Good Girl, Dead Girl (Valencia Lamb Book 1), page 19
Restless, I stomp down the stairs. The first floor is dark and empty with Mom at work. Swiping the Corvette’s keys out of the bowl by the door, I abandon the house too.
When I walk inside the retro bowling alley, Portia sees me first, and the flush of color in her cheeks drains. “Good morrow, Valencia.”
Destin whirls from the first-person shooter game he’s playing. Good boy Bert sits at his feet. “Oh, hi, Val. We, uh… Hi.”
The weighty awkwardness doesn’t deter me. Destin and Portia accused me of not being there for them after Gracia was killed, and they were more right than wrong. I thought the three of us were content to be together, to take comfort from each other, without dissecting our feelings about the crappy events that occurred that night. I should have asked instead of assuming.
I came to do some apologizing. Guess I’ll get to it. “Hey P, Des. I get that you don’t want to be around me, so I’ll make this quick. I should have asked how you were doing after Gracia died, but you were right. I was too tied up in my dad’s disappearance. I made a lot of assumptions, and that wasn’t cool. I’m sorry. If anything awful like that happens again, knock on wood, I’ll try to do better. Think about it. Enjoy your orange chicken.”
Their surprised stares grate over my nerves like a hot curling iron too close to the skin, but I turn to go. I’ve apologized, tried to make it right, and now the onus is on them. My heart skitters in my chest as I make for the exit. Hopefully they’ll show up at our school lunch table on Monday.
I make it all the way to the door before Destin calls. “Wait. You in the mood for an egg tart?”
Relief washes over me as I stride back to them. Des pulls me into a bear hug, wrapping me in his comforting warmth. “I missed you, Val,” he whispers in my ear. “After like two days, we felt terrible, but we didn’t know how to fix it. The past couple weeks have sucked. I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” Portia burrows into the hug with us. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you, either. Sorry, Val.”
I tighten my arms around them, stunned at how much lighter I feel. Who knew I needed to hear their apologies as much as give my own? The way my heart has settled comfortably into its place after beating so hard during the drive over here lets me know I did.
After another good squeeze, Destin lets go. “No more fighting, yeah?”
“Agreed.”
Portia gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Your timing is impeccable. We were just about to eat.”
“All that zombie killing made me hungry.” Des grins, finger-guns pointed at the red and black game console as we pass.
My stomach growls. I’m so glad they haven’t eaten yet, because I’m starving. Mom was gone by dinner time, and I didn’t feel like making anything, so I skipped it. The fried dumplings and wontons of the alley’s restaurant look scrumptious, so I order a ton of them and chow down.
A kid’s party takes up three of the lanes, their cheers loud as one little girl rolls a strike with the assistance of the gutter barriers. Deputies Sykes and Kelley stroll in on a break and order bento boxes. Both acknowledge me as they slide into seats a couple tables away.
My attention sneaks back to the two people sitting across the blue tabletop, eating their food in easy silence. “It’s way too late, but how are you doing with everything?” I ask Des between bites of cream cheese and crab dipped in sweet chili sauce.
His plastic fork makes scraping sounds against the paper plate. “Being the entire town’s pity case wasn’t great. You know what that’s like. Everywhere I went people kept treating me like I was about to explode, or they didn’t know what to say. It was so awkward. And then you were, you know. Portia was the only one who treated me pretty much the same.”
Destin switches his fork to the opposite hand, and slings his arm over Portia’s chair. Portia’s face takes on a pink glow. It’s as if she’s embarrassed at his attention.
My eyes pop as I look between them. ”Are you two a thing now?”
Looking back, there were signs. Portia has been more prone to nervous hair braiding the past few months. Quick to blanch. And Destin… he was definitely stealing looks in her direction. I thought he was secretly annoyed with all the nervous giggling. Add this to the list of incorrect assumptions I’ve made lately.
“I hope it’s not weird,” Destin says. “The past few months, Portia’s been great about listening when I needed to talk. She helped me process everything with Gracia, and your dad’s leaving, too, and I don’t know. It just sorta happened. It’s still new.”
