Good Girl, Dead Girl (Valencia Lamb Book 1), page 2
The reprieve isn’t coming.
Lies I Tell Myself
Interim Sheriff McCandles came over yesterday after his announcement to talk to Mom. They waited until I was supposedly in my room, but being an expert eavesdropper who has never been caught, I snuck to the mouth of the hallway.
I heard everything.
The sheriff’s department hasn’t found any clues as to where Dad went after he left the bridge. The surveillance camera in front of the bank caught him driving past, but after that, nothing. His cell phone hasn’t been activated. He hasn’t accessed the bank accounts he shares with Mom. He vanished.
The sound Mom made when McCandles suggested dredging the nearby levies and aqueducts nearly tore me in two.
Because at this point, the statistics don’t lie. If Dad wanted to be home with mom and me--if he was capable of returning--he would have. The truth is my dad’s probably not even breathing, and acknowledging that feels like a betrayal. So I don’t.
I slunk upstairs and shut myself in my room for the rest of the night. Mom didn’t come up to update me, and she’s been quiet today, since I got home from school.
For dinner, Mom made ribeyes. They’re Dad’s favorite, but every time we eat them they taste like ash in my mouth. Sitting at the table, I glance to the left, where Dad used to sit. There’s a void where he should be shifting forward in his seat, elbows on the table top, prepared to dig in.
Mom sits across from me, her gaze following mine. “He’d be here with us if he could.”
Dad did his level best to put us first whenever he could, despite his demanding job. But something about Mom’s words bothers me. I turn my scrutiny on her determinedly calm expression.
Ever since that night Dad disappeared, she’s been strangely unemotional. Numb, even. She cooperated with McCandles and the department investigation. Let him into our bank accounts to monitor the activity to see if Dad used his cards for anything. Gave the interim sheriff access to Dad’s home office where he kept files for when he wanted to look at something without driving down to the station. She worked as hard as any of us to find him, but I haven’t once seen her cry.
He’d be here with us if he could.
If that’s true, why isn’t he? I can’t fathom anything that would keep him away, especially for this long. Especially without saying goodbye. I chew at a bite of meat that refuses to be swallowed. I down half a glass of water. Mom watches with concern.
Resolve materializes as I get my throat under control. It’s time to acknowledge the elephant in the room. “Hey, uh, Mom?”
She looks at me from behind her wine glass, taking a slow sip.
Gripping my fork like a life-line, I plunge in. “You keep saying that Dad would be here if he could, which implies that he can’t. Do you think, I mean, do you think he’s… gone?”
Mom’s expression tightens as she sets her glass on the polka dot tablecloth. Her palm rises to the place where her heart beats in her chest. “Valencia, no, I don’t think your father is dead. I’d feel it, in here. I believe he’s alive. That he’s out there somewhere, fighting to get back to us. I don’t know what’s keeping him, but I believe it with all my heart. If he could be here, he would be. And when he can, he’ll walk through that door.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“His go bag is gone.”
My chest seizes up. I didn’t even think about his go bag. Every officer I know has one--a bag packed with essentials to grab in case they have to leave their house in an emergency. Dad kept his in the corner of his office, right next to the coat rack.
Reaching across the table, mom rests her hand on mine. “Promise me you won’t give up, okay?”
I nod. Dad isn’t dead. He’s out there somewhere, trying to find a way back to us. Maybe he was threatened, and he had to go into hiding. Or maybe he was called up by the FBI or another government agency for a secret mission, and wasn’t allowed to tell us before he had to go.
My bites of steak go down easier until I catch my mom sneaking glances at me from behind her wine glass. “What? You’re acting weird.”
Setting down her glass, she levels a stern look at me. “I don’t think you should be driving Dad’s car around anymore. At least not for a while.”
My fork clangs as it drops to the plate. “Why not? It’s fun driving it. And it’s not like I can take your car. You need it for work.”
Mom scoops up her last bite of mashed potatoes. “Sykes told me about the sweet potato in your tailpipe.”
