Good Girl, Dead Girl (Valencia Lamb Book 1), page 12
Portia’s eyes skim the starry sky. “So we came here, and we’re drinking our smoothies in the food court when we spot Gracia with… your dad. They hugged, right there on the sidewalk where people could see them. God, Destin’s face. He looked so… crushed. I offered to talk to them, but he was falling apart.
“I know you said she was working for him, but Val, it didn’t look like they were working. They looked… close.”
My throat compresses. I can’t breathe. Portia’s words chip away at the wall I erected in my mind, creating pinprick holes in my current theory about my dad and Gracia.
I slide under the water, letting my body float unmoored while I think through everything Portia just confessed. Destin caught Gracia with my dad right in front of the resort where anyone could see them. It would have torn his heart to shreds to see them together. It would have hurt even more because of the friendship he had with my dad.
Portia is wrong. I know she is, but I can’t explain it. The holes her words created in my theories about that night close, leaving behind a solid wall. I know my dad.
If anyone were to suspect Destin of hurting Gracia, Portia could provide an alibi. I’ll have to tell Janice so she can stop tilting at windmills.
My dad must have an alibi too. It would be useful if I could find it. With my head tilted back, my eyes sweep the pool area, and the back of the resort building. A tiny, flashing red light shines over the exit door.
Water sloshes as I sit straight up. The resort is covered in security cameras. Gracia and my dad would appear in the footage from that night. Maybe it even shows them leaving separately.
Surging up from the water, I wring out my hair. “Can we go talk to Gus? I want to see the footage of that night.”
Portia nods slowly. “We can try, sure. He might show us if we ask nicely.”
Gus crosses his arms and leans back in the black rolling office chair. “No can do, kiddos. Nobody sees the security footage but the staff, and your dad.” He gives a pointed nod to Portia, but it’s hard to take it seriously coming from under those enthusiastic white eyebrows.
“Come on, Gus. For your only granddaughter and honorary granddaughter?” Portia stresses the familial ties with a little extra sugar in her tone. We’re standing in the doorway of the resort’s security office. Gus sits between us and the long desk topped with three monitors.
Gus’s gnarled fingers tap on the arm rests. “Wish I could, but rules are rules. How would it look if a former sheriff bent regulations for his family? Woulda gotten kicked out of office if anyone heard I did that.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” I try to placate him, taking a tentative step closer. I know how much law enforcement families have to be sticklers for rules. My dad never would have let me get away with anything, if I tried it. Tickets? I’d have to pay them. And if I’d ever gotten arrested? Slay the thought.
My gaze slips past Gus to the computer screens. I assume they’re a constant stream of footage throughout the resort, but right now they’re cycling through a batch of stock photos of wildflowers, mountain peaks, and idyllic villages.
I need to see that footage. My eyes fall on the half-drunk mug of coffee pushed to the edge of the desk. “Looks like your coffee’s getting cold. We could hold down the fort while you get a fresh cup.”
Gus scoops up the cup and takes a long drag. Grimacing, he declares, “I like my brew cold. Builds character.”
Sensing we’re fighting a losing battle, I pivot. Call it curiosity. “Why do you work here, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be retired?”
Gus whistles. “I tried being retired, but after a few months of sitting at home watching Jeopardy and eating microwave dinners, I about went stir crazy. I’m not proud of it, but I practically begged your dad to let me volunteer at the department. Once a cop, always a cop, I guess. And when my son-in-law was hired on to manage this place, he asked me to be his eye in the sky. I agreed to work weeknights because it keeps me from spending too much time in my recliner. Gotta keep myself sharp. Plus, I get to see a lot of my favorite granddaughter, here.”
Portia’s smile is tight. “Well, I’m happy you’re here instead of watching Jeopardy. That show is so boring. Not nearly enough Shakespeare.”
