Dead Girls Don't Keep Secrets

by Ames B Winterbourne

  “Is that all?” I ask.

  He shrugs but doesn’t look me in the eye. Instead, he stares at the trashcan. “Nothing for you to worry about.” After a moment, he snaps out of it and looks at me as though he isn’t envisioning the recurring nightmare we’ve both had for so many years. “So, how was school?”

  “Other than the whole school going into sheer chaos and Miss Kemper asking for a leave of absence because there was too much emotion being thrown at her? And the only news station in town sending all four of their reporters to question students? Oh, you know. Same old, same old.”

  “There were so many tweets on my feed today about it. I figured those bastards at Channel Nine would do something like that. They’ve probably been itching for a story other than the local animal shelter giving away puppies. Thankfully, we live in a small enough town, so this won’t go viral nationally … at least I hope.” I hear the anxiety in his tone. It’s more like we don’t need any more attention. “Too bad about Miss Kemper.”

  “At first I thought she was thrilled about all the attention she was getting. I guess it got a little too hot in the fryer.”

  “I think it’s best that I keep you home for a few days, just until this whole thing gets settled.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”

  “Felicia’s death is high profile in this town. I don’t want you being harassed with questions. The newscasters are already going crazy.”

  I think back to years ago when a reporter shoved a microphone in my face and demanded to know what really happened to my mother. He tried to have me point my finger at my father and then at the sheriff—at anyone that she had a relationship with. That was more high profile than Felicia due to my dad being a well-known author, but any form of connection to my mom’s death might trigger old news stories. Even though it was ruled a suicide in the end, my dad has never backed down that it wasn’t foul play. I hope Felicia’s death blows over fast. The sooner, the better for my family.

  “Thanks, but I have an Econ test tomorrow that will destroy my GPA if I miss it.”

  He’s giving me a parentally concerned look, something he rarely does because I’m never in trouble. “Lake, I don’t think—”

  “It’s fine.” I don’t want to get into it with him. I’ve had a bad enough day as it is. “I have to do well, or I’ll flunk out of high school and never be able to be a sassy, wisecracking news reporter.”

  “Or a sassy, wisecracking novelist,” he adds. Dad has his dreams for me, and I have mine. He wants me to be a bestselling novelist like him. I want to be an investigative journalist. We fight about it all the time, but I always come out on top. It only takes a moment before he sighs and gives in with a hint of a smile. “So, did anyone ask you about Felicia’s death other than the sheriff?”

  “Just Miss Kemper, but I didn’t really tell her anything.”

  “Good. That’s how it should be. No one needs to know that you two hated each other.”

  “I think it’s common knowledge. But it doesn’t really matter. She killed herself and I doubt anyone would say I bullied her into it.”

  He shakes his head at me as though I’m ridiculous. “Lake, I don’t think you understand what’s really going on. It’s good to keep yourself out of all this. I don’t want them pointing fingers at you.”

  I can only imagine what he’s thinking. When Mom died, the cops originally wrote it off as a suicide. Dad didn’t think so, but that meant it made him a suspicious figure. Dad became a lead suspect, not in a police investigation, but in a publicity investigation. He’d been away the weekend she killed herself, only to arrive home when I found her body. The tabloids had a field day with it. The suspicious death of the wife of a famed novelist. Her husband had been away for a weekend. What was he doing? Why did she kill herself? Or was it really foul play on his behalf? The stories were ridiculous.

  Reporters from all over the country stalked us everywhere we went. I mean, it was frontpage news that famed fantasy novelist Nick Lewis’s wife committed suicide three months before his famed book series was turned into a box office hit.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I’m going to take a shower and do some homework before dinner. Mr. Crane assigned an impromptu essay on how to define tact and whether any of us have it after our class’s lack of remorse for thinking Felicia was a crappy person.”

  He glances back at his computer and nods, totally ignoring the ridiculousness of my teacher who, until yesterday, didn’t give two fucks about Felicia. “It’ll be another hour before the slow cooker is ready. Pulled pork sandwiches sound good?”

