spies Series
For Your Ears Only
The Walk-in Agent (a Julep Short Story)
The Eyes of Spies
Spy Your Heart Out
Spy Got Your Tongue
Over My Dead Body
Other Novels
Malignant
All-American Liars
Emily Kazmierski
Copyright © 2023 Emily Kazmierski
California, United States
Cover Design: Andrea Fodor, Creya-Tive Book Cover Design
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2023
www.EmilyKazmierski.com
Dad,
Thank you for your everyday example
of what unconditional love looks like.
Questions with No Answers
I enter the classroom balanced on the bladed edge of a hush, and then the whispers and dirty looks begin. My classmates are backlit by the morning sun brushed over the windows, pressing closer as if keen to hear their muffled palaver. Heady glances cut my way, lambent eyes drawn toward a vulnerable member of the herd.
No one has moved on from what happened six months ago. It’s still the first topic on the tip of everyone’s tongue. But no one will come out and ask me about it. Instead, they coil and hiss like rattlesnakes, warning me not to step too close.
Staring right back, I stalk past the first column of desks to the back of the room.
Janice Hill sticks her foot out, catching my brown booties. My body staggers forward, heart jumping between my ears as gravity flexes its muscles. Is this what a mouse feels like after the initial strike?
A pair of hands grabs my flailing elbows to arrest my momentum. Those sturdy hands withdraw as soon as I have my feet under me. My stomach doesn’t get the memo, lurching downward until it lands with a jolt.
“Cool it, Jan,” a low voice says, then grumbles into the back of my head, “I got you.”
That voice makes me go rigid. Oh no. No, no, no.
Tensing to spring, I whirl away. Pointedly ignoring a snarl from my very favorite person Janice, my eyes train on the guy who spared my nose from what would have been a bloody break. Tie strewn around a tanned neck. I sweep my attention up to expressionless walnut brown eyes set against bronzed skin.
Rock Agani.
Perfect.
With a muttered “thanks,” I brush past him and slide into an empty desk along the back wall. Pull my uniform jacket tighter around my torso and do the buttons to hide my embarrassment. Portia, my Shakespeare-obsessed best friend, leans over from the next desk. “You okay? That was close. I can’t believe that wench tried to trip you on the first day of school.”
Rock takes the seat next to Janice’s. Reaching across the aisle, she slides her hand into his. He mirrors her when she leans in to whisper in his ear. That girl rubs me in all the wrong ways. I grimace at the back of Janice’s perfectly styled, slick ponytail before canting my head toward Portia.
“You can’t believe the most popular girl in school hates me because she’s pissed about her best friend’s murder, and I’m an easy target? Come on, Porsh.”
“It’s been six months.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Want me to talk to her? I’m pretty sure she knows, deep down, it’s not your fault.” My other best friend, Destin, slides into the desk on my other side, propping his skateboard against the wall.
“Thanks, Des, but no. And I’m pretty sure she doesn’t.”
“Maybe someone will throw up in class and everyone will forget you’re the daughter of the town’s infamous disappearing sheriff.” The naked hope in his eyes is sweet. That’s part of why we’re such good friends. Destin’s optimism balances my cynicism. That, and he’s useful for reaching stuff that’s too high for me. Short person problems.
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
We attend St. Vivian’s Catholic school. No, the teachers aren’t nuns. For some reason whenever I tell someone I go to a Catholic school they think we’re taught by nuns. For the record, I’ve never even met a nun. Our teachers wear dark slacks or skirts with a blue button-down emblazoned with the school’s emblem.
“Welcome back from summer break, everyone. Who’s ready to have a great senior year?” Miss Wayne asks, standing beside her desk and smiling at all of us bright-eyed, bushy-tailed students. She’s been our first period teacher since freshman year, so she knows everybody pretty well. Too bad she didn’t see Janice’s little stunt. She’s a teacher who would actually do something about it. Janice deserves a whole lot of… something unpleasant for pulling that stunt. Garbage duty in the school courtyard, maybe. Seeing Janice picking up empty chip bags and greasy food containers with latex-gloved hands would be incredibly satisfying.
Destin tosses his sun-drenched hair off his forehead. Taps his pencil eraser on the desk. He’s always moving, even if it’s in small increments like this. I don’t think he knows how to sit still.
Especially since Gracia died. She was the only one who could make Des slow down, simply by holding his hand. It was ridiculously cute, not that I’d ever say that out loud. Portia would never let me hear the end of it if she knew I swooned over how our best guy and Gracia treated each other. They were couple goals. Clearly in deep like, but not over the top about it.