“Yeah, boring,” I chime in absently, a thought nagging at me. I return my focus from the darkened screens to the elderly former sheriff we’re keeping from his work. “I know you said you can’t show us the footage from that night, but can you tell us about it? It has to show Gracia meeting up with my dad out front, right? And it would have shown them leaving, too… Maybe if--”
Gus shakes his head. “Don’t get too excited, Val. Sheriff McCandles has seen all of the footage we had of that night, and taken from it what he needed. There’s nothing new you could get out of seeing it, if you were allowed. Which you aren’t.”
I laugh at my pseudo-grandpa’s gently chiding tone. “Okay, Gus. I get it. I won’t ask you again. Don’t want you getting into trouble.”
“Much appreciated.”
After that, Portia and I end up in one of the hotel rooms eating the overpriced chocolates and watching a movie, after promising to clean up after ourselves. I’m only half paying attention to the TV. I can’t stop obsessing over the security footage of the night Gracia died. Wishing I could see it. Gus won’t change his mind, but there must be another way. Drawing my knees up, I wrap my arms around them and rest my chin. If I can’t go through Gus, can I go around him?
Fire alarm sirens blare through the building, and evacuation lights glow along the hallway. Dressed in a man’s jacket we found in the lost and found, Portia ducks into our room. “Ta da.”
Tucking my hair into the hood of my leather jacket, I peer out into the corridor. Up and down the hall, other doors open. Voices get louder as people leave their rooms. Posing questions are at increasing volumes. Is there a fire? Do you see any smoke? I can smell it. Hurry, down the stairs.
Portia and I join the flow of bodies toward the stairwell, silent under the blanket of the loud wailing through the ceiling speakers. Down the stairs we go, carried by the human tide, until we reach the first floor.
Dropping to my knee, I pretend to retie my boot.
The crowd leaves the stairwell, Portia with them.
Once I’m alone, I tuck myself under the darkest corner of the stairs, and wait.
A muffled shout makes my heart stop. Pulling my knees in tighter, I squeeze my eyes shut.
The fire door is pushed open, and two of the security guys run up the stairs, talking to Gus over their walkie-talkies about checking the residential floors for guests. Their footfalls fade as they ascend to the top floor of the resort.
Here I go. Crawling out from my hidy-hole, I exit the stairwell.
I ease the fire door shut, alone at the end of the hall near the security suite.
Breathing out silently through my nose, I lay my fingers on the doorknob. It doesn’t budge. Locked. The mechanism is electronic, the lit keypad barring me from the office. I should have noticed it earlier. I’ve wasted my chance.
Grinding my teeth, I make for the fire exit, but stop. If I can’t see the security footage to prove Gracia left the resort that night, can I prove she didn’t stay here? Spinning on the balls of my bare feet, I run to the lobby, keeping quiet. Security is sweeping the building to make sure everyone got out. Pretty soon they’ll discover that someone triggered the fire alarm just for kicks and giggles.
When I peek around the corner, the lobby is abandoned. The double glass doors leading outside are closed. People crowd the sidewalk, looking around to see what the hell is going on. Gus is there, his white hair standing out against the dimming fall sky.
Ducking, I trace the wall to the reception desk, and crouch behind it. It’s early in the evening, prime check-in time, and I’m hoping that plays out in my favor. Crawling behind the desk to make sure I can’t be seen from outside, I tap the mouse. The desktop comes to life, the reservation program open and waiting.
A grin spreads as I navigate to past reservations.
Bingo.
I scroll through the names, heart hammering in my ears. Every few seconds I check the front drive, counting down the seconds until the fire department arrives.
The stairwell door opens and the pair of security guards enter the lobby. They must have missed me ducking, because they stride past reception and out the front doors.
I have maybe a minute.
The bottom of the list appears, and disappointment settles in. Gracia’s name wasn’t on it.
Outside, sirens announce the arrival of the firefighters. I’m almost out of time.
I check the list again, reading faster than I thought myself capable. No sign of Gracia. Or any other names I recognize, for that matter. It’s a relief that my dad’s name isn’t on the list either. That’s good news, at--
My eyes snag on a name, and I scroll back up to double check. Dread fills my chest cavity. My lungs squeeze, unable to inflate. Gracia’s name isn’t there, and neither is my dad’s.