  As if on cue, my stomach growls in anticipation. “You know you’re my favorite father, right?” I bat my eyelashes at him.

  “I’m your only father. Anyway, I have to finish this draft by Sunday. Hey, I just had a great idea for a story: The prom queen is murdered by the beady-eyed sheriff, and the only one that can stop him from taking another life is none other than the queen’s geeky rival.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  I roll my eyes, leaving without another word. Once in my room, I pull my sweatshirt off to change, and something falls out of my pocket. There on the floor is the crumbled pieces of paper from my locker. I grab the first shirt I can find in my dresser and throw it on, then I pick up the papers.

  As I flatten them out, I notice the beautiful scrawl. It’s lettering I vaguely remember from when we were learning cursive.

  My breath catches. It’s a letter from Felicia. Could this be another suicide note? Why would Felicia mention me in the one to the sheriff and leave this for me, too?

  I don’t work on my stupid paper. Instead, I sit on my bed and debate whether to continue reading. I’m not sure I really want to read the letter, but I’m curious. Why would Felicia leave a letter for me, of all people? Wouldn’t she feel more comfortable sending it to her bestie, Jessica? With the way Jaxon acted at school, I know she probably wouldn’t have left a letter for him. Just the fact that she left it for me makes me feel responsible for continuing to read.

  And the award for the understatement of the year goes to …

  All the air in my lungs evaporates as I read and reread the words she wrote. My mom’s murder? Mom committed suicide. I was there. I found her hanging body. This has to be a mistake.

  Felicia was investigating my mom’s potential murder. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know what makes sense. I continue to read.

  My mind is blank for minutes or hours. Then, rage blossoms within me. No, not just rage. I hurt. This has to be the cruelest joke Felicia has ever pulled on me. If it is a joke. If it isn’t … I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t know if this is even real. Yet, it’s her handwriting, right down to the checkmarks she dots her I’s with. Does that mean that the letter the sheriff received was a fake?

  I don’t know if I should be furious and disgusted that she thought using my mother’s potential murder would get her out of town. Or cry in pain knowing that my mom didn’t kill herself at all. All I know is this has to be a joke. But if it is, why would she reveal that she blackmailed all of those people? And how could they be involved in my mother’s death? Her boyfriend and best friend were too young to be involved. This is ridiculous. Why should I even believe this? Felicia’s given me next to nothing about what she knew. Only that it’s what got her killed and why everyone thinks she killed herself.

  I contemplate it for so long that I have whiplash when Dad brings me back down to earth, yelling, “Lake, dinner!”

  I jump and drop the papers. I’m definitely living in the Twilight Zone. I can ignore it. Pretend I never saw the letter and go about my life. But I know I can’t. I pick it up, then re-crumble the pieces of paper and throw it in my backpack. I rush downstairs. I’ll deal with this later.

  I try to act like nothing is the matter, but Dad knows something is up. I guess he thinks I’m upset about Felicia’s death when real
ly, I’m consumed with how to proceed with a possible investigation. I feel like she’s pressuring me into doing it. It makes me loathe her even more. Dad doesn’t ask anything; he just offers me a second sandwich, but I can barely stomach what I’ve been given.

  I can’t understand her. Why me? Why would she want me to do this? Just the thought of finding out the truth has always been impossible. This must be some game of Felicia’s. She probably doesn’t even know who killed my mother and is just doing this to taunt me. But her body was found, and according to Ryder, just like mom’s. Maybe it’s her way of messing with me beyond the grave. Or maybe …

  After dinner, I go back to my room and read the letter over again. Felicia gave me pieces of a puzzle and wants me to fit them into place. But how?

  I decide to sleep on it, but sleep won’t come, not with the thought of Felicia and my mother’s deaths being connected.

  Chapter 4

  My earsplitting scream makes my eyes burst open in the early hours of the morning. As I gasp for breath, the door to my room flings open, crashing into the wall behind it. My dad stands in the doorway with a baseball bat I didn’t even know we had. “What’s wrong? What happened?” He scans the room frantically for danger.

