Good Girl, Dead Girl (Valencia Lamb Book 1), page 3
The girl-shaped wall in front of me smirks when she spies the subtle movement of balled fists. “You’re so testy. Relax. I wanted to warn you before you go inside. In fact, you may want to turn right around and go home, like Destin. The gossip is going to be particularly nasty today.” Her faux-sympathetic simper widens. The curtain of evil smiles I’m up against sends a tingle down my back.
She’s baiting me, hoping I’ll ask what she’s talking about. I won’t give her that satisfaction.
I hate her, but I can’t blame Janice’s awfulness on her being pure evil. Before Gracia was killed, she and Janice had been best friends all their lives. Gracia was funny and outgoing, always making Janice laugh. They were total opposites: the blond comedian and the raven-haired sharp edge, but Gracia softened her in a way that Janice is clearly lacking, because she’s been pure evil ever since. Gracia may have been dating Destin, but we didn’t mix with Janice unless Gracia forced us. We’re practically enemies, now.
“I don’t care about gossip, Janice, since it’s almost universally false. Unlike you, I have a life outside of school, and more entertaining things to do than pick fights I can’t win.”
Janice’s ponytail swishes around her shoulders. “See, it’s that attitude right there that makes you so unlikable. You’re always so judgmental.”
“Move.”
“In a minute. And just so you know, I’m going to win this one. Wait until you--”
“Hey, Jan,” Rock calls, interrupting. He moves steadily through the crowd as they let him through. Taking up position next to his girlfriend, he eyes the two of us with no small amount of wariness. “What’s happening here?”
Wordlessly, Janice hands off the phone, watching Rock closely as his eyes drop to look, then fly upward. The pity under those dark lashes guts me.
Taking advantage of Janice’s focus on Rock, I push past her and hoof it up the remaining stairs into the building. Everyone I pass is glued to their phone, gasps and exclamations of “I told you!” perfuming the air. Groaning in annoyance at the sheer amount of stubbornness I’ll have to spend to ignore both Janice’s barbs and whatever new drama has everyone’s attention, I make my way toward my locker.
Pointed looks swivel toward me like pack animals scenting prey. My hands tighten on my backpack straps. None of them matter. Neither does the prickling along the back of my neck, making my hackles raise.
A glance at the wall clock suggests the first bell is about to ring. I’ll have to hurry if I want to make it to my locker before homeroom.
Has this hallway always been this ridiculously long and crowded? The rhythm of my heart ticks loudly under my bag’s nylon straps.
Goosebumps overtake my skin. I halt in the middle of the hall. All movement around me stops. Eyes sharp as teeth mark my every move. I whirl around, and sure enough, the nearest clumps of people whip their heads away, abruptly starting conversations about homework or the latest episode of the reality show everyone is obsessing over.
Uncanny.
Ignore it.
Ignore it, Val.
They don’t matter. You can--
Portia is standing in front of a locker bank wearing a scowl that can’t be anything but a harbinger of bad news. She’s clutching at her phone with silver-ringed fingers. Typing like a maniac.
People congregate around her in concentric rings radiating from a central planet.
Pushing past an amorous couple, I shove through the crowd toward her. “What got into Des?”
Her cringe makes the dread swell low in my belly.
Show me,” I say.
She holds her phone angled so I can see it, but she doesn’t stop typing. My eyes absorb the image displayed, but my brain does not compute. My retinas are sending signals that are scrambled somewhere along my nerve-paths. This can’t be right.
“I’m trying to get it taken down,” Portia laments, jabbing at the screen.
I barely hear Portia’s angry muttering over the roaring in my head. Even if every single repost was scrubbed from the web, the garish image is indelibly branded into the ridges of my brain. The unreliable organ in my chest pumps blood through my veins faster and faster, a fall of blood that drowns out the emboldened whispers and cruel laughter.
This cannot be right. It has to be fake.
Taking out my phone, I find the post that has Portia sweating. I look again. The image hasn’t changed. Not a single pixel has shifted. “This can’t be what it looks like. Can it?”
