Dead Girls Don't Keep Secrets

by Ames B Winterbourne

  “I think you didn’t get along and thrust her upon a predator that’s overprotective of you.”

  I definitely don’t like where this is going. “Are you accusing me of something, sheriff?”

  “You and my son,” he says. “How long have you been together, really? If it’s only for a few days, why?”

  “Ryder has bullied me for years,” I say. “And just recently I realized it was all a lie. He actually was doing that whole, ‘I like you but I’m going to bully you’ sort of thing.”

  “And yet, you’re dating him. Are you doing it to get back at him?”

  He sounds more like a concerned father, rather than a cop.

  “I don’t see the point in getting back at anyone. I don’t really care what people think of me.”

  “Everyone cares what people think of them.”

  “If I cared so much about what people thought, I wouldn’t be dating your man-whore son,” I bite out.

  “Do you even care for him? Do you like him?”

  Though I know I should just say yes, the truth is, I don’t know how I feel about Ryder. “He’s different from what I expected. I’ve come to care for him. But we’re not here to talk about Ryder, Sheriff Frost.”

  “No, we’re here to discuss your aunt and her secret business, and how you are connected to it,” he states.

  I let a hopeless frustration consume my tone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” My body shudders and I look right into his eyes, hoping he’ll see my desperation. “I would never do anything to jeopardize my future. I have a scholarship to NYU. I wouldn’t risk my future for any revenge plot.”

  “Interesting,” he muses. “You know, Ryder got into the same university. He was determined to.”

  My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. Ryder got into something other than a community college? That’s unexpected.

  “I didn’t know about that.”

  A smile teases his lips. “Whatever that kid sets his mind to, he’s always determined to get it.”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about, but his demeanor has eased a great deal. “Sheriff, do you really think I could be involved in something sketchy? I’m a loser with no friends. I’ve been scarred for life since my mom died and have tried everything to avoid trouble.”

  He narrows his eyes at me for a moment, as though assessing me. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he says. “I remember coming to the scene when your mom died. I remember what you were like. Things like that can mess with a person’s head.”

  “I don’t remember much of that night.”

  “Someone suggested you had motive to tarnish the youth of our town.”

  I gape at him. “Me? Who the hell would say something like that? I’m not vindictive. Otherwise, I would have acted on my bullies long ago.”

  “I can’t tell you our source. But what I can tell you is that, from what I heard, you’ve been asking a lot of questions. You and my son. It makes me wonder what you’re hiding and why.”

  I understand why Ryder said his dad is a good interrogator. He’s good at getting the suspect to open up. But I’m not falling for it. “Why on earth—you know I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  “You and Ryder have been dating since the day after Felicia died, and Ryder was tutoring Felicia before that. Maybe that pissed you off. Maybe you decided to get back at him by recruiting him for your aunt.”

  “I would never subject anyone to that kind of lifestyle. Ryder would never do that kind of thing. He’s a man-whore, but he’s not like that, and Felicia … I don’t know what her deal was.”

  I shut my mouth. I’ve just revealed something to the assbadge that he could totally use against me.

  “You seem defensive.”

  “Listen, Sheriff …” I try to calm myself. My body shakes with rage. “I don’t know anything about Felicia, or my aunt. I don’t. And I don’t get why you’re interrogating me. I’m not the one who fucks teenage girls.”

  His eyes widen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know why you’re asking me about this stuff when you’re a creep.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You disgust me. You’re an old sleazy-ass pervert. You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re the sheriff. You’re supposed to protect people, people like Felicia. But you’re nothing but a pedo. You probably offed her yourself, and since you hate my father, you think I’m the perfect scapegoat!” I’ve been possessed by Felicia. It’s the only explanation for why I’ve lost my cool and am flat-out shouting.

  “What makes you believe Felicia was killed?”

  “You would know,” I snap.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shakes his head in disgust. “I would never—”

  “Oh, please spare me your excuses.”