“Not as new for me.” Portia smiles, sheepish.
“Yeah?” Des’s shaggy blond hair flops forward as he leans into her, resting his tanned forehead against her fair temple. P’s pale cheeks bleed into crimson.
“Uh… Congratulations?” Seeing the two of them like this is going to take some serious adjusting.
Portia turns toward Destin, cupping his cheek, and he mirrors her. This evening is quickly devolving into a gooey love fest, so I push away from the table and stand. “Who’s ready for dessert? It’s on me tonight.”
Feedback screeches through the eatery as Sykes’s and Kelley’s radios go off. Through the static, I make out the message. A burglary in progress a few blocks from the bowling alley.
The deputies slap their to-go containers shut and hustle toward the door. I’m right behind them. If they catch the bad guys, I want to be there to see who it is. Because maybe the same skunks who ravaged my house are at it again.
My friends. I don’t want to make the same mistake I made six months ago, shutting them out without at least checking in. I round to see Destin hurtling toward me. “Did they say 451 Maple? That’s Gracia’s house.”
At his shoulder, Portia’s eyes go wide. A single delicate hand lands on Destin’s shoulder and squeezes. Her voice shakes as she says, “If you’re going, we’re going.”
By the time I park the Corvette across the street from the Cuocos’ house there’s already a growing puddle of onlookers on the sidewalk, pressing against the sawhorse one of the deputies put up to keep people off the cobblestone walkway leading to the front door. Three department vehicles are parked blocking the street and driveway, red and blue lights flashing.
Mr. and Mrs. Cuoco stand in the open garage between their cars, talking to McCandles. He must have busted a gut to get here so quickly. Probably hoping to keep the Cuocos from as much trauma as he could, given that he hasn’t solved their daughter’s murder.
A stab of guilt cuts into my belly. Despite all of the hotfooting I’ve done the past few weeks, I’m not much closer to solving the murder than the sheriff is. Leif is looking really good for it, but I don’t have any hard evidence. I’m stuck in a loop between accusing Leif of murdering my friend, and wondering what terrible thing happened to my dad that night. Because the more time that passes, the more I’ve begun to believe something did. In the back of my mind, there is no other explanation for his absence.
“Doesn’t look like they’ve arrested anyone,” Destin whispers, elongating his tall, lanky frame by rising onto his toes to see over the crowd.
“The burglar must have gotten away,” Portia agrees, one hand bracing her own tip-toe stance by gripping Destin’s hand interlocked with hers.
I try to make myself taller the same way, but I still can’t see anything past the backs of peoples’ coats, their heads shifting back and forth trying to get a glimpse. It sucks to be short. I grab Destin’s arm. “Let’s get closer.”
My friends follow me as I follow the edge of the crowd, pressing past gawkers until I’m leaning over the department sawhorse, trying to get a peek inside the house’s gaping front door. All of the lights inside are on, spilling onto the cobblestones. Even from here I can tell someone viciously and thoroughly tossed the place. Couch cushions and throw pillows are strewn over the floor. Shoes are scattered. A plant is overturned, and dirty prints tracking over the carpet.
Gus comes out of the house, moving more stiffly than I’ve ever seen him. The man is truly getting older. I slip a glance to Portia. If her tight mouth and glossy eyes are true, she has noticed her grandpa’s aging gait, same as me.
Gus sees us and ambles over the grassy yard. The retired sheriff is gruff when he reaches the sawhorse. Knobby fingers peppered with white hairs grip the top edge of the wooden barrier. “What are you three doing here? This is no place for you. Go home, and let us handle this.”
I peer past him, still looking for any clues I can get from this distance. It’s useless, there’s nothing to see but the mess. “Did the Cuocos find anyone in their house? When they got home?” Their nice clothes make it apparent they were out tonight. Maybe the couple was trying to recapture some semblance of normal months after their daughter was taken from them.
Gus shakes his head.
