Dead Girls Don't Lie

by Marlie May

  The elevator arrived at Dad’s office suite. I stepped forward and—

  “Oh, crap,” I hissed. Brandon sat at the secretary’s desk down the hall, fortunately not looking this way. What was he doing here? Didn’t he have homework or sports or shopping or anything better to do than play secretary after school? He’d implied he’d only filled in at his father’s office over the summer, that it wasn’t an ongoing thing. Or, that’s what I thought I’d heard.

  Before his head started turning this way, I darted around the corner and yanked open the janitor’s closet door and leaped inside. Good thing I’d spent multiple Saturdays exploring Dad’s office space when I was younger and thus knew my way around.

  “Hello?” Brandon called out. “Anyone there?”

  No. No one here. I hugged a broom and prayed he wouldn’t look into this further.

  The pad of his shoes on the carpet crept closer. My pulse kicked into overdrive, and sweat broke out on my forehead. If he came any nearer, I’d pee myself. Which would be worse than being caught sneaking into Dad’s office.

  “Weird,” he said. “Freakin’ security system. I hate it when shit doesn’t work like it’s supposed to.” His feet padded away, and his chair creaked when he sat in it.

  Brandon’s lack of curiosity was working in my favor.

  I wiped my brow and told my breathing to slow down, but my hands kept trembling like they hadn’t gotten the message. I nearly dropped the broom.

  What would I have said if he’d yanked open the closet door and met my bugged-out eyes? ‘Hey, fancy meeting you here?’ No, we probably both would’ve screamed because that boy had never liked being startled.

  The phone rang, and he answered it. I liked that he was busy. It was time for me to get busy, too. Busy finding a way out of this situation.

  Releasing the broom, I crept out of the closet. As I leaned against the wall and listened to him chat on the phone, my pulse thumped in my ears, overpowering his words.

  Mr. Somerfield’s office was on this side of the secretary’s desk, almost across from the elevator. Close, but yet so far. Dad’s was further down the hall and around the corner, but I didn’t need to go there.

  How was I going to distract Brandon long enough for me to sneak into Mr. Somerfield’s office?

  Pushing away from the wall, I slunk back into the closet to strategize. Because the tight space made my heart rate double, I pushed a mop bucket to the side and sat on the floor.

  I could hit Brandon over the head with the broom, but he’d remember I’d done it and complain. Besides, he had a thick skull. He might just ask me what the hell I was doing then call the police. Because, how could I explain doing something like that?

  Assault charges wouldn’t look good on my college applications.

  It was a given I’d dislike Brandon for the rest of my life, but I didn’t want to go to jail for something as stupid as smacking him with a broom.

  Rising, I scoured the janitor’s closet. I was about to give up and find a way back to the elevator when I discovered something that gave me an idea. A stupid one but sometimes the simple things in life worked best. After grabbing what I’d need for my covert operation, I said goodbye to the broom and slunk back out into the hall.

  Knowing I was in danger of being discovered made my palms sweaty.

  I tip-toed along the carpet to the corner and peered around.

  Brandon had tilted back in his chair and plunked his heels on the desk. He had his phone out and was scrolling through something, smiling. Distracted was good but he wasn’t distracted enough. I had a feeling he’d notice if I slunk down the hall and opened the office door beside him.

  To center myself, I gulped in a few deep breaths and shook out my arms.

  Hauling my hand back, I released the first phase of Operation Get-Into-Mr. Somerfield’s-Office.

  I was never more thankful for all the Sundays Dad and I spent at the bowling alley. It was almost worth wearing those gross bowling shoes that a billion people had stuffed their feet into.

  My tennis ball tumbled across the floor, hit the leg of Brandon’s chair, and zipped underneath his desk.

  “What the…?” Brandon smacked his feet on the floor. Leaning forward, he grunted and reached underneath for the ball.

  I released phases two and three in rapid succession.

  The first ball hit the painting hanging on the wall in the corner beyond Brandon, shattering the glass. The second ball knocked the painting off the wall. It crashed onto the floor, making even me jump.

