Good Girl, Dead Girl (Valencia Lamb Book 1), page 14
I’m about to blow up my dad’s entire career by handing over the information I’ve gathered about the events of the night he disappeared. The fallout of this conversation will decimate anything that is left of my father’s legacy in this town. I gave my mom a head’s up because, after today, neither of us will be able to think about Dad in the same way. I try not to picture her face when she called off work and shut herself in her bedroom. The whimpering coming from behind the closed door echoes in my head.
McCandles clears his throat, drawing my focus. “I’m guessing that box isn’t the reason you came down here. Is there something else I can help you with?” He sits back in his seat, pulling roughened fingers off the keyboard.
“Yes, actually. I’ve been doing some digging.”
The man’s eyes narrow. “What kind of digging?”
“Building a swimming pool.” It’s a bad joke, but McCandles chuckles. “I found this under the seat in the Corvette.” Taking the burner phone out of my bag, I slide it over to him.
Destin’s body is splayed out on the tan shag carpet in the living room, utterly still. I stare at his chest, watching his lungs inflate and deflate in uneven shudders, and look away. When he walked through my front door an hour ago, the raw pain in his eyes cut through me like a bladed hand through water, leaving me wishing I hadn’t been the cause this time. But it was unavoidable.
I caused his heartache in an attempt to alleviate it, but it’s temporary. It’ll pass, now that Sheriff McCandles has new information pertaining to Gracia’s murder. Now that he has a potential primary crime scene--the resort room where she and my dad arranged to meet--and a potential answer to what happened that night. Again, thanks to me.
Thanks to me, my dad might be declared a murderer. I can barely form the thought without wanting to curl into a ball and sob. Closure is good, I chant over and over in my head.
It took everything I had to walk into the sheriff’s department this morning and unload the clues I found. I only made it through the interview by picturing Janice glaring at me. Never thought I’d take strength from a girl I’ve long despised, but desperate times.
It only took McCandles a couple of hours after I offered up everything I had to call Destin down to the station for a second conversation. I wasn’t surprised, and had warned him it would probably happen soon. The sheriff would need to hear Destin’s account of that night again, now that he’s admitted to seeing Gracia at the resort with my dad. The bands constricting my chest tighten as I look at my best friend’s prone body on the floor. He hasn’t said much since he got back from the department, still clawing his way out of the emotional pit he must have fallen into during his interview with the sheriff.
Flickers of anger disturb the surface of my mind. Destin could have told me months ago that he and Portia saw my dad at the resort with Gracia. Could have saved me agonizing months of wondering and waiting, but they didn’t. Together, they chose not to tell me, whether out of a warped sense of protection or denial. Destin tried to explain it to me this morning when I called him from the station, but all he could say was that he thought he was doing the best thing. I don’t understand it. How could keeping his mouth shut be the best, for any of us?
A nudge on my leg draws my attention up from the fists clenched in my lap. It’s Portia, who is perched at the other end of my couch, eyes red as she, too, waits vigil over Destin’s pain. Her eyes widen. Do something, she mouths. I am incredulous. Like what? Huffing in exasperation, Portia crawls into the floor and takes one of Destin’s hands. “Tell me what to do,” she whispers. “What can I do?”
Destin’s face turns slowly toward her, those watery blue eyes blinking open.
I stiffen at his simple request for a bottle of water, suddenly feeling a million miles away from the two of them. Shut out of the protective biodome they’ve enclosed over themselves. Their eyes drill into each other, creating a connection I’m excluded from, less than five feet away.
My phone, which I’ve wedged between my thighs, goes off. Leander is at the station, keeping me up to date on everything that happens now that the sheriff has new information to look into. I scan the texts as he sends them, rapid fire, sitting up straighter with each one. My shriveled and battered heart begins to beat again as I read, its weak pumping picking up speed and forcing blood to rejuvenate my tired arteries.