The name that has me frozen in place is the main character in a slew of Harrison Ford movies my dad loves. It’s the name he uses at the coffee shop sometimes, as a joke. And there it is on the hotel check-in list for the night Gracia died. Jack Ryan.
My dad reserved a room that night, and from the looks of this, someone used it. And ran up quite a tab on the minibar.
The firefighters burst through the front doors just as I reach them. Their mouths are moving, telling me to get outside. Asking why I’m still in a building where there’s a possible fire.
Gus meets me on the sidewalk, chastising me for lingering inside. He checks me over to make sure I wasn’t hurt, but I don’t feel any of it. Not his hand on my shoulder. Not my feet supported by the sidewalk. Not Portia putting an arm around me as she leads me to the side of the building, away from the crowds.
My dad’s name on that reservation list is the only thing I can see. The only truth that lingers in my head as I stand in the crisp fall air, looking up at the building where my dad met with Gracia. Where he apparently had a hotel room at the ready, and a minibar full of treats to enjoy. The room was paid for with cash, and the last footage of my dad is from the ATM at the bank in town. It’s too big a coincidence to be an actual coincidence.
What must it have been like for Destin to see the girl who carried his heart, sharing herself with someone else? It probably felt like he was being sliced in two, cruelly slowly, sinew by sinew, until his body collapsed to the ground, split in half and bleeding out. I cross my arms over my chest, hoping I’m strong enough to hold my two halves together.
Liar Like Pinocchio
Valley High’s football team looks even better this afternoon than they did during their game. Leander throws passes so far down the field that the defense barely has time to make a play before the receiver races into the end zone.
Play begins, and Leander feints, carrying the ball a few yards before tossing it. Their offense is a fire skimming over dry grass, kicking up clumps of yellowing green as they advance in a pack. I smile at a particularly egregious display of showboating. Unlike the defensive players, I’m not complaining, because whenever Leander runs a successful play I get a wide grin tossed my way.
Each time, I smile back, a little wider.
Since the other night at the resort, I haven’t thought about anything but my dad’s alias on the check-in list. Nothing else has penetrated the storm clouds in my mind. I’m lost in a dense, overgrown redwood forest and I can’t open my eyes wide enough to see the path. Nothing else matters in comparison. Because the mental picture of the dad I thought I had is cracking under my scrutiny, and I don’t know if I can handle it.
Being at the field is making that toxic cloud dissipate a little at a time, allowing me to breathe again. Leaning back on my palms, I savor the scents of damp grass and the warmth of the sunlight on my face.
Practice ends, and I take a thriller out of my backpack. Reading about someone else’s fictional problems gets me out of my head. Minutes drift by in the quiet as the clouds pass across the sun before unleashing its light. I absorb the rays, wishing the clouds weren’t so fickle.
A bright whistle from the bottom of the bleachers brings me out of the crisp pages. Leander bounds up the metal steps freshly showered. Plopping down beside me, he takes a long drag from a reusable water bottle. He smells like clean cotton and citrus. “You smell amazing.”
Leander tosses his hair back, dropping his bottle between his feet and slinging an arm over my shoulders. Dropping a quick kiss on my cheek, he laughs. “I’m glad you like my soap. Can’t say a girl has ever told me that before.”
I tuck the book into my bag. “Soap. Always a good thing to use.”
“Seriously. I’m stoked you could come today. Practice went awesome. We’re so ready for Friday.”
The upcoming game is against a nearby town’s team, the Wild Cats. Every year, the Valley High Lancers and the Wild Cats have a tense football rivalry. Some years, the Cats win, sometimes the Lancers. But their games are always nail-biters, according to Destin. “You guys are gonna impale those kittens.”
“You know it. Hey, I’m starving. You feel like going for a burger?” Leander stands up, surveying the greenish football field. Patches of grass have been torn out, exposing the muddy soil underneath. Whoever keeps this place up has some work to do to make it game ready.
“I could eat.”
Leander’s eyes light up as he holds out a hand to help me up.