“They got away?” Portia asks, the words barely above a whisper. Her hand tightens on Destin’s. He is too busy watching the Cuocos to react.
Gus points one bent finger toward the house kitty corner to where we’re standing with half the town, holding our collective breath. “A neighbor saw a light through the window and called it in, but by the time the first deputy arrived they were already gone. Made a right mess of the house, though. Especially Gracia’s room. Her old schoolwork was in shreds all over the floor.”
Gracia’s schoolwork was a potential target? A pit opens in my stomach. Maybe they hoped to find and destroy her article research, not knowing where she hid it. They might assume it was among her school stuff, same as I did. Only problem is, Gracia didn’t keep it there. I read through her journal, and all that’s inside is her diary entries and charts. If she found any evidence of criminal activity, she kept it somewhere else.
Or maybe I missed something. I’ll have to read through the journal again to be sure.
Someone clears their throat. The four of us swivel to Sheriff McCandles, who is standing a few feet away with a closed evidence bag grasped in one hand. “Gus, accompany Sykes on another walk-through, will you? I need a word with these three.”
Portia’s gramps nods before hobbling to meet Sykes at the front door. He glances over a shoulder at us before going inside.
McCandles runs his tongue over his teeth, then motions for us to bypass the sawhorse. He leads us to a corner of the front lawn far enough away from the sidewalk to give a semblance of privacy from the gathered crowd. Loud gossip and questions are tossed at the sheriff, but he doesn’t answer. Merely holds out the evidence bag toward Destin, angling it carefully so none of the bystanders can see the item in the clear plastic. “You recognize this, son?”
Destin peers at it for a second before his eyes lift to meet the sheriff’s. “No, sir. I don’t think so.”
“You never gave Gracia a leather bracelet like this?” McCandles presses.
My lungs stop working when I catch a glimpse of the circle of leather in the evidence bag.
My best friend frowns. “I gave her a pair of abalone earrings for Christmas last year. She said she wasn’t into bracelets. I never saw her wearing one like that, either. Gracia preferred… she said anything from the sea was her favorite. That’s why I got her the abalone shells. I wanted to get her pearls, but they were kind of a lot, and I didn’t have enough cash saved up.” His cheeks go red.
I grab his hand, giving a gentle squeeze. Hope he finds it reassuring. Portia and me, we’ve got his back.
McCandles hums, looking down at the bracelet again before twisting to meet Deputy Kelly’s eyes. She jogs over, taking the bag when he holds it out. Promising to put it with the rest of the gathered evidence, she heads for one of the department cars still lit up like a beacon in the gloam.
I watch her go, my face carefully, painfully blank. Blood is roaring in my ears, drowning out the mutterings of the restless crowd. Someone shouts at McCandles, asking if he thinks the break-in is tied to the murder. To his credit, the sheriff doesn’t react. The man is all business as he returns to where Mr. and Mrs. Cuoco are holding each other in the illuminated garage. They confer in whispers.
Destin didn’t recognize the length of leather. He was speaking truth when he told McCandles he’d never seen Gracia wearing a bracelet like the one in the evidence bag. Gracia never owned pieces like that. She favored tiny silver studs shaped like seashells, or, after Christmas, the abalones Destin gifted her.
But me? I knew who had lost that bracelet in the first heartbeat I laid eyes on it. Because I’ve spent a lot of time with its owner in the last couple of weeks. The thin leather strip is Rock’s. Which brings up a lot of questions I’m afraid to ask. Odds are, I won’t like the answers.
My brain is running a marathon as I tug on Destin’s hand to lead him and Portia back to the Corvette. I shove them inside and climb in, locking the doors. As soon as we’re safe, I twist in my seat to look at both of them: Destin in the passenger seat with Portia perched in his lap. She looks comfortable--happy even--sitting with Des, but he looks deeply unsettled. His eyes keep darting from me to where McCandles is talking with the Cuocos.
