Dead Girls Don't Lie

by Marlie May

  “Anything else?” My voice shook. How much more of this could I take? The horror of it soured my belly. I swallowed, but my stomach continued to roll.

  “As your estate manager,” Mr. Trudale said. “I’ll make investments, decide if any property should be sold. Taking guidance from your aunt, naturally. She’ll serve on the board at your father’s company until you’re able to assume that role.”

  In three-and-a-half years, I’d be twenty-one. Not that the timeframe mattered. I only wanted my parents. I couldn’t hug a house. Money from selling a car couldn’t cheer for me at a swim meet. And a stock portfolio wouldn’t walk me down the aisle if I ever got married.

  My emotions a mess, I zoned out while they chatted until Mr. Trudale spoke directly to me. “Any questions?”

  I shrugged, wishing I could escape. My belly spun again, and I wanted to curl up on my bed and pretend it was June, when my biggest worry was if I should quit piano lessons.

  “There are a few more details you need to know about your father’s company,” Mr. Trudale said. “In which, until now, he held an equal share.”

  I’d slumped lower in my chair and started tapping my shoe on the front of his desk but equal share until now made me sit up higher.

  Before I could speak, my aunt stole the words from my mouth. “The equal share is changing?” She sounded shocked. The fact that she took an interest in this was good since she’d manage everything.

  Mr. Trudale’s eyebrows lifted. “When they went public a year ago, Mr. Davis and his partner each retained an equal amount of stock to maintain a majority. But their agreement had a codicil.” He lifted the paper and squinted at it in the late day sunlight pouring through the windows. “If one of the partners passed on before the other, the surviving partner could exercise his option to purchase half of the other’s stock, so that he would then hold a shareholder majority.”

  Aunty Kristy wrangled her necklace. “A majority?”

  “Indeed,” he said. “They did specify that the purchase price must be at a fraction of the current stock market value. I actually advised them to do something like this. Not necessarily the reduction in the purchase price, because they agreed on that after discussion, but I encouraged them to set things up to ensure no one lost the opportunity to obtain a majority if something… happened.”

  A majority of Dad’s company sounded ominous. If I had my Murder List on me, I’d add this underneath Mr. Somerfield’s name.

  “My word.” Aunt Kristy leaned forward. “I mean, this is…interesting.”

  “Ironic, actually,” Mr. Trudale said dryly. He directed the next to me. “Your father’s partner executed his option the day your father’s remains were identified and he was declared deceased.”

  Deceased. Remains. My throat tightened to a chokehold.

  “Why is this ironic?” I asked quietly, utterly subdued.

  “You’re a child, so I don’t imagine your father would’ve bothered you with business details like this. But, since it is of interest to your aunt, I will note that the company was about to release an app that guaranteed a double or even triple of the current stock price. In fact, the stock’s value increased almost six-hundred percent when the app released. Which was a month ago.”

  Dad had been the computer genius. And while Mr. Somerfield might be as good with computers, my father once called him a business shark.

  Dad always had shot straight.

  Aunt Kristy gaped at Mr. Trudale. “He couldn’t have known he’d make a fortune.”

  “Of course, he would’ve known.” I couldn’t hide the bitterness in my voice. This had always been about the money. For Mr. Somerfield, at least.

  Assuming my aunt didn’t make a string of poor decisions, I had more than I’d ever need. But ‘ironic’ fit this situation perfectly.

  Dad’s partner had visited our house a billion times. For dinner. To deliver papers. Or to pick up his son—Brandon.

  Mr. Somerfield had not only been a shark, he’d also been greedy. By exercising his right to buy the stock, he hadn’t exactly been stealing from me. When they set up the codicil, he couldn’t have known my father would die. Or could he?

  The realization sunk through my bones. Of course, he’d known. He’d set this all up.

  No need to look into anyone else. I’d found my parents’ and Brianna’s murderer. Now, to prove he’d done it.

