Dead Girls Don't Lie (29 page)

My anger drains away. Now I understand why he feels responsible for Rachel’s death. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Then let’s finish this together, the right way. The way she was going to.”

He doesn’t move.

“We’ll go to Agent Herrera. I have his phone number, or we could go to his office. We could leave tonight.” I can’t stand the thought of Peyton or Mitch or anyone else being shot, even after everything they’ve done. “Too many people have died already.”

He touches Rachel’s cross. “No, the wrong people have died.”

I do the only thing I can think of to stop him. I grab the gun.

He stares at me in shock as I turn it around and point it at his chest. “Listen to me. We’re doing this my way. My dad is a lawyer. He can help.”

Eduardo stands there, dumbfounded. He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t point a gun at someone unless you’re willing to pull the trigger.”

“Who says I’m not.” I point the gun to the sky, and I squeeze off as many rounds as I can before he wrestles it away from me.

“What are you doing?” he screams.

“Trying to keep you from becoming a murderer!” I yell back.

He checks the chamber and starts cursing me in Spanish. He raises the gun above my head. For a minute I think he’s going to hit me with it. I cower away. “From now on, you’re on your own, boba. Don’t call me when they come for you.” He stuffs the gun in his pants, turns, and runs away.

I watch him go, lacking the strength to follow. There must be at least one bullet left, or he has more somewhere. I turn and face the ugly red marks on the wall of my house, dripping as if they were fresh blood, just like the ones in the old house.

I breathe in the fumes and my stomach churns. I walk into the house, feeling cold, exposed. Alone. My shirt is streaked with dirt, my legs are scraped from getting dragged under the bushes. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been before, and I want to throw up, but I can’t quit now. I need to make it to my room and see what they did to it before anyone else comes. Thanks to the gunshots, it won’t be very long before the police get here.

I open my bedroom door.

Everything I own is destroyed. My drawers are torn out and thrown across the floor. The walls are painted with gang
symbols and words in Spanish that I don’t understand, but they seem threatening. My pillows have been torn apart and spray-painted red. My bedspread is in tatters. My mirror is smashed, and glass covers the floor. They did everything they possibly could to make me afraid.

It worked.

I stand at the door, for a second not able to move forward or backward. I force myself inside, avoiding what’s left of my bedroom mirror and stirring through my destroyed possessions, my hands getting red with paint. Skyler was right. It isn’t safe here, for either of us. I need to find him. We’ll go to Spokane, to Agent Herrera’s office, and I’ll tell him everything I know. I open my backpack to put some clothes and my phone charger in it.

My phone buzzes again. I pull it out, my ears straining for the police sirens that still haven’t come. Everything is eerily silent.

It’s a text message, one line:

Meet me at the darkroom in 20—Skyler

Chapter 33

I zip the backpack closed and sling it on my back.

The sirens are finally coming, so I go the opposite direction, toward the fields, running faster than I’ve ever run before. I can’t wait for the police to come. They won’t help us.

When I reach the far end of the Cross family’s property, where I first saw Skyler in the swather, I slow down and look at the shorn hayfield. The moonlight illuminates the bales of hay and the baler at the end. The field is still half-finished, and it’s starting to rain. It will have to sit and dry again. By the time it’s ready to harvest, Skyler will be gone.

I sprint across the field, avoiding the light from the house but listening for any sounds coming from it, yelling or something worse. I move from shadow to shadow, trying to keep my breathing quiet. Finally I make it to the darkroom. I pause to catch my breath and step inside.

The room is pitch black. Skyler isn’t here yet. I reach up and turn on the light. Hanging from the little clothesline are
the negatives Skyler developed when I was here before. I reach into my pocket, fingering the roll of film.

If we go to Agent Herrera he’s going to want some kind of evidence. What do I have besides my word? I don’t have Rachel’s pictures, or her necklace, or even the video message she sent me. I still don’t have anything concrete. What if he doesn’t believe me?

I touch the roll of film again. This might be my last chance to find out what’s on it.