  Tears stream down my face as I try to make sense of my dream. My throat burns as though someone’s been choking me with a rope, but I know it’s all in my head.

  Dad drops the bat and hesitantly takes a step toward me. “Honey, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  “B-bad dream …”

  This dream isn’t necessarily a regular occurrence, but it’s happened often enough, only normally I’d catch myself before I screamed too loud to wake Dad. I try to avoid letting on that I still suffer from the occasional night terror.

  “What’s happened?” His voice is soft, as though he’s trying to protect me from my own answer.

  I don’t know if I should tell him what I dreamed, or even about Felicia’s letter. He would end up investigating the murder himself, and who knows what kind of trouble he’d get into. The sheriff already hates my father, and his interfering in the investigation would give more fuel to the flame. But I have to say something. Dad looks more distraught than I feel.

  “It was a pony.”

  “A pony?” His brow edges up, and he gives me a yeah, right face.

  “You know I hate horses. A pony is the scariest thing ever. They’re cute and look like little horses, but really they’re the devil in disguise.” I shudder, trying to pull off the ridiculousness. “Not to mention they never get bigger. So, they can be really old and look like a baby horse. It’s like that horror movie about the little Russian girl who never aged and was like fifty or something and pretended to be an orphan just so she could kill people. Freaky.”

  “Lake, are you comparing a pony to the horror movie Orphan?” He looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

  “Dad, I’m one hundred ten percent serious. Ponies are scary as fuck.” I shiver.

  He snorts. “Sometimes I wonder if your brother dropped you on the head a few times when we weren’t looking.”

  “Hey!”

  His amused expression doesn’t last long because, before I know it, his brows knit together and his lips purse.

  He doesn’t believe me, but he never pushes me to talk about things. Though, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to talk to him about this. At least for now.

  My alarm starts blaring. I grab the thing that sounds like a dying cat and press the button to stop it. Then, I glance back at Dad. He’s still watching me. “I should get ready for school.”

  “I don’t know if you should go to school—”

  “I have to, Dad. It’s Thursday anyway. And I told you, I have a test, and it’s very important for my—”

  “GPA.” He cuts me off. “I get it.”

  That’s just another reason I don’t have friends. I’m so consumed with getting good grades and getting into a grade-A college that I don’t have much time to mess around—though, since it’s the second part of senior year, I have more or less nothing left to do since my major courses are out of the way.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Dad asks.

  “I swear I’m fine.” I hate lying to him, but it’s necessary.

  “If you say so. I’ll get breakfast on the table.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  He hesitates for a moment. “I’ll be home all weekend, but I’m going to be cooped up in my office, so even though it may not seem like I’m here, I’m here. You can always talk to me.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  I give him two thumbs-up. He mutters a curse, giving up, and then stalks out of my room, closing the door behind him.

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  That was a close one. If Dad found out what was going on, he’d shut me in the house and lock me away until college.

  I force myself out of bed and get dressed, pulling on my usual oversized sweatshirt that gives nothing away. I have a big chest, which I despise more than anything else on my body. With my too-wide hips, large boobs, big ass, and some baby fat on my belly, I’m what most people would call curvy. But if you’re a girl with a big chest, it doesn’t matter to some guys that anything else is big, so my chest gained a lot of attention during freshman year. When Felicia decided it was just another thing to bully me for, I started wearing baggier clothes to make my shape look shapeless.

  I linger in the bathroom, gazing into the mirror. Though I have my father’s blue-hazel eyes, everything else about my appearance mirrors my mom. We both had the same straight cinnamon-brown hair, high cheekbones, and long straight nose, and we were both as white as the paste a kindergartener eats. I hate that we look so much alike. It makes it hard to forget. Hard to move on.

  But what if I can find her killer. I push the thought out of my mind and head downstairs.