Portia shakes her vehemently. My dad wasn’t that kind of man. But the evidence in my hands doesn’t lie. The image in that post strikes deep and true. Because I know the duo in the photo really well. Would never mistake them for anyone else. The cursed image leaves no room for misinterpretation.
It’s my dad sitting in the driver seat of his Bronco, talking to a girl in the passenger seat. Gracia, tears streaming down her face. My dad, hands cupping her cheeks, in the act of wiping the wetness away with his thumbs.
“You okay, Valencia? You look a little green.” Janice’s smile is as wide as a possessed horror movie clown.
Turning on her, I ball my hands, ready for a fight. All of the fake pity and gossip and rumors of the past few months have been hell, but they’re nothing like the apparent confirmation in my hand. “You did this.”
Janice and her friends are shielded behind malevolent, gloating smiles. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. It was already posted when I got up this morning. I tried to warn you, but for some reason you’re always so hostile. I don’t know what I did to deserve it.”
I spark, angry. That’s it. No one can blame me for this. Janice is a few inches taller, but I can take her. I draw back, seeing nothing but red. I aim for Janice’s nose. Picture it broken and gushing blood. The splash of red would clash with her green eyes, a bizarro Christmas. I’ve always loved Christmas.
“No!” Portia throwing herself between Janice and me is the only thing that stops me from decking the poisonous cat flicking her tail and purring.
I hear nothing but a low-grade droning for the rest of the day. Portia does her best to console me, and we both send Destin a bunch of messages. He doesn’t text back. By the final bell, I’m functional enough to assure Portia that the image has to be fake. There are people talented enough to pull off something like that. I’m fine. There is no way my dad and Gracia were anything to each other, despite whatever the internet’s temporary new favorite meme attests.
Portia is quiet. A strange, new inclination hardens low in my abdomen like a bezoar in a goat’s stomach. Janice is not content to let my dad’s reputation be shattered by town gossip and rumors. Instead, she has launched a campaign designed to ruin any good will the people in Hacienda have toward the man.
If I want the truth to come out, I’ll have to fight for it.
My Brain Is on Fire
That infernal photo is burned onto the inside of my eyelids. Whenever I close my eyes, it’s all I see. My dad and Gracia, sitting in the cab of his SUV. Tears in her eyes. His roughened hands cupping her cheeks. It dredges up so many gut-churning questions, and I can’t answer a single one of them.
I’m not even sure I want to.
My entire life, I’ve seen my dad one way. He worked hard at a job he loved. Loved my mom and me just as fiercely. He guarded time with us as much as he could, clawed out of the demands of being sheriff. I never doubted that Mom and I were first in his heart.
Having that assurance questioned by everyone in town is jarring, and I don’t know how to handle it. How do I reconcile the father I knew with the damning image that has been spread across every corner of the internet?
His go bag is gone.
My dad left town that night with what must have been one hell of a compelling purpose.
I force my attention to my homework. One week into school and my teachers are piling it on. I try to stay on top of it, but it’s hard to care about Holden Caulfield’s ennui when more pressing questions bear down on me. The weight of scrutiny is a runaway horse with wild eyes and punishing hooves.
Mom is off work, but she was craving Thai food and went to pick it up. I’ve been strung tight since she left. I may have neglected to mention the photo when I updated her on how school was going. Now I wish I had. Seeing it will hurt significantly more if someone shoves it in her face while she’s picking up takeout. I should have gotten ahead of it. People in this town won’t be gentle. They want to see the moment we finally shatter.
As soon as she returns. She needs to know.
Maybe she’ll have some explanation. Maybe Gracia called my dad for some reason, and he let my mom know on his way out.
Even as I think it, I dismiss the thought. If my dad had been called out to help a friend of mine, Mom would have mentioned it the other night when we talked.
The garage door rumbles. The kitchen door opens and closes. Plastic bags rustle. Mom is home. I lay eyes on her, and know it’s too late.
She holds out her phone. The cursed image stark in her palm.“I assume you know about this, so why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was trying to protect you.”