I don’t know how old the film canister is, how long it was wedged in the windowsill, or even what’s on it, but it’s all I have left. Skyler’s darkroom equipment is lined up on the counter in front of me. I pick up the developer tank and turn out the lights. My hands are shaking as I work to roll the film on the little spool the way he taught me. It keeps slipping off and I have to start over. Finally I get most of it on. I’m not sure it’s right, but it will have to do. I can’t wait for Skyler.

I screw on the lid to the tank, turn on the orange safelight, and reach for the developer chemical. Skyler said something about the temperature being just right, but I don’t have time for that either. I read the instructions on the side of the bottle, “Process for fifteen minutes, agitating for about twenty seconds every minute, don’t overprocess.” I set a timer on my phone and shake the bottle slowly, back and forth. I do it over and over again, pacing back and forth in between, wondering where he is.

The alarm on my phone goes off, and Skyler still isn’t here.

I’m not sure what to do next, but the developer said not to
overprocess, so I dump the chemicals from the tank down the sink. Then I unscrew the lid and unspool a long length of black film. I think I ruined it, or that there was nothing on it to begin with. I get almost to the end before I see anything.

I hold the film up to the orange light. There are only three frames of pictures. The first one is similar to the one I saw before; the number 18, carved into someone’s forearm. I hold the negative closer to the light, trying to figure out what the next picture is. I almost drop the film when I realize it’s a picture of someone lying on the floor. Manny. His chest is bare and there’s a dark spot all around him—blood. I force myself to look closer, but I can’t make sense of the wounds on his chest. Then I realize the negative is upside down. I flip it over and pick out a shaky 20, carved into his chest.

The coroner’s report Skyler gave me was faked.

I move to the third picture. I recognize the front window of Rachel’s house. Through it I can see two people, Rachel and me. All three pictures were taken the night Manny was murdered, and the person who took them was watching us. Was it the person who sent Rachel the text? Why did he want her to come to the old house, what was he planning to do to her?

My phone buzzes, scaring me so much that I drop it on the floor. I scramble to pick it up. It’s another text from Skyler:

Don’t go home. I’ll come get u.

I’m confused. Why would he tell me not to go to my house after he told me to meet him at the darkroom?

The door to the darkroom opens. I turn around, still gripping the negative. Before I can react, Evan takes my phone
and turns it off. “I’m going to guess I’m not who you were expecting.”

“No. You’re not.” I glance at the open door, wondering how far I would make it before he caught me.

He shuts the door and then turns on the regular light. The negative I’m holding goes completely black. I stare at it, not sure what just happened.

Evan takes the strip of film from me. “And I’m going to guess that you didn’t use stop bath or fixer when you developed that.”

“I didn’t …”

“I’ve done that before.” He drops the ruined film on the floor and steps on it. I edge toward the door, but he blocks my way. “You aren’t going anywhere. We need to talk.”

I back away, just out of his reach. “How did you get the number to my phone?”

“I figured out that Skyler had his own way of talking to you, so I stole his phone when he went to take a shower this morning.”

“So you lured me here for what? To kill me like you killed Rachel?”

“No. I pretended to be Skyler because I knew you wouldn’t come if you thought it was me.”

It occurs to me that he didn’t say that he didn’t kill Rachel, but since I’m trapped, my only choice is to listen to him. “Okay, you want to talk, talk.”

“You need to stop what you’re doing.”

“What are you talking about?” I’m trying to stay calm even though everything inside me is coming apart.

“All this digging around, sticking your nose in other people’s business. You need to stop it.” His voice is missing the charm and false flirting it usually has, sounding more like urgency bordering on panic.

“Why?” It’s the only word I can make come out without my voice shaking.

“You’re getting into dangerous territory. I don’t want to see you hurt. I’ve seen this stuff before, gangs and …”

Somehow I don’t think he’s as concerned about me as he is about himself. I interrupt him, thinking about the pictures I just saw. “Tell me about ‘making the cut.’” It feels like someone else is talking, someone braver than me, someone like Rachel.

“Jaycee, trust me when I—”

“No! Don’t say that!” Something inside me snaps, and I forget that I’m supposed to be afraid. “I’m so sick of people telling me who I can and can’t trust, I could throw up. From now on, I’ll decide who I trust. And I’m not sure that includes you.”