  Dad’s idea of breakfast is a bowl of some sort of crunchy sugary cereal. I scarf it down, even though Dad is nowhere in sight. The sugary goodness is wasted on me since I’m so consumed with my thoughts. I can barely enjoy the exquisite mix of soggy and crunchiness.

  The house isn’t like most homes in our area. It’s cold like a stage home rather than a place people go to relax at the end of the day. Our furniture is contemporary and modern, with sharp edges and ceramic art vomit everywhere. It’s pretty clean, thanks to the maid that comes once a week. Most of our furniture is beige, and the floors are dark wood. It looks barely lived in. It isn’t that big of a house: three bedrooms and an office. The office and my bedroom are the most lived-in rooms in the house. Even though I consider it home, most people would probably consider it more of a stage house. It’s at the end of a cul-de-sac that houses richer and more contemporary homes. Ours is high off the ground, with large glass windows that take up most of the outer walls.

  I shout out goodbye, which gets no response. Even though Dad said he would be home all weekend, I’d be surprised if he actually showed his face. When it comes time for deadlines, he’s a hermit. I doubt he’d even notice I was home. I know his storming into my bedroom with a baseball bat will probably be the last I actually see him for the next few days.

  I hop into my teal plug-in Prius and head out. I love my car. My dad said the inside looks like a spaceship. He loves driving stick and the rev of an engine. I, on the other hand, prefer not needing to go to the gas station more than twice a month.

  Instead of focusing on the road ahead of me, my mind’s on the letter that caused my nightmare. I was the one who discovered my mom’s body, but I don’t remember a thing. I blocked it out. Because of that, my subconscious likes to play tricks on me while I sleep. Only, the person I watch die isn’t my mother. It’s always me. I haven’t suffered from this dream in at least two years … until last night.

  Felicia caused that nightmare. It makes me hate her even more. She thought finding my mother’s
killer would get her out of this town. It pisses me off, but at the same time, she found out who the killer is … and it got her killed. A little voice in the back of my mind tells me that if I follow Felicia’s clues, I might find out, too. It’s tempting, but I don’t know if I can trust her. I know I definitely can’t trust anyone else with the knowledge that Felicia didn’t kill herself. Our town’s own sheriff is apparently shadier than I even thought. It’s clear I can’t tell the authorities.

  I’m so consumed with my thoughts that, when the light turns green, I drive without thinking. My front bumper hits the car in front of me, and my body jerks.

  “Fuck waffle,” I blurt out when I notice the car has a dealer’s logo where the license plate should be. I’m dead. I just botched the back of a brand new Mercedes sports convertible. Just my luck. It’s like an inexperienced plastic surgeon botched an old hag’s Botox injection, giving her a cockeyed face. In reality, it’s an expensive bumper that’s now hanging on by a thread. I groan as the person points to the side of the road and goes to park, and follow suit. I get out and start apologizing profusely as the person opens their car door. I don’t notice them at first. I’m too busy gazing at the damage that’s going to be the end of my car privileges.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I—” My voice is wavers as I keep thinking: shit, shit, shit.

  “Lake?” My eyes shoot up to Jaxon Smith’s golden stare and his perfect straight teeth. That’s when my brain turns to mush, and it take a few moments to register that I’m gawking. “Are you okay?” he asks with a small smile.

  “I …” I can’t form words. They’re stuck in the back of my throat, and I’m actually thankful, since all I think about are his wide lips and the word, yummy.

  “Are you hurt?” There’s a crease between his brows, as though he, Jaxon Smith, is actually concerned I’ve been injured.

  Hurt? No, I’m not hurt at all. I’m in shock. Not from the little fender bender that Dad is going to kill me over because of an insurance cost increase. No, I’m in shock from the beauty of this guy. He’s worried about me. He’s talking to me. A life I know will never occur flashes before my eyes: Jaxon Smith professing his undying love to me. He kisses me, and then princess carries my ass off into the sunset. That’s when the realization sets in. I hit Jaxon Smith’s car. Holy butterballs.