  “Damn him.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. Speaking out of turn had become a habit for me today. My aunt clicked her tongue. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or if she agreed with what I’d said, but I’d been taught to act respectfully with my elders since birth. My mom always said, ‘the madder you act, the less you look like a lady’. As if feminism and anger shouldn’t cross the same threshold.

  “Is there anything else?” From the way Aunt Kristy braced her palms on her knees, I doubted she could take much more. She had to be stressed. Upset, too. This wasn’t just about me. She’d lost her brother.

  “I imagine that’ll do for now.” Mr. Trudale dropped the last paper onto the pile, a bomb that had already exploded. He leaned back in his chair, making the leather squeak.

  The residual of my parents’ lives, condensed into just under thirty minutes. I stood, unsettled by how all this had made me feel.

  Bitter tears filled my eyes. Spinning, I ran from the office. I kept running until my wind came in tight gasps, tears wet my shirt, and my pulse slammed in my chest. I dropped to my knees in the grass, realizing I’d come full circle. Marvel Square.

  Why couldn’t wonderful days from my childhood last forever? Life snatched them away before they could be fully enjoyed.

  I cupped my face in my hands and rocked.

  Instead of the flames I saw whenever I closed my eyes, laughter swirled around me. That sound.

  My mind flashed backward…

  Brianna. Me. We stood together in the yacht’s main cabin.

  I’d given her something she now held in her hands. Something…

  Something I’d given her. I struggled to see but couldn’t, and I groaned when the image left as quickly as it came.

  My breath whooshed from me, and I leaned back on my heels, slapping my hands on my thighs.

  Had this been a memory from our shared past?

  Or one from that night on the yacht?

  4

  My aunt found me sitting on a bench in the park and dropped down beside me, putting her arm around my shoulders. She patted me and murmured soothing words. She couldn’t know that I was upset not just about my parents, but because I’d been unable to hold onto that elusive memory. Would I ever remember what happened that night?

  Memories could give me clues.

  As it started to get dark, we headed home in her SUV.

  “About Dad’s car,” I said. “I’d like to start using it. I can take it to school, wherever.” The doctors had suggested I hold off driving after the accident but that had been months ago.

  Aunt Kristy’s attention flashed to me before re-focusing to the road. She put the blinker on and turned down Cranberry Drive. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I think that’s a good idea. But I have a few conditions.”

  Of course, she did. “Shoot.”

  “You can have your car if you agree to drive five miles under the speed limit at all times.”

  I grimaced. “Okay.”

  We passed a house with three little kids tossing a ball in their front yard. A puppy leaped and barked, trying to catch it. The scene reminded me that while I had no brother or sister to play with, I’d always had Brianna. Who would I study with, hang out with, share a dorm room with if not her? With her loss, a big part of me had been sucked away.

  “Promise you’ll never text while you drive,” Aunt Kristy said.

  “Check.” Let this be the end of her conditions, please.

  “And I don’t want you staying out past ten at night.”

  “Ten? Really? What about weekends?” This would sink my social life into the de
epest lagoon. I’d have to talk her out of this condition or hope she’d accept silence as my answer.

  “Janine?”

  I pursed my lips as that hope went soaring out the window. “Yup.”

  “And my final condition.” She continued when I nodded. Like I had any choice but to agree? As my guardian and only surviving family member, she ruled. “I want you to attend the support group your counselor recommended.”

  Grief Group. Good grief was more like it.

  “I can’t imagine how it could help.” The prospect of sitting in a room with a bunch of people I didn’t know and sharing my feelings about what happened was daunting. My scars twinged as if they needed to remind me of how painful they’d been two months ago.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll know if it’s helpful or not until you go, now will you?” Aunt Kristy said.

  “I suppose not.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  I sighed. “Okay.”

  “Good.” My aunt pulled into the lot outside a convenience store. After shifting into park, she turned to face me. “It’ll do you good to talk about it.” Her voice shook. “I know it’s hard for you to share your feelings with me.”