Mom shakes her head. Barely keeping a rein on her emotions. It’s the most raw I’ve seen her since that night in the office. “That isn’t your job, Valencia. That is my job. I’m the mother in this house. There I was, minding my own business, trying to pick up some panang curry and pad Thai, when some woman I don’t even know has the nerve to ask me if I knew my husband was having an affair with a teenager! I was shocked speechless. Then she shows me this.”
She’s shaking, her fingers white around the device. Her hurt is evident in the wobble around her mouth. How could she not be?
I failed her.
She’s my mother, and her role is to keep me safe. It’s my job to do the same for her, since it’s just the two of us. We have to support each other. Fight for each other. To that end, I spend so much time trying to keep her beyond the reach of the town’s sharp claws, I don’t even know how to go out without full armor anymore.
I shuffle closer as my mom breathes slowly in and out, containing her personal storm.
My hands curl in the pockets of my sweats. Mom doesn’t deserve the vitriol people have been spewing since that photo was unveiled. I thought being pitied by everyone was bad, but unveiled hostility is worse.
“I’m sorry.”
We’re sitting in front of the TV, watching a rom-com and eating our curry when the doorbell rings. Sheriff McCandles is on the porch, asking to speak to my mom. They dismiss me to my room.
I don’t listen in this time. Don’t need to. I’ve been around officers all my life and can guess pretty well what he’ll ask her. Gracia was your daughter’s friend. So she would have been around Sheriff Lamb some, right? Was there ever a time the two of them spent time alone, for any reason? They’re the same questions I’ve been asking myself, and I keep coming up with the same answers. There is no logical reason for my dad and Gracia to be alone together.
My dad must have had a reason. Maybe it had to do with whatever secret objective took him away from us.
The sheriff’s tall, lanky body is visible through my bedroom window, ambling down the front walk to his truck, gaze on the ground. One more loose end added to the pile.
As God Is My Witness
It’s free writing time, but a sleepless night left me exhausted. I dozed off in class, and Janice snuck up on me.
A swish of pleated uniform skirt against the rim of my desk makes my insides recoil. Pristine white button-down tucked under a shiny brown leather belt. Uniform jacket tailored to perfection.
“Can I help you, Janice?”
My favorite person grins, revealing a black and white composition notebook she’d been hiding behind her back. Before I can stop myself, my eyes fall to my empty desktop. Janice stole my notebook, and she’s holding it up with her sharp-nailed pinchers. Crap.
But see, I’ve been around Janice long enough to know that if I act bothered by this fantastic turn of events, it’ll only egg her on. I remain still, my eyes skimming past the notebook to land on Janice’s snubbed nose. “You need something to read? I’ve got a couple of thrillers in my backpack. They’ll be more interesting than that.”
Janice’s nails clack on the journal’s cover. “No thanks. I’m too curious about what you’d be putting in here. Maybe it’s your confession. Tell me, did you help your dad kill her, Valencia? Or did you help hide him after he did it? Oh! Did you get jealous of the time she was spending with your daddy and decide to do something about it?”
My hackles rise. Destin sucks in a ragged breath.
Portia jabs a finger at her. “Watch your mouth, Janice. And give that back. It’s private.”
“In a second. I’ve decided that since the sheriff is having trouble solving Gracia’s murder, I’ll help him out. Doing my civic duty by exposing a murderess. Gracia deserves justice, don’t you agree?”
Portia bites down on her lip.
The rest of our classmates have slowed, their pens hovering over half-filled pages. Some are blatantly staring at our little tableau.
My mind whirls with anger. How dare Janice insinuate something so disgusting, so horrific. In front of our entire class. As if my dad would ever get involved with one of my best friends. Even one who was newly eighteen. As if I’d be jealous enough to murder Gracia and leave her ruined body under a decaying bridge. But appealing to a need for privacy or common decency isn’t going to work on Janice. She doesn’t care a lick for either of those things when it comes to me.