“Sykes has such a big mouth.” After the interim sheriff’s announcement, someone thought it would be hilarious to put a sweet potato in the exhaust pipe of my dad’s Corvette.
Her eyes narrow on mine. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to protect you. You should have told me.”
I grip my fork tighter. “It was just a prank. It didn’t hurt anything. It’s not like my car would blow up, like in the movies.”
She chews, thinking it over. The bright green clock on the oven clicks as a minute passes. After an eternity, she swallows. “If you’re so insistent on driving, we should switch cars. I can park the Corvette in the gated lot at work. No one’s going to try to steal it when it’s surrounded by patrol cars.”
“Who said anything about stealing it? Whoever left that yam in the tailpipe was just trying to mess with me. It was an easy fix.”
“Sykes had to help you. What if he’s not around next time?”
“There’s always a deputy around somewhere.” I don’t mention Deputy Kelley pulling me over for running that red light the first week of school.
Mom purses her lips, clearly not thrilled with this line of debate. She takes a long drink of the red wine she poured herself, swallowing. “There have been an unusual number of car thefts in town lately. Mostly in the North Hills area, but still. The Corvette is a nice car, and I don’t want anyone seeing it and getting ideas. I especially don’t want them getting ideas while you’re driving it.”
Now we’re getting down to what’s really bothering her. “Aw, Mom. The people in North Hills drive luxury cars. The Corvette isn’t even in the same league. Besides, for anyone to steal the car, they’d have to catch me, first.”
Her frown morphs into a scowl. “Maybe it’s a good thing I’m taking the Corvette, then.”
Sweat beads on my temples. I beg, both hands knitted together. “Don’t take it. I need that car. It’s all I have of Dad’s, and I don’t want to give it up. Please, Mom.”
She takes in an unsteady breath. Looks over my earnest expression with a calculated one of her own. “Fine. But if anything else happens while you’re out driving, we’re switching. I can’t lose you, Valencia.”
Late at night is usually the best time to grocery shop, but not tonight. The aisles are crowded with people grabbing boxes and cans and tossing them into their carts. A loud, rickety cart pushes past Portia, Destin, and me, its driver staring at me as she goes.
Quite a few people have done that since I walked into the store a half hour ago. Not only did Interim Sheriff McCandles’s announcement not give people something other than my dad to gossip about, the reporter’s bold assumption got them talking even more. Before the announcement, rumors about my dad’s involvement in Gracia’s murder were whispered behind sweaty palms into quivering ears. Most people had the decency to pretend they weren’t talking about me until my back was turned. There were exceptions, of course.
I took on the grocery shopping a few weeks after Dad disappeared, when Mom got home from the store one morning with puffy, red-rimmed eyes. She wouldn’t say why. Next time I stopped in for a soda, the cashier had informed me that an elderly woman cornered Mom in the produce section and asked her whether she thought he had left us to start a new family somewhere else.
That kind woman found her lawn covered in plastic forks the next morning.
“Let’s go down the pet aisle. I’m almost out of Bert food.” Destin pushes the cart to the next aisle. Bert, the skateboarding bulldog, follows at Des’s heels.
“I’m going to check out the magazines and see if that interview with that guy claiming to be a descendant of William Shakespeare is out yet.” Portia wanders off, her full cotton skirt swishing around her ankles.
Destin and I finish the shopping and head to the register. Portia meets us, holding up a glossy magazine. “Found it!” she squeals.
I sidle up to the counter, digging through my backpack for my wallet. When I look up, the familiar gleam in the cashier’s eyes makes me squirm. Not pity. I’ve learned the curiosity is ten times worse. Because my dad had a high profile job, everyone in town knew who he was. Who Mom and I are. And they feel entitled to our personal business, because Dad’s work wasn’t private. It’s the best.