  A deafening alarm sounds, and the smoke alarm light flashes. The sheriff breaks out of his furious stance as Mike opens the door. Mike stands at his full height, with clenched hands, and a hard stare. “There’s a fire in the bathroom.”

  The sheriff gives me one last threatening look, and then turns to his deputy. “Handcuff her, and don’t let her out of your sight.”

  Mike gapes at the sheriff. “Sir, isn’t that—”

  “Do what I say, Mike.” Then, he leaves us alone.

  The sheriff is already out of the room. Mike doesn’t move, and instead stands there with the door open, giving me an apologetic look. I get up and start walking toward him.

  “I’m sorry about this, Lake. I don’t know what’s come over him. No one thought for a second he suspected you or that he was going to say that shit.” I figured someone must have been watching through the two-way mirror.

  “I don’t need your fucking excuses,” I growl as he begrudgingly cuffs me. He doesn’t do it too tightly, but the cuffs still bite into my skin. He just sighs and softly holds onto my arm, before walking us out the door.

  Out of nowhere, he grunts and releases my arm. He falls to the floor. I turn to look at the assailant. Ryder stands there with a baton in his hand. “He’ll be out for a bit. Come on.”

  I gape at him, but Ryder takes the keys from Mike’s belt and undoes my cuffs. I don’t get a chance to massage my wrists before he grabs my arm and pulls me toward his father’s office. He closes the door behind us, then flips on the lights. “I’ll check the cabinets, you check his desk. Okay? We don’t have much time.”

  My heart’s racing so fast that it’s louder than the blaring alarm. I know there isn’t enough time to argue, so I do what he says. I go over to the desk and pull out drawer after drawer. There isn’t anything in there that’s noticeable, only blank forms and office supplies. There is a book on corgis, but nothing suspicious—that is, until I yank open the bottom drawer. There’s an unnamed folder, packed to the brim with papers.

  I glance at Ryder, and he grunts as he skims through the file cabinet.

  I look back down at the file. At first, I don’t think anything of it, but for some reason, I wonder why the sheriff would be hiding a plain folder in a drawer that anyone could get into. I pull the folder out and open it.

  “Ryder, I found something,” I say as my eyes stick to the picture of my mom. She’s smiling up at me. She looks younger, maybe in her twenties, or even teens, and full of life and happiness. I don’t recognize the picture at all. It looks like it was taken in front of the gazebo at the town park. It was a place where couples would go for special occasions. My father even proposed to my mother there.

  Then, I turn the page, and my whole world is brought to an end.

  “What did you find?” Ryder’s voice brings me out of my thoughts.

  I can’t breathe. I pick up the picture and hand it to him. “It’s my mom’s file,” I murmur.

  He’s holding a folder himself. I nudge my chin at it. “Fe
licia’s file,” he says.

  The fire alarm quiets down. “Crap, we have to go,” Ryder mutters. I close my mom’s folder and follow him out.

  No one is in the office anymore, only the flashing lights and smoke. “Stuff them in your pants. Your sweatshirt makes you look big. No one can tell you’re hiding them,” he says.

  “Hey!”

  “Just do it,” he says, thrusting the folders at me.

  I do as he says. It feels uncomfortable, but he’s right. No one will be able to tell the difference.

  He puts the handcuffs on me again, and we kneel down to look at Mike.

  “What do we do about him?” I ask.

  Ryder doesn’t waste another second. He pulls Mike up off the floor, throws one of Mike’s arms over his shoulder, and drags him along.

  “Cough like you’ve just been smoking that strong nasty blunt that kid started a fire with,” he says.

  I roll my eyes as we exit the building. I cough uncontrollably, hoping it’s believable. The sheriff is standing outside, looking frantic. When his eyes land on Ryder, relief washes over him. Then, his eyes narrow in on Mike.

  “Ryder!” the sheriff shouts as he runs toward us. “What happened to Mike?”