Janice and Rock on the other hand… if there was room in our standard issue desks, she’d sit in his lap. My stomach twists at the mental image, so I focus on the teacher.
Miss Wayne aims a sympathetic smile at the room. “As everyone has probably heard, Sheriff McCandles--”
“Interim Sheriff,” I mutter. Portia shoots me a look.
“--is set to make an announcement this morning regarding Gracia Cuoco’s death. I’ve decided that we’ll watch it together as a class, since it’s a tragedy that has affected all of us. If you feel watching will be upsetting, please see me. The librarian has offered a quiet space for any students wishing to avoid watching today’s announcement. I’d also like to note that I am here if you need to talk. As is the school counselor. Would anyone prefer to be dismissed to the library?”
The classroom is dead quiet. Not a single hand goes up. Looks like everyone is just as desperate for answers as me.
Miss Wayne walks to the front of each row, handing people in the butt-kissing seats stacks of black and white composition notebooks to pass back. “Once the sheriff’s statement is over, we’ll do our first silent journaling session of the year. Since I know you all missed writing down your thoughts so much, I won’t give you a prompt this time. Write about whatever you want, anything from your response to the sheriff’s statement to what you ate for breakfast. Like always, I won’t be reading them, so the only requirement is that you’re honest.”
A handful of groans chorus around the room. Some of us enjoy the quiet writing time, and others act like it’s basically torture. I can’t say I missed the journaling, but I don’t mind it. Since no one is ever going to read it, I don’t have to be the perfect sheriff’s daughter between those college-lined pages.
I write my name on the front of the pristine journal in big block letters with my favorite multi-colored pen. Vale
Portia writes “Mrs. Shakespeare” on the front of hers, because she wouldn’t be herself without the bard fixation and the vaguely renaissance hairdos she rocks most of the time. On the weekends, she usually sports a corset or flower crown.
Flickers of blue light draw our attention to the front. A guy in the front row turns off the room’s overhead lights as Miss Wayne navigates to the sheriff department’s website where they stream video sometimes. Usually public safety announcements, but occasionally a statement like the one McCandles is giving today. It happened a few times last year when that serial killer was stalking a couple of girls in town, when my dad was still sheriff. Then there was the flood that wrecked most of downtown. Other than that, Hacienda is pretty quiet.
Until a local girl was murdered and the sheriff mysteriously disappeared. The tide of whispers that swelled over Hacienda still hasn’t subsided. I’ve felt like an outsider ever since.
Shifting in my seat, I flip through the journal’s pages. Raise my hand. “Hey, Miss Wayne, what do you do with the full notebooks at the end of the year?”
The teacher looks up from her laptop just as the Interim Sheriff’s image appears on the projector screen. He’s standing behind a podium in front of the station, his ashy blonde hair short against his scalp. No cowboy hat, like my dad used to wear. McCandles wears a lariat. Those haven’t been cool since John Wayne was a big box office draw.
McCandles runs his hands along the edges of the podium, resting them at the bottom corners. His expression is grim as he looks straight into the camera.
Everyone in class goes quiet, the murmurs and laughter dying a quick death.
The interim sheriff begins. “Good afternoon, fellow Haciendans. As you all know, it has been six months since Gracia Cuoco, a local teenager who attended St. Vivian’s, was found murdered under the Copper Street bridge. We’re following every lead, with the hope of solving this case and bringing Gracia’s killer to justice.
“With that in mind, we’d like to once again ask the public for help. If you saw something that night, or heard about it from someone, please come forward. It would mean a lot to the department, and to the Cuoco family.”
I shift in my seat, eyes dropping to the desktop. The flame of hope I’ve guarded in my chest flickers and threatens to go out. The investigation has stalled. That’s why McCandles is in front of the cameras, appealing to his constituents. Rubbing my temples, I try to ignore the itch that comes with being stared at. Should be used to it by now.
“I have time for a few questions.” The interim sheriff points two fingers at a woman reporter who shoves to the front, throwing elbows when the men don’t give her space.
Humming in indignation, she asks, “Excuse me, Sheriff, but there have been rumors that the former sheriff, Daniel Lamb, was a suspect in the murder. Can you comment on that?”
My hand comes up to hide my gaping mouth. All the whispers and rumors the past few months, and no one has had the gumption to come out and ask what the reporter just did.
McCandles frowns. “Sheriff Lamb has never been a suspect in the Cuoco murder. Those rumors are unsubstantiated, and the department would appreciate it if you didn’t repeat them.”
The reporter opens her mouth to ask a follow-up, but McCandles moves on to someone else. Questions shot rapid-fire at the podium make a ruckus akin to dogs barking.