At the diner, we each order a cheeseburger, fries, and a shake. We’re at the counter this time, but it still feels like a do-over of our first date. There’s no Rock to interrupt, and no waitresses giving me dirty looks. It’s going so well I’m giddy. Talking to Leander flows, bringing me further from those noxious woods for a little while. He shares my weird quirk of not wanting to sit with my back facing the restaurant (a Sheriff dad habit). He also admits to having tried the reality TV show I told him about--selling mcmansions in LA. “I binged the entire first season,” Leander says. “All that drama is like a train wreck I couldn’t stop watching.”
A bunch of his teammates come in, all high fiving my date and hooting loudly. Several of them slide curious glances my way before climbing into one of the booths. One whistles at the waitress, calling her over. They flirt loudly with her, and she seems into it.
Trying to brush off the handful of skeptical looks from the rowdy group, I focus on Leander, dipping a fry in ketchup and eating it. He hasn’t noticed that a couple of his friends are giving me a once over. “It’s entertaining, right? My favorite is the one with an underground speakeasy behind the bookshelf. And the playing cards with the mug shots.”
“That was so cool. Made me wish we had a basement I could turn into a hang-out spot. I’d paint the walls some dark, moody color, put in a dimmer switch, big TV, and a couch.”
My head bobs. My mind goes to a resort hotel room like the one Portia and I hung out in last week, but instead of us, Gracia is there. The lights are dimmed. Candy wrappers and tiny booze bottles tossed in a tiny garbage can under a minimalist desk.
I jerk my eyes up from my messy plate when Leander says my name. “You okay?” he asks.
Sucking my teeth, I pick up a fry. “Yeah. Fine. Sorry.”
Leander takes a pull from his milkshake. “If I had a sweet basement like that, would you come visit me?”
“Depends. What would we do in this room?”
“Hang out. Watch TV. Whatever we feel like.” Leaning closer, he murmurs into my ear, “No rules in my speakeasy.”
My breath goes shallow, thinking of Gracia and my dad in his SUV. What possible use could they have had for a hotel room? “Good to know. What music would you play in this lawless speakeasy?”
“Only the most classic of classic rock.” Reaching past me, he steals my ketchup cup, swirls three fries in it, and eats them.
“No country music?” I ask, reclaiming the tiny paper cup.
Leander mock scowls. “No way. I hate country music.”
“Says the boy who knew every word to that song about a guy and his truck we listened to on drive over.”
He holds his hands up, palms out. “That’s my dad’s fault. He’s the country guy, not me.”
“Whatever you say, Pinocchio.”
“Hey, I’m a real boy.” Leander spreads his arms wide. Someone tosses a fry at the back of his head. Guffaws echo from his friends’ booth as he smooths his hair, wagging a finger at them.
“I’m not so sure.” I sing the lyrics incorrectly, and Leander can’t help but correct me. I tease him about it until my cheeks hurt from laughing, and my mind has stopped torturing me with images I’d kill to erase from my brain.
When we’re done with our early dinner, Leander pays for both of our meals before I have the chance to get my wallet out of my backpack. Not wanting to assume, I send him some money through an app.
He declines. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to buy your food. Let me?”
My heart pitter patters. I wasn’t sure what this was after the sour ending of our first date, but hearing the earnest undercurrent in his words clears it up. This is date number two, and if the cute guy looking at me like that wants to buy my burger, I’m gonna let him.
Leander walks me to my car, sliding a hand over the roof and tapping his fingers. “Thanks for coming today, Val. I had fun.”
I open the door, lungs stuttering when he slips closer, shielding me from the rest of the asphalt wasteland with his taller frame. “I had fun, too. I wasn’t sure we’d get to hang out again after last time.”
His eyebrows quirk upward.
“You know. After Rock showed, you have to admit it got a little weird.”
Leander chuckles. “Yeah, it got a little awkward, but I’m not gonna let that jack-hole get between me and someone I’m interested in. I like you Valencia, if that wasn’t already obvious.”
His blunt admission makes me all kinds of flustered. I can’t say I’m a fan of that, so I try to reign in the sadistic pixies doing a jig in my gut. “I did. Wonder.”