I jump off the couch, gathering Portia’s attention as I begin to pace. “They looked at the security footage of that night again, and my dad was nowhere on there. Gracia checked into the room, but it wasn’t my dad who met her there. It was someone else. Looks like a guy, but he’s wearing a hoodie so they couldn’t tell what he looks like.”
Destin covers his eyes with a hand, mouth a firm line.
My fingers clutch my phone so hard it hurts. “Crap. She’s there for a few hours, and then she leaves alone. They don’t think she was killed there, but they’re going to look at the room again. Guys, you know what this means? I… I don’t think he killed her. My god, I got it all wrong.”
I drop onto my knees on the carpet, dropping my phone and digging my hands into my hair, feeling as if I’m about to burst into a thousand glittering pieces of light. My dad met Gracia at the hotel that night, but he never set foot in that room. It’s the news I’ve been hoping for for months. Sheriff McCandles is finally making progress on the case, thanks to me.
I did it.
A strangled sound comes from my throat as I bury my face in the carpet. My dad didn’t kill Gracia Cuoco, and soon everyone in town will know it.
I did it.
I did it, and still there’s a hollowness seated deep in my chest. I still have so many unanswered questions. Maybe I’ll never find the answers.
Sticky Fingers
It’s been a week since Sheriff McCandles exonerated my dad of Gracia’s murder, and the satisfaction I thought would settle over me is nowhere in sight. I will admit that seeing my mom return from the groceries without eyes puffy from crying is a huge relief, and so has driving through town without being attacked by deviled projectiles.
But.
The peace I was hoping for, that return to the status quo where business owners greeted me with a smile and everyone respected my dad? It’s not happening. My stomach gurgles as I open the freezer, stare at the tub of ice cream, and close it again. I’m not really hungry.
Questions swarm as I take the stairs up to my room, wishing Mom weren’t asleep after another long night of saving peoples’ lives via the dispatch phone line. Maybe if she was awake, her presence would be enough to quell the lingering doubts. Maybe an afternoon watching one of our favorite period flicks will magically lend me peace.
A girl can dream.
Even though it’s after lunch, my blackout curtains are still closed, and light from the table lamp conjures a warm glow over my room. Messy bed, pile of textbooks on the desk, and my latest crime thriller, left open with its pages pressed down. Now that I’m not investigating Gracia’s murder or my dad anymore, it hasn’t felt right to take up space in his office. There’s no reason for me to be in there, and every minute I spend between those dark navy walls makes me feel trapped. Like I’m stuck in a pathological quicksand that is slowly pulling me under.
Maybe I need to get a hobby, like Portia and her acting.
Snagging a hair tie off my dresser, I throw my hair up in its usual Dutch braid, albeit a sloppy one. It’s a sleepy Sunday afternoon and nobody’s going to see me anyway. Resting my butt on the edge of my bed, I look around the space. There’s gotta be something I can do to kill time instead of pacing like a bear in a constricting zoo enclosure.
McCandles proved, with a huge amount of help from me, that my dad isn’t a murderer. So what is he?
Did he really get called up by the FBI for a super-secret mission?
One aspect of this whole thing still bothers the heck out of me. Why on earth would my dad book a weekly room at the resort for Gracia to meet her secret lover? I’m pretty sure that isn’t normal behavior for officers and their informants.
Even as I text Leander, I know it’s pointless. He’s at football practice. His team has been doing really well, so his coach has been working them extra hard in preparation for playoffs.
Sighing, I open the bottom drawer of the desk where I stashed the file Leander brought me on the car thefts. I’ll read it, just to kill a handful of time.
It takes me all of two seconds to read through the papers. The department has done little to investigate the string of car thefts over the past few months, probably because they’ve been occupied with their search for Gracia’s killer, and for my dad. It’s frustrating, the lack of information in that file. It’s so thin, I’m not much wiser than I was before. The only information I gleaned was that Sheriff McCandles suspects the thefts are connected rather than isolated incidents, seeing as how the only cars being stolen are high value ones from our city’s priciest neighborhoods. Just like Leander said.
I lean back in my chair, staring at nothing. I could look into it.