  Brandon leaped to his feet, sending his chair sailing backward to hit the wall with a bang. He rushed around the desk and down the hall toward the painting, his shoes thudding on the carpet.

  I ran to his dad’s office and slipped inside.

  Getting out of here might prove a challenge, but I’d worry about that later. At least Brandon would be occupied a few minutes cleaning up the glass.

  It should take Mr. Somerfield fifteen minutes to drive to the coffee place where he’d wait for a potential blackmailer who’d never appear, before driving back here. A quick glance at my phone told me I only had ten minutes. I’d spent too much time hugging the broom in the janitor’s closet. Ten minutes was better than nothing.

  Creeping over to the desk, I rounded it, putting my back to the windows. I pawed through the desk drawers, which were all unlocked, but I found nothing exciting. Stacks of papers teetered on the top of the desk, but a quick search didn’t reveal anything incriminating. He would be stupid to leave evidence lying around. If he had anything tying him to my dad’s death, it would be hidden away. Well, I’d hide it away.

  I expanded my search but none of his paintings had hidden compartments behind them. That would be too simple. The sideboard held bottles of alcohol and glasses, plus a vase full of silk flowers. Searching them revealed nothing. I flopped down in the desk chair, realizing espionage might not be my best career choice.

  Frustrated, I pawed around some more but struck out again.

  The papers. I sorted through them, trying to leave them looking untouched after glancing at each one.

  Nothing stuck out except correspondence with a caterer, his wife, and letters from the government about apps my dad and Mr. Somerfield had been developing. I wasn’t sure if or how this last detail tied into the murder, but I took pictures of everything with my phone before tucking it back into my pocket.

  After making sure everything appeared the way it had before, I checked the time. Beyond gone.

  A quick glance out the window showed Mr. Somerfield crossing the parking lot.

  Crappity crap. I had to get out of here. But freaking Brandon Somerfield must’ve returned to his desk by now. Grating my lower lip with my teeth, I tried to figure out what to do.

  I sent Brandon a text. Hey, could you meet me in the lobby?

  His reply came through in seconds. Janie? Where are you?

  Here. Oops. I backspaced and typed instead, I’m downstairs, in the lobby. Where else would I be?

  Wait. You’re at Dad’s office? How did you know I’d be here?

  You told me you were filling in for your dad’s secretary.

  I did?

  I wanted to growl. Come on! He needed to get with the picture. Time was of the essence. You must’ve, since I’m here, right? Duh.

  Oh, yeah.

  I smacked my forehead and rolled my eyes. You coming down?

  Be right there.

  With the door cracked, I watched as he strode over to the elevator. He was soon zooming away from this level.

  I crept from Mr. Somerfield’s office and, after counting to twenty, pushed the button for the elevator. When it returned empty, I stepped inside and pressed G. The doors soon swept open to a bewildered Brandon standing in the lobby, typing on his phone.

  Mine soon chimed. Where are you?

  “I’m right here.”

  He turned, scowling. “You said you were waiting in the lobby.”

  “I meant I was waitin
g upstairs. But I got tired of waiting for you up there and came down here.” And that sounded lame, but I’d never been the best liar.

  “I didn’t see you up there.”

  I shrugged and pressed for a smile. “You must’ve missed me.” When I was hiding in the janitor’s closet.

  He frowned. “Was that you messing around with the tennis balls?”

  “Tennis balls? Nope.”

  “Someone was. But you’re right. I have missed you.” He strode forward.

  I backed up until I ran into the wall. “Actually, I didn’t come here for that reason.”

  He grinned. Reaching out, he stroked my hair back over my shoulder. “I’ve thought about you a lot, Janie. I like that you came here to see me today.”

  Ugh. Unwelcome feelings. I darted underneath his arm. “I came by because wanted to go up to my dad’s office.”

  He frowned and advanced on me again. “Funny, because you just said you were up there. Besides, you know they cleaned everything out already. My dad dropped your father’s stuff off at your house weeks ago. Dad had to clean out the office since he’s looking for a new partner.”