Her own image, on the other hand, she’ll try to protect. I lash out that way, hoping to land a hit that turns this lovely tête-à-tête in my favor. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re embarrassing yourself. Don’t look now, but everyone’s watching.”
Janice grimaces, her gaze sliding over me to Portia, who gestures for her to hand over the journal. Destin frowns up at her in disapproval. Janice’s surety doesn’t waver. “Who cares? Someone has to solve this thing.” Pushing her ponytail over her shoulder, she opens my notebook to the first page and skims it.
Despite the cold air piping into the classroom, my temperature spikes. I can’t believe Janice stole my notebook. That she’s getting an eye full of my ramblings about Gracia and my dad. There is enough emotional word vomit in my notebook for her to make my life pretty uncomfortable. Everything from frustration with the towns’ people to my heartbreak over how they keep treating my mom. My hand clenches around my pencil. Must not react. Must not react. Must not--
Janice scoffs. “Your handwriting is terrible. You should consider going back to second grade to work on your penmanship.”
My eyebrows rise. My handwriting is messy, sure, but not that bad. I joke that it’s actually really pretty, until you try to read it. Sometimes I can’t even decipher it. “If I need to go back to second grade to work on penmanship, you need to go back to learn how to keep your hands to yourself.”
Around us, bodies lean closer in their desks, ears perked. Fingers suspiciously still on their phones. Are people filming us right now? The last thing I need is to be the subject of even more unflattering gossip slathered over the internet.
My neck turns read as Janice reads out loud. “This summer I spent a ton of time at the beach surfing. Bert got pretty good at being on the board with me. Little guy loves it so much that whenever I put on my wetsuit, he whines at the front door until I put him in the rideshare. Not that I don’t take him everywhere already. He’s my furry wingman… What is this?” She spits with disgust, pointing one long nail at Destin. “I thought he was the one with the dog.”
Destin gives a fake smile.
Portia picks up the baton. “Oh, he is, but Val took Bert surfing a ton this summer, right?”
Relief floods through me. “Yep. Totally. Bert and I are tight.”
The classroom door shuts with a whoosh of the air, drawing our attention.
“Miss Hill? Quiet writing time is not visiting time. Return to your desk, please.” The teacher eyes us from the front of the room.
Janice’s eyes roam over the journal in her hand, her fingers hovering above the corner like she’s dying to turn another page to see if she can find something juicier to squawk about.
“Now, Miss Hill.”
“Whatever. Here.” Smacking the journal down on my desk, Janice’s long hair whisks my face as she spins back to her desk. Rock says something to her so low that I can’t hear it from three rows back, but it makes her pout.
I pull my focus back to Portia and Destin. “You guys, how did you do that? That was--thanks.”
Destin completes my offered low five. “Portia saw her scoping you out while you were asleep, so she had me switch out our notebooks. Easy.” We swap back and he taps the corner of his journal on the desktop.
“Good thing, too, because Janice came back here as soon as Miss Wayne stepped out. She’s such a detestable villain.”
“Whoa, little harsh, there, Porsh.” My eyes shine in approval.
Eyeing the back of Janice Hill’s snooty head, I flip open the journal, surveying the next blank page. It’s waiting for me to fill it with whatever the hell I want, whether that’s stream-of-conscious ramblings or the steps for a flawless murder.
These untouched pages are the perfect hiding place for something that’s been brewing inside me since Janice announced her intention to solve Gracia’s murder. Today, a fistful of minutes ago, my nemesis made it clear she’s going to dig around in my life and shine light on the blacker bits for everyone to see. Janice freaking Hill forced my hand. Made the poisonous idea a necessity. If no one else is going to do it, I will.
Putting pen to paper, I write.
My father didn’t kill Gracia Cuoco, and I’m going to prove it.
I Am Not as Slick as I Thought
Once I step foot inside this building, there is no going back. If the past six months have taught me anything, it’s that no one will have my family’s back more than me. If my life as a sheriff’s daughter has taught me anything, it’s that the department knows more than I do about this case, and they won’t share willingly.