I shouldn’t. McCandles and his deputies are doing their best, and it’s not my place or my job. Still, I did help with the investigation into Gracia’s murder. Without me, they never would have found the ties between her and my dad.
And I have to wonder, who killed her? Her mystery boyfriend? Or someone who got upset when she poked around the resort? She was spending a ton of time there, and whatever research she was doing hasn’t surfaced. Janice told me she dug around on Gracia’s computer in the newspaper room but didn’t find anything.
Whatever line of inquiry Gracia was following, she kept it close to her uniform blouse.
It won’t hurt if I take a peek. Just a peek, I tell myself as I grab the keys to the Corvette and write a note to let my mom know I went out.
Ulterior motives have become my driving force. Doesn’t say much good about my character. Clutching the brand new picture frame against my chest, I traipse up the stepping stone path to the Cuocos’ front door. Inhaling to steady myself, I knock. And wait. It’s quiet inside the neat ranch house. For a minute, I don’t think anyone is going to answer, despite Mrs. Cuoco’s car in the driveway.
Shuffling feet approach. The door opens on my sympathetic smile. I haven’t seen Gracia’s mom since the funeral, but word around town is that she keeps to herself, only leaving the house to drop by the sheriff station to inquire if McCandles has made progress on her daughter’s murder. It’s probably been a hard week for her, given the new information that I dragged into the light.
“Valencia, hi. Nice to see you.” Mrs. Cuoco looks surprisingly put together, despite the rumors. Hair done, makeup applied, and a polo shirt over ironed khaki shorts. The only sign she’s not planning on leaving the house anytime soon are the ratty slippers on her feet.
“You too,” I say. “I was going through an old photo album and found this. I thought you might like it.” Unveiling the framed photo, I hold it out to the older woman. It’s an image of Gracia, Destin, Portia, and me at the beach a couple of summers ago. Before Destin worked up the courage to ask Gracia out. It’s clear from the grins on all four faces that we were having a blast on the sandy shore.
She takes it, and her eyes mist. “Want to come in?”
Inside, it’s clean and tidy. I don’t know why this surprises me. It’s not like Mrs. Cuoco is living like Miss Havisham, dressed in tattered rags and marking time until her daughter walks through the door. Miss Havisham never got what she wanted. Gracia is never coming home.
The living room is a memorial to the murdered girl. Framed photos cover the main wall in a collage--Gracia’s life unfurling from birth to a couple weeks before she died. A long table is piled high with papers. Articles on the murder comingle with handwritten notes and signs asking for anyone with information to come forward. I remember those posters covering telephone poles all over the valley.
I don’t realize we’ve been standing in silence until the woman beside me breaks it. “At first, there were lots of people who wanted to help. Now, it’s just me.” Mrs. Cuoco shrugs, but I can hear it in her tone. Her plea for me to understand that she can’t let go. Her daughter’s murder remains unsolved. There have been no answers to the question of why her life was ended so abruptly.
It’s a sentiment I relate to deep inside my soul. “I’m sorry I didn’t come help, back when it happened.”
Her hand is gentle on my shoulder. “You had other worries, dear.”
“I did, yeah. But lately I’ve been… looking into it. Her death. I’m trying to help. I even talked to Sheriff McCandles. Do you mind if I go to Gracia’s room?”
Mrs. Cuoco’s expression is easy to parse. An empty, hopeless smile. “The sheriff has already been over it a couple of times, but go ahead. Can I get you something to drink? A bottle of water?”
I give her a tight smile. I can empathize with the flatness in her voice. “Do you have any lemonade? Yours was always the best.”
“I can make some. Be right back.” She goes to the kitchen, and I go to Gracia’s room. When McCandles looked over the room, he would have taken anything he thought might be related to her death. I’m hoping to find something to do with her research. I have to know how her article on the resort was progressing. The article is the only lead I have.
Gracia’s room pulls me up short. She’s been gone for more than half a year, but not a single thing about her space has been changed. The cheerful yellow and white daisy comforter on the bed is neatly tucked. Smiling photos of her peer out from the corkboard above the desk.