  It shouldn’t be that way. She was family, my support system now that my parents were gone. But she was right. Whenever she brought up the subject, I went silent. Maybe talking about this with anonymous people would make it easier for me to do that ‘putting it into perspective’ bit my counselor had recommended. Assuming there was any perspective to be found in murder.

  While I waited in the car, she went into the store and returned with a bag holding bottles of wine. After, we drove home and parked in the driveway. Our front porch light was on, but the invitation it offered was hollow.

  “This has been a tough time for us both,” Aunt Kristy said. “I lost family, but you’ve lost your parents. Your best friend. Then a stranger—me—moved in with you.” When she faced me, her eyes glistened in the low light. “Many changes to absorb all at once.”

  Nodding, I reached for the door.

  She exhaled sharply but really, couldn’t she see I didn’t want to talk about this? Talking and talking and talking. That’s all everyone wanted to do. It accomplished nothing.

  It was past time for action.

  “Would you get that briefcase Mr. Trudale gave me?” Her head nudged to where it sat on the back seat. She grabbed the wine and her tote, and we got out of the car.

  My mom always said there wasn’t anything much better in life than digging in the soil. Her hollyhocks swayed in the breeze, in full bloom in the circular bed beside the walkway. I skimmed my fingers along the plants, hating to see the flowerbeds overgrown with weeds. As if nature was trying to steal this memory of my mother away, too.

  At the door, I keyed in the code to unlock it, and we stepped into the front hall. My fluffy black cat, Chloe, paced forward. With a soft meow, she wove around my legs, and I stooped down to rub her neck, making her hallmark purr rumble in her chest. When I straightened, she strolled into the living room, probably hoping I’d join her on the sofa.

  Aunt Kristy had set her purse and keys on the small table near the door. She stood beside it, her hands clasped tightly together at her waist, as if she couldn’t figure out what to do with herself. Her body trembled. Did she see herself as a guest, waiting for an invitation to step inside? If so, I couldn’t understand why. After two months, she should feel at home here.

  My actions could’ve contributed to her feeling unwelcome. Grief stole your enthusiasm for everything. And I was peeved she’d decided not to tell me about the accident report when maybe she’d only been trying to protect me.

  Half the time, I walked around in a trance and the rest of the time I relived a nightmare, hoping I’d wake up and find none of this had happened. Through it all, I hadn’t exactly given her the impression I was glad she was here.

  I walked over and hugged her. Mom had been a hugger, always showing affection with touch. She’d rubbed the top of my head until I’d outgrown her and then jumping up with a laugh to do it after that.

  I needed my aunt more than she needed me, but I wanted her to feel as if she belonged here, too.

  She’d recently started wearing a new scent, Chanel No 5. Mom’s favorite. With my eyes closed, I could pretend my mother still held me. It hurt, but the notion beat back the flames.

  We drifted apart, me staring at the carpet, her looking toward the kitchen. “The neighbors keep bringing food even though I told them we don’t need it. If you want, we could dig around in the fridge and pick something for dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Aunt Kristy’s face tightened. “You’ve skipped too many meals already.”

  Arguing with my aunt was like trying to convince a cop you hadn’t been drinking while you stood in front of him with an open beer bottle in your hand. “I could try, I guess.”

  “Good.” She rubbed her hands together and pressed for a smile. “What do you think we should have tonight?”

  “Chicken nuggets and french fries?” Greasy food might actually spark my appetite.

  She chuckled. “I imagine we’ll find casseroles.”

  We walked to the kitchen. Inside the doorway, I clicked on the island lights, and the stainless-steel appliances gleamed. I crossed the room and pulled the fridge open, peering at the labeled storage containers. “Shrimp with rice and vegetables. Chicken with rice and vegetables.” I sensed a sad pattern here. “Turkey meatloaf with, you guessed it. Rice and vegetables.” Ugh. Meatloaf. No lonely containers hid in the back with more exciting choices.

  “Whatever sounds good to you.” Aunt Kristy seemed more focused on the swirling patterns in the island countertop than on the conversation.