  “Smoke inhalation,” Ryder says as he slowly and carefully lowers Mike to a bench. “He has asthma.”

  “Crap,” the sheriff mutters.

  I continue my hacking coughing, trying to make it seem as realistic as possible. “Can’t …” Cough. “… breathe.” I gasp for air.

  “Dad, can you uncuff my girlfriend?” Ryder says. “I should get her to the hospital.” Ryder’s voice cracks, as though he’s consumed with worry for me.

  The sheriff looks me over and I blink, as though losing focus. He hesitates, but then grabs my arm, biting his fingers into my skin, and uncuffs me. “This isn’t over, Lake.”

  As the sheriff backs away from me, Ryder grabs ahold of my hand. “Come on.”

  He pulls me toward the car and helps me in. He leans down, helping me with my seatbelt. “Keep the coughing up.” I do just that until he drives us out of the lot. We’re on the road when I pull the file from my pants. My throat aches from faking my cough for so long. “I’m going to kill you just for that comment about my sweatshirt.” My voice is hoarse.

  He snorts. “Look at the files.”

  Instead of opening Felicia’s file, I open my mother’s. I look past the first image of her beautiful, carefree face and find the second picture. I gasp at the sight of the photo.

  “What?” Ryder asks.

  I can’t stop staring. There, lying on the ground covered in dirt, is Felicia’s body.

  Chapter 14

  I want to look away, but I can’t. The image is too gruesome, too horrifying. I want to vomit. Blood. There’s so much blood on the pavement where Felicia supposedly jumped. Her body lies naked on the ground, bloated up and light baby blue, making her almost unrecognizable. Her eyes are wide open. There are bruises around her neck where a rope could potentially have strangled her, and her face, though bloated, is all cut up from potentially rocks in the river. What gets me most is the way her body is contorted and shriveled up, like she’d broken every bone as she was thrown over the edge of the bridge. Her bare arms expose three long slashes, similar to my mother’s, except they aren’t covered in blood like Mom’s were. Felicia’s was cut down to the bone. It’s similar to Mom’s death, except for the whole “being found in a river” thing. And what makes it even more terrifying is that she’s naked to the world. There are bruises and cuts all over her body, and nothing to cover her with. My only question is, why would anyone suggest she killed herself by jumping over the ledge naked?

  Images flash before my eyes. Memories I’ve forced out of my mind for years come crashing back to me. The bile rises in my throat and all I can do is choke out, “Stop the car.”

  “What?” Ryder says, confused.

  “I said stop the car!” I shout.

  Ryder pulls over to the side of the road, and I throw open the door. I jump out and throw up all over the ground. The images I’ve blocked out consume me, and I can’t stop heaving. It’s not Felicia I’m thinking about. It’s not her mutilated body, but my mother. As I continue to expel everything from my stomach, Ryder’s hand rubs gently against my back. It feels soothing and eases me as my throat burns from acid.

  “It’s okay,” Ryder says in a soft tone. When I’m done, my body gives out on me, and I collapse to the ground. I end up in the fetal position on the gravel, waiting for my body to stop shaking. I gaze up at the sky and notice it’s just as stormy as my rage and utter despair.

  Ryder doesn’t leave me on the ground for long. I gasp as he picks me up princess-style and carries me back to the car. He doesn’t even struggle. He deposits me into the seat, and once again helps me with my seatbelt. This time I need it. He gets back into the car and turns it on. The cold air gives me goosebumps, but I’m grateful for it. I’m hot, too hot and uncomfortable to function anymore. He reaches into the back seat and grabs a water bottle. He hands it to me, and I sip it slowly. The water isn’t cold—it’s more lukewarm and I feel like I’m choking on it. I cough it up, spilling water all over my sweatshirt. I’m clammy and sticky and just want to curl up into a ball and not exist. I’m shaking and Ryder grabs ahold of my hand, probably trying to calm me, but it’s not working.