The cashier greets us, and I mumble a bland response, nerves tightening like a shield around my aching heart. I’m bruised from the fruitless conversation with my mom. I can’t take much more emotional poking and prodding today. Please let me get through this shopping trip without having to pretend my neighbors’ prying is wanted and helpful.
Please. Please.
The checker’s mouth opens. “Valencia, how are you? I saw the announcement yesterday morning.”
I stifle a sigh. My mom raised me to be polite. “I’m okay. Thanks.”
The cashier isn't deterred by my sluggish reply. “And your mom? She’s been so strong through all of this, but I can’t help but wonder if she’s struggling. You know, with the lack of closure.”
Forcing my card into the reader, I bob my head. “Yeah, it’s rough. Thanks for asking.”
The woman studies me for a few seconds before turning her focus to Destin, asking him the same question. How he’s doing since McCandles’s announcement. My best friend is far more willing to take false sympathy than I am, despite the twinge in his cheek that lets me know he’s hurting.
Our cashier expresses an optimistic wish that the sheriff’s department will receive some new leads, and Destin agrees. Once we’re done and paid for, we push the cart outside and down the aisle of cars.
I look over the receipt while I walk, making sure I got everything. Not looking at my friends makes it easier to admit what I’m thinking. “I was really hoping yesterday’s announcement would have more meat to it, that maybe they found something. It really sucked hearing that the investigation is going nowhere slow.”
Frustration boils over, making me keep talking. “And then that cashier. Doesn’t she understand I just want to shop in peace? I don’t want or need her fake sympathy. If I wanted to talk to someone about my dad, it would be a therapist, not some random person in town. It’s like everyone here is constantly watching me to see when I’ll finally break down. Like they’ve all pulled up chairs and giant buckets of popcorn, waiting for the show to begin. They don’t want to help, they just want to watch me squirm.”
“Uh oh.” Portia stops dead in her tracks, eyes fixed ahead of us.
“Seriously?” I groan. The Corvette’s shiny, candy-apple red paint is covered in yellow and white splotches. Someone has deviled egged my dad’s car. Crap on a cracker. Mom is going to confiscate the car as soon as she hears.
Destin looks around, and I follow his progress. There isn’t any sign of lurkers in the parking lot. Whoever did this, they didn’t hang around to see the results of their handiwork. Cowards.
“Guess I’m going to the car wash on the way home.” A frustrated growl scalds my throat as we transfer the loaded plastic bags to the trunk.
“If you needed any more evidence that people don’t really care…” I trail off, gesturing toward where whipped egg yolk has been smeared across the back window.
“Mr. Rogers would be disappointed in the dudes who did this,” Destin says, walking all the way around the classic car. “Waste of perfectly good eggs, too.”
“Most people aren’t like this,” Portia adds, opening the door with two fingers to avoid touching bits of crusty egg.
All three of us climb into the car. Destin settles Bert between his feet. Portia slides into his lap. It would be nice to have a car with seats for all three of us, but neither of my friends has one, so that leaves the Corvette, or walking. Luckily, Des and Portia seem fine with the arrangement.
Gracia used to drive us around in her mom’s minivan. It was good for piling in and going to the beach. We spent so much time there last summer. This summer we only went once, and spent the entire time staring out to sea. It was depressing, so we never went back.
Destin eyes me, a hand slung casually over Portia’s lap The other rests along the back of my seat. “Portia’s right. People aren’t perfect. You can’t make snap judgments about them and let that color your view forever. Everyone’s a mess. They don’t fit in little boxes.”
“Maybe,” I say, but I don’t agree. Destin has heard only a fraction of the crap people have said to my mom and me over the past six months, so it’s making his view of this town generously optimistic.
I know better.
I drive, thankful traffic is thin this late at night. Classic rock filters out of the speakers, and I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. Whenever my dad would drive me somewhere in this car, that’s what we’d listen to, so that’s the station I leave the radio tuned to.