“Wait, Jaycee.” He reaches for my shoulder.

I step away. “Don’t even try to touch me.”

He bites his lip and speaks slowly, every word precise, as if he wants to be sure I hear him. “Trust me when I say you don’t want to go there.”

I keep my eyes locked on his, anger and adrenaline replacing the fear. “Actually, that’s exactly where I want to go. I want you to tell me about ‘making the cut’ and everything you know about that, especially what you know about the night Manny died.” His eyes register more panic, but I press forward like I’m the one with all the power, not him. “Or should I take what I found to that FBI agent, or whoever will listen to me? Now,
before you do what you did to her, before you make it so no one will ever listen to me again.”

He leans against the wall, defeated. “You won’t like what I have to tell you, Jaycee, and I’m not sure you’ll believe me, even if I tell the truth.”

“Try me.”

He looks at his hands without saying anything.

“What if I start and then you fill in the blanks.” I move closer to him. “‘The cut’ is a sadistic football ritual where you carve your jersey number somewhere on your body to show your loyalty to the football team.” I touch the number on his arm, enjoying for a minute the sick thrill of being in control of him for once. “It’s been going on for years. The coach supposedly knows nothing about it.”

He doesn’t look up. “Don’t drag Coach into this, please. He didn’t know. He wasn’t there when it happened.”

“Wasn’t he there the night Manny died?” I feel like my trap has been sprung and Evan is stuck.

He grimaces and turns away. “It was an accident. We were just a bunch of stupid kids.”

“Stupid kids who covered up a murder,” I point out.

He runs his fingers through his hair and paces in front of the door. “It wasn’t my fault. I was all for having Manny on the team. He was big and he looked strong. I thought we could use him. He carved the number into his own chest, deep, like he felt nothing, even when the blood was dripping down to his knees. But someone had to go.”

“Go?” That word sounds much more ominous now.

“Not like that. Someone had to be cut from the team; it
was a respect thing. If we let everyone in …” He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear his thoughts. “There were two of them who showed up, two who did every stupid thing we asked them to do. We put them up in the room together, in a kind of holding cell, while we decided what they had to do next. Then we heard something that sounded like fighting, like they were throwing each other around. Glass was breaking, and they were yelling. I ran up the stairs, we all ran up, but by the time we got there, Manny had a knife in his chest, and he—the other kid—had blood on his hands.”

My stomach clenches. When I finally talk, my voice sounds way more steady than I feel. “If Manny was stabbed, how was that an accident?”

Evan closes his eyes. He looks sick or maybe just tired of holding the secret in. “He said Manny snapped, got mad about something and came after him with the knife they’d used to make the cut. He tried to defend himself and they both fell, Manny ended up falling on the knife. He was dead before we could do anything.” Evan leans forward and puts his head in his hands. “There was so much blood.”

I work on wrapping my brain about everything he just told me. There are still a couple of holes in his story that need to be filled, holes I’m not sure I want him to fill. “You didn’t see the fight. How do you know it was an accident?”

He gets defensive, ready to put his wall back up. “I just did, okay. We all did.”

“If it was really an accident, why didn’t you just tell the truth?”

“Our football team, our senior year, my scholarship would
have been over if we got caught. If anyone knew we were there that night. We decided to cover it up. Manny was a gang-banger. Eric said he was involved in some kind of murder in California. Maybe he …” Evan trails off without finishing that sentence.

I finish it for him, furious. “Maybe what? He deserved it? For trying to get away from that life. For where he came from?”

“No, not that exactly.” Evan looks small and pitiful and horrible. I’m disgusted to think I spent so much time fawning over him.

“Because he was a Mexican you thought you could get away with it? Right?” With each question my voice gets louder, with each question I think about Eduardo and how right he was. “You knew the investigation would only scratch the surface, and then you could go off and play your stupid football game. And it didn’t even matter because you lost. You lost every single game last year, and you lost your scholarship. Murder must be bad for team spirit.”