Her laptop is gone, probably taken to the department to be examined.
Eyeing the desk, I peel open the drawers one by one. There aren’t any traces of Gracia’s research inside. The contents consist of old school assignments, half-filled notebooks, and loose paperclips in bright colors.
“Valencia, I have your lemonade.” Mrs. Cuoco’s voice carries from the front of the house.
“Coming.”
The corner of the bed skirt is askew, hiding a box tucked under the bed. Dropping to my knees, I pull it out. Binders and notebooks are stuffed inside a white file box. Jackpot. This box must be from the school. Someone packed up Gracia’s things after she died and sent them home to be untouched by her grieving parents.
My attention snags on a black and white composition journal. Gracia’s notebook from Miss Wayne’s class. What if, like me, Gracia used her free writing time to take notes she didn’t want anyone else to discover? What if she took advantage of our teacher’s policy not to read our compositions?
Mrs. Cuoco’s footsteps draw closer. She knows I’m in here having a look, but it still feels like a violation. I slide the journal out of the box and hold it at my side.
My heart gallops as Mrs. Cuoco enters. She takes in the room, lemonade forgotten in her hand. After a long, airless beat, she focuses on me, her expression choked. “You might think we’re silly to leave her room like this, but we couldn’t-- Well. Here’s your lemonade.”
I take the chilled glass, drinking a sip. It puckers my tongue, as sour and refreshing as I remember. Thanking her, I scan the room one more time for anything I might have missed. “It’s nice you left it like this. Gracia loved her room. I remember how excited she was when you agreed to let her paint it bright yellow.”
My friend’s mom gives a feeble smile at the memory. Her eyes fall to the notebook, and she opens her mouth to speak. A phone rings in another room. She hesitates. “I should get that.”
“I have to go, anyway. Thanks again for the lemonade.” I raise the glass.
“And you, for the photo. I--thank you.” Her eyes water, nose turning pink. She leaves me to walk myself out.
Between Rock and a Hard Place
Leander has been working at the sheriff’s office whenever he can pick up hours. It’s been a while since we’ve hung out, and I miss him.
When I walk into the department, he’s at the front desk.
“Hey, stranger,” I say.
Leander’s smile is bright. He leans forward over the counter, his easy confidence rippling through me. “Hey back. Long time, no see.”
I mirror him, leaning forward. “No kidding. No evidence locker today?”
“Reception isn’t so bad. I still get paid, so I have money to take pretty girls out on dates.” Dude winks at me.
I prop my chin on my elbows, letting the counter hold their weight. “Who are these pretty girls you’re taking out?”
Leander cocks his head and looks at the ceiling as if tallying a long list in his head.
I scoff in mock offense. “That many huh? Well, don’t let me waste your time. I just popped in to say hi but…”
Leander rounds the counter and slides in front of me. “Hold on a second. I confess. There’s only one girl I’m interested in. She’s short, only comes up to my collar bone, like a fun-sized candy bar. She has this amazing hair, and she’s funny. Makes me laugh a ton.”
“I am not a fun-sized candy bar,” I say, laughing.
“You sure? I’ve heard good things come in small packages. Including cookies. Want some?”
Leander guides me into the break room, and gets us each a bottle of water out of the fridge. We eat our fill of the store-bought cookies someone brought in, washing them down with water and easy conversation.
Leander talks about what the football team is doing in prep for their first playoff game. My mind wanders to something the interim sheriff said when I came in with the evidence I found. Despite my help, McCandles refused to show me any of the surveillance footage from the casino. When I relayed the information about Gracia and her hooded guest to Destin, he shrank into himself like a turtle.
“What’s going on in that brain of yours?”
I finish chewing. “Worried about Destin. Renewed public interest in Gracia’s case has been tough on him.” I take another bite of cookie to avoid elaborating. The past few days have not been the best for Destin, Portia, and me. I’ve thought of broaching the subject, but haven’t come up with a gentle way to do it yet.