I rub at the bridge of my nose. McCandles stated clearly that my dad wasn’t a suspect, but I doubt it will stop people from wondering. It hasn’t kept them from probing my mom and me for information over the past six months. My gut churns.
Janice pops her gum, shooting a disgusted look my way before raising her hand. “Excuse me, Miss Wayne? Didn’t they have evidence that Sheriff Lamb killed Gracia? Why would they deny it?”
Destin and I reach for each other, twining our hands. On the other side, Portia wraps her hand around mine. I look down at our hands, letting the touch ground me. This can’t be easy for him either. After Gracia’s death, Portia and I did our best to cheer him up. One time, he put his head in my lap while we watched the stupidest movie we could find and mocked it mercilessly. He didn’t move away, instead letting me play with his sun-bleached hair, eyes heavy. I think he needed that consistent, undemanding contact. I needed it, too. Portia, Des, and I have been best friends our whole lives, since our parents signed us all up for the same tumbling class and we’d bonded over the yogurt-covered raisins he’d smuggled in his pocket.
I slow clap. “Wow, Janice. You actually remembered a current event. Incorrectly, but still. Nice to see you apply yourself.”
Janice sticks out her tongue, coated in pale pink gum.
“I am sick when I do look on she,” Portia says under her breath.
I don’t know how to quit while I’m ahead. “There isn’t any evidence,” I spit out, “because my dad didn’t kill Gracia. Weren’t you listening to McCandles just now? He said as much.”
“He said your daddy dearest wasn’t a suspect. He didn’t say he was innocent. And if he was, why did he disappear that same night? It’s a pretty big coincidence, if you ask me.”
My fists clench. “Maybe he was tired of seeing your lip-smacking around town.”
“Better than being stuck at home with you.”
“My dad isn’t a murderer.”
“Oh, come on. The whole town knows he--”
The overhead lights come back on above our heads, making me blink away the pain and anger coloring everything red.
“That’s enough, ladies,” the teacher says. “I’m sure Sheriff McCandles is doing everything he can to solve Gracia’s murder, and Sheriff Lamb’s disappearance. Let’s begin our silent journaling time. You have ten minutes, starting now.”
Janice frowns, bending over her journal and jabbing a pen at the page.
Based on the length of the lines Portia is jotting down, she’s writing something in iambic pentameter. Destin’s already got a block of his chicken-scratch going.
Miss Wayne squats next to my desk. “You okay, Valencia?”
I nod, because what else can I do? I can’t tell her I’m exhausted from being treated like a pariah. That everywhere I go my ears fill with gossip. That’s the girl whose father disappeared after Gracia Cuoco was killed? Why would he run if he wasn’t guilty? I heard they’d been sleeping together for months, and his wife kicked him out.
Six months of Sheriff McCandles promising to do everything in his power to find my dad and coming up empty. Six months of my mom’s maddening refusal to talk about Dad’s disappearance. Why he might have run even though he was innocent. Where he might have gone. Mom’s insistence on maintaining the status quo. It all knots together like a hulking mass of sharp-clawed chaos in my mind.
Because after all this time, I know the statistics of finding a missing person alive. Usually, in a case like this, the person is never found. Either because they’re dead, or they abandoned their unsatisfying life and built a new one somewhere else. My finger traces the lines on the blank first page of the notebook. Dad loves us; I know he does. A lifetime of seeing that weary smile of his when he got home from work tells me it’s true. The gentle way he’d kiss Mom’s cheek when he thought I wasn’t looking. The quick hugs he gave each of us before leaving if he was called away after hours.
My eyes fall to my still-unsullied paper. Not that night, the night Gracia Cuoco died… He left without letting either of us know he was going. He never came back.
When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t know yet that my life had been turned upside down. That one of my best friends had been viciously killed and left under a decrepit bridge. That my dad had walked out the door for what might be the last time.
The hot tickle of having eyes on the top of my head pulls my gaze up. A direct line between me and Rock Agani snaps into place. He doesn’t even twitch when I catch him watching me over his shoulder. Slowly, he turns away, peeling apart the strands of the line between us until the connection dissolves amid the scribbling of pencils and pens on paper.
Maybe I imagined it. There hasn’t been anything between us for seven years.
Living under the scrutiny of the entire town makes being in Hacienda feel like wearing a too-small bra with wires that poke into my tender flesh whenever I move. Today, before Interim Sheriff McCandles’ announcement, I had been hoping for a reprieve from the obvious fishing for details, and accusatory stares. For redemption in the eyes and hearts of my neighbors.