I’m so lost in my thoughts it takes me a couple minutes to realize Portia and Destin have stopped chatting. The interior of Dad’s 1972 Corvette is silent aside from the easy melody of an Eagles song. I yank my brain out of autopilot just before we drive past a defunct, crumbling overpass. The road was diverted a couple of years ago, and this concrete arch has devolved to nothing more than a canvas for aspiring graffiti artists.
And murderers.
In the passenger seat, Destin’s entire body coils as the car slides past the bridge. I know what must be going through his head, because it’s the only thing in mine, too. Six months ago, Gracia’s body was found crumpled and broken under that bridge. An epitaph of graffiti the only marker over her unrestful place.
Portia’s arm tightens around Destin’s shoulders, and she presses against his front.
I bite my tongue, not saying anything. Destin never broached Gracia’s death with me, making it clear he didn’t want to talk about it. Reaching over, I pat Bert’s head where he’s panting on the gear stick.
Ahead, the light turns from yellow to red. I glide the Corvette through the intersection after the light has turned. The farther away we get from the bridge, the better we’ll all feel.
A siren cuts through the quiet, and red and blue lights swirl. Clamping my teeth, I pull over.
Portia looks out the rear window.
Deputy Kelley doesn’t bat an eyelash when she sees all three of us sitting in a car designed for two. Squatting to bring her face nearer, her firm expression meets mine, “Don’t make me write your first ticket, all right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kelley shuffles her weight. “I’m guessing you three saw the sheriff’s press conference yesterday.”
A chorus of yeses prompts her to come closer. “I want you to know we’re working on it. The entire department is invested in this, and we haven’t given up. We’ve even gotten a few calls in the past twenty-four hours, and the sheriff is hoping one or more will pan out.”
My fingers go taut around the steering wheel. “How likely do you think that is?”
Kelley’s mouth flattens for just a second before she puts on an encouraging smile. She doesn’t think they’re going to find anything, I realize. Not based on the calls they got this afternoon. But that isn’t what she says. “I’m hopeful too. Everyone in the department would like to give the Cuocos some closure.”
I suck in a breath when one of her hands reaches inside the cab to pat my arm. “As for your dad, don’t give up, Val. We’re doing everything in our power to find him. If there is any trace, we’ll find it.”
I thank her, mentally clinging to Mom’s optimism about Dad. That he’s holed up somewhere and will come back once it’s safe. But when I probe deep down into the pit of my stomach, I don’t find a lot of assurance. My dad disappeared the same night Gracia was murdered. It’s been six months, and there has been no sign of him. No activity on his cell phone or credit cards. No glimpses on traffic cameras or ATM footage. No sightings at random gas stations, like how some people still claim to see dead celebrities.
If there was evidence that my dad was still out there, somebody would have found it by now.
The Universe Throws a Vicious Curve
My self-preservation instincts are going haywire. Electric waves in the atmosphere make my hair stand on end. The second I step onto the curb in front of school, I know down to my bones that something is badly wrong.
The first indication is Destin bursting out the front doors, swiping at his face. The crowd parts for him. He’s crying.. . .
“Destin,” I call, jogging toward him. “What happened?”
“Later,” he pleads. By the time he hits the sidewalk, he’s running headlong away from school.
Ominous.
Janice and her sycophants are congregated on the steps in front of the dignified brick building, gathered around their queen. At first, I can’t make out what they’re looking at. Probably something stupid on her phone.
I reach the bottom step, intent on passing them by without another glance.
Janice has other plans. The gaggle around her parts, and she sweeps closer, holding her cell against her chest. “Valencia. How are you? Feeling okay?”
“Spare me the nice girl act, k?” Arching a brow, I side-step her. Seeing Destin so upset has me shaken up. Nothing good could have caused his hasty retreat.
With a swish of her pleated uniform skirt, Janice blocks me. I dodge, but she matches it. After a third unsuccessful attempt to get past her, I debate the wisdom of trying out the jab cross my dad taught me, widening my stance. “I thought trolls turned to stone in sunlight, but you still seem pretty limber. How did you do it? SPF 100?”