  Randomly choosing, I vented the container and stuffed it into the microwave to heat.

  “Water?” I filled a glass for myself.

  “I’ll just have wine, thanks.” She left one bottle on the counter and put the other three in the fridge.

  The microwave dinged, and I scooped up supper, dropping the plates on the island then adding forks and napkins while my aunt unscrewed the bottle of wine and filled a huge glass.

  “Hard day?” I tried to keep my eyes from bugging out at the quantity she’d poured.

  Her hand froze and she shot me a look I couldn’t understand because it was either anger, resignation, or disgust. With a sniff, she lifted and drained half the glass.

  Maybe more than a hard day. Knowing that handling things for me, plus handling me, was adding to her already substantial workload, I realized I’d need to help her. Share the burden.

  We sat and ate. Well, I mostly ate. My aunt drank her supper, polishing off one bottle before opening another. They weren’t those giant jugs of wine, but still.

  “You have homework?” she said after I’d finished, staring into her nearly-empty glass.

  “I’ll go do it in my room.” Even if I didn’t have any, I’d pretend I did to leave behind the awkwardness that had overrun the kitchen. Rising, I put my plate in the dishwasher.

  Over the last six weeks since I’d left the hospital, most of our evenings had consisted of me hiding out in my room while my aunt watched TV in the living room. Anything to avoid conversation that might deviate into unpleasant topics like death or burns. From what I’d seen, Aunt Kristy rarely drank. It made me uncomfortable to think she was upset enough to get drunk.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked at the doorway.

  She grunted and reached for the bottle.

  Okay. Inside my room, I flopped on my bed and stared at the ceiling.

  While there was no way I’d ever feel completely whole again without Brianna or my parents, I’d started to trust in the solidness of my aunt. Now? She’d rocked my new foundation. It wasn’t just the accident report or my suspicion that Mr. Somerfield murdered them. This entire situation with my aunt was messing with my head because I couldn’t figure out what had changed. I hoped whatever was botheri
ng her would un-bother her soon.

  I got up, sat at my desk, and started an English paper that was due soon. After, I logged into the school website and worked on my calc assignment.

  “Hey, B,” I said over my shoulder, frowning at my computer screen. “What did you get for that last problem?”

  A long silence was followed by a punch in my gut. Cupping my face with my palms, I struggled to breathe.

  Because she was a foster kid, Brianna had stayed over at my place all the time. I’d been happy to share my parents, who’d loved Brianna as much as they did me. She’d lie on my bed, a textbook open in front of her, chewing a pencil while tapping her heels to the music streaming through the room. We’d ditch our homework whenever a particularly excellent tune came on and dance around together, singing at the top of our lungs.

  Never again.

  No singing. No dancing. No Brianna.

  Staring blindly out the window, I gulped back my tears. How could I go on without her? I sniffed, wishing I could go back in time and redo that night. I’d tell her to stay home, insist my parents find a different way to celebrate. And tell Dad to end he and Mr. Somerfield’s business partnership immediately.

  Then they’d still be alive.

  A glance at my phone told me it was past ten. Only one class left to study for. Then I could climb into bed and try to get some sleep. I reached for my backpack… I’d left it in my aunt’s car.

  I ran downstairs and tiptoed past the living room. The TV blared, indicating my aunt was still awake. After retrieving my backpack, I stepped inside the room and found her asleep on the sofa, her neck cricked sideways. Mouth open, she released a puffy snore. Should I leave her here or wake her so she could go upstairs?

  “Auntie,” I whispered.

  She didn’t stir, so I said it louder. Mumbling, she shifted onto her side, which at least looked more comfortable.

  Shoving aside the empty wine bottle on the rug, I knelt down and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. “Aunt Kristy. Wake up. You need to go to bed.”

  Great. I was the kid and she was the adult, yet I’d somehow turned into the responsible one. Who would’ve thought I’d need to play guardian to her?