Realizing they aren’t going to be thrilled when I share what I know, I blurt it all out. “I know who lost that leather bracelet.” I dump it all out of my brain into the interior of Dad’s car. Gracia’s phone. The journal. The bracelet.
Portia looks like I’ve just confessed to committing a heinous crime. Destin’s expression isn’t much better.
I run a hand over the steering wheel. “I should have given all of it to the sheriff immediately. I realize that now. I thought I was helping, but what if by keeping those few things to myself, I’ve been preventing McCandles from seeing the big picture? What if it’s my fault he hasn’t solved Gracia’s case? What if my stubbornness has ruined everything?” My words tremble on the last part as guilt comes to bear on my bruised heart.
No matter what I find when I put all of the pieces together, I have to tell the sheriff. I have to trust that he’ll follow the evidence and solve the murder. Even if it ends up hurting Rock even more. I can’t think about that too hard, or I might chicken out and bury everything I’ve unearthed where McCandles will never find it. And I can’t do that. Mr. and Mrs. Cuoco deserve closure, if it can be found. Gracia deserves justice. Her killer deserves punishment for the brutal crime. I’m going to help deliver it, consequences be damned.
“Folly and Ignorance. Give everything you found to McCandles, and let him do his job,” Portia says with a decisive nod.
Destin is quick to agree.
My smile is watery when I manage to raise it from somewhere deep inside my chest. “Thanks, guys. I really needed to hear that.”
You Seeing This?
It takes literally forever for all of the stragglers to dump out of the quad and spread through the streets around the school. Lampposts emit a milky blue glow in fuzzy arches over the courtyard, leaving the rest washed in the creeping twilight. Inside the library, the librarian and I are in a standoff. Quick glances up from my work find the woman still at the front desk, eyeing me behind her reading glasses. She pushes the cart to a nearby shelf, wheels squeaking as they buffet the worn carpet.
Supposedly, the library stays open until six, but if I’m inferring correctly from the librarian’s body language, she wants me to leave so she can, too. Problem is, I’m waiting on someone of my own.
Portia texts to ask how my vigil in the library is going. It’s slow. It would have been faster to sneak onto campus over the weekend, but that would have been a much bigger risk than waiting until today.
You were right
Portia
Say it again
You’re such a turd
You were right
Destin
This is way better
Plus, it doesn’t involve you possibly getting arrested
If you get caught
I won’t get caught
Destin
No offense, but I’ve heard that one a few times
You sure you don’t want us to come with?
It’s only a few minutes on my board
Bert could use the exercise
I’m good
Thanks
It shouldn’t be too hard
I’ve been practicing
lock-picking
After the last bell, my friends and I had jostled through the after-school crowd, dodging bulging backpacks and people who refuse to move even though they’re walking slower than a sloth in the middle of the street. My plan--Portia’s plan--was to duck into the library for a couple hours to wait for campus to empty before doing what I needed. The school’s library runs along one edge of the central courtyard, long and low.
Portia and Des dropped me off at the door and strolled on, holding hands.
Something hardens in my stomach as I shift in my chair, flopping my head against the backrest and staring at a pencil jammed into the particle board ceiling. Portia and Destin are cute together, and I’m happy for them. I totally am, but their sweet PDA makes me miss Leander. The easy way he took my hand when we were out together. His confidence when he kissed me. It was blown apart by the way he looked at me through his lashes when admitting he thought my dad had slain Gracia and run from the consequences.
The hurt in that memory quickly overwhelms my longing.
Then there’s the note I’m pretty sure Rock left on my dresser, the night my house was broken into and ransacked. Which is part of the reason I’m still at school. I want to get a peek at Rock’s journal so I can compare the handwriting.
Stop looking. You won’t like what you find.
I haven’t had the guts to ask him about the note. I’m afraid that, exactly like it warned, I won’t like what I find.
On the wall, the clock’s hands slide closer to 5:45.
Ms. librarian is openly glaring at me through a gap in the nonfiction shelves, so I put my books and detritus into my bag. Once her back is turned, I sneak a peek through the long windows to the opposite side of the courtyard.