  “That picture … I …” My voice trails off. Though the images are different, they’re still so similar that my mind is racing.

  “The cases are similar. We know that already.”

  “I just, I don’t know how to feel about it. They’re different but the same at the same time.”

  “You don’t have to look at the files anymore. I’ll do it.” He already has them out of sight. I figure it’s to help, but I want to know more. I need to know.

  “No, I need to read it.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Lake. You threw up—”

  “It’s important to me. Please,” I plead.

  He hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t look like he’s going to give in.

  “Please,” I beg.

  He watches me for a moment, trying to determine if it’s safe.

  “Please,” I repeat. My voice is hoarse and small.

  After a minute of watching me, he sighs and then says, “Okay.”

  I take in a deep breath as he reaches into the back seat and picks up the file. He looks at it briefly, as though having second thoughts, but then hands both folders over. I open them up, spread across my lap, but don’t dare look at the picture again. I realize some documents from Felicia’s file are mixed in with Mom’s. I glance at Felicia’s and notice its thin, like all the things you expect to find are missing. On the other hand, my mom’s file is bulky. I pick up a page filled with the sheriff’s notes.

  “Witnesses found her in a ditch, adjacent to the bike path. Both witnesses were cyclists. The male witness threw up on sight, while the other immediately notified the authorities.”

  “Lake,” Ryder says. “Are you—”

  I hold up my hand and turn to the next page. Felicia’s medical examiner’s report.

  I feel nauseated again, but I know there is nothing left in my stomach. I take in a deep breath and continue to read.

  It’s exactly what I’m looking for and yet, the world tilts. Homicide. Felicia was murdered and the sheriff announced it was a potential suicide. If I didn’t think he was sketchy before, now I’m one hundred percent sure the sheriff is involved in this.

  Tears stream down my face.

  “Lake,” Ryder says as I thrust the report at him. I watch his face as he takes it all in. He pales.

  When I glance back at the file, I flip over to the pictures that lie within. It isn’t another picture of Felicia. I can’t breathe. I won’t, because everything described in
Felicia’s autopsy mirrors my mom’s, except being thrust in a river. It’s an image of my mother’s body.

  Memories I’ve worked so hard to block out come rushing back to me.

  ***

  I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep, but it was already light out when I woke up. I was thirsty, so I got up to get a drink of water.

  I tiptoed downstairs, hoping not to wake Mom or my brother. Dad was away on a writing trip. He took them once in a while, but this time it lasted over a week.

  I took a step into the hallway leading to the living room. My socks touched something wet and sticky. I hated wet socks, and I cringed at the very thought of stepping in something. I looked down and froze. Red filled my vision. I didn’t scream. I was too scared. The blood looked like it had been smeared all along the hallway leading into the living room. Alarms were sounding in my head, but I persisted.

  That’s when I found her. She was on the living room floor. Bloody slits ravaged her left arm. Her neck was in a funny angle, with a rope tied tightly around it as she hung from the ceiling. Her long brown hair was knotted and covered in wet red goo. Her nose looked crushed as I stared at her blood-splattered face. She was completely naked, her body soaked in blood.

  I didn’t know how to react. I wanted to run, but instead, I stepped closer, and my socks made a squishing sound from the moistness.

  “Mommy,” I spoke, but couldn’t recognize my voice.

  She didn’t move.

  “Mommy, wake up.” `

  No response. A chair sat on its side on the floor, and I walked over to it. I planted it in the proper position right next to her body. I stood on it and gently touched her sticky skin on her face. She was cold and clammy. Her face was drained of color and her eyes were closed. My stomach did summersaults. I stumbled back and flew off the chair, down onto the ground. I couldn’t help the vomit that flowed out of me, mixing with her blood on the floor. My eyes filled with tears as I heaved. Once there was nothing left, I couldn’t help the sound coming from my mouth. I couldn’t stop screaming as I just stared at her body. Tears streamed down my face as my throat ached in agony.