  He was? Interesting. I hadn’t heard that, but then, I’d gone to my room when Mr. Somerfield showed up. My aunt must’ve put Dad’s things somewhere. I’d have to locate them and give them a thorough search.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I forgot.”

  “I think I understand,” he said. He wiggled his eyebrows and sashayed closer.

  I backed up, lifting my palms. “You do?”

  “That was just an excuse, wasn’t it? You really came here to see me.”

  Yuck, no. “I did?”

  “You know you did. You’ve been missing me, too. I know it.”

  What an ego. “I did not miss you.” I had at first, when I was in pain and I’d needed him to hold me and tell me everything would be okay. But that feeling had faded when he never appeared.

  “It’s okay. I get it. You still like me. Which is good because I’ve decided I still like you, too.”

  Decided?

  He stroked my face. Strangely enough, my knees no longer trembled. I had no urge to jump into his arms.

  “Gotta go,” I said, ducking away from him again.

  He lifted his hand toward me. “But you just got here. Come upstairs. Dad’s not here, so we can hang out. Or whatever.”

  No more whatever.

  The door opened behind me, and a hot breeze rushed through the room.

  “Brandon?” someone said, and higher pitched. “Janine?”

  I gulped, and my pulse thumped in my throat. Caught.

  “Hey, Mr. Somerfield. I was just leaving.” I zipped outside before the door had finished closing.

  “Janie!” Brandon’s voice rang out behind me. “Wait.”

  Breath chugging, I raced across the parking lot, beeping the fob to unlock Dad’s car. I scrambled with the door latch, breaking a nail in my hurry. Finally getting it open, I leaped onto the seat, slammed the door shut, and locked it fast. Air rasped in my throat. I shoved in the key, ignited the engine, and spun the car from the lot. Behind me, Brandon yelled, “Come back.”

  No way.

  My car bumped out of the lot and onto the main road where I slowed and peered into the rearview mirror. I doubted Brandon would continue his pursuit, but a girl could never be too careful.

  I watched as he threw his hands up into the air then turned and stomped toward the office.

  He might turn into a problem in the future, but for now, I was safe.

  I pulled up to a red light and tapped my fingers on the wheel, wishing green would hurry. Cars streamed through the intersection from the other directions.

  Something fluttering on my windshield caught my eye.

  A white piece of paper had been pinned underneath my passenger wiper blade, words facing inward.

  Stop snooping. Or else.

  8

  My heart slammed up into my throat.

  With shaky hands, I pulled the car over to the side of the road. I jumped out and yanked the paper off the windshield. Scrambling back into my seat, I panted while sweat ran down my spine and goosebumps peppered my skin.

  Plain white paper. Printed on what looked like a standard printer. No way to trace something like that.

  Crap. I crumpled it and stuffed it into the trash bag.

  But my body still shook.

  Had Mr. Somerfield realized I suspected him? He could’ve done this before coming inside the office building.

  I’d have to be careful. If he knew I was on to him, he could end this permanently.

  The next afternoon found me skittered into the library. Unsettled by the note, I’d spent the rest of the day hiding in my room with my shades drawn.

  Maybe I wasn’t up to investigative work.

  The thought that someone had followed me, watched me, that they could be watching me this very moment, kept me on edge and ready to leap out of my skin at any unexpected sound.

  Standing inside the doorway of the library, I peered around. If anyone was spying on me, trying to get me, they weren’t making it obvious. Everyone hunched over books or phones, ignoring me frozen in the entry.

  It was my damp palms and the sweat trickling down my back that brought me to my senses. If I was going to let fear rule my actions, I’d be useless in my investigation. I needed to remain strong.

  One day of cowering was enough. I refused to hide any longer.

  I’d come to the library to study and do more research, and that was what I was going to do.

  The main desk sat empty as I passed it on the way to the cabinets on the left wall where newspapers were stored. I’d heard Ms. Peterson was having them scanned into files so we could access them on computers, but she hadn’t finished yet.

  Online, the local paper required a paid subscription to read prior articles. No thanks.

  A quick search and I’d located the weekend edition following the accident in July. With it clutched in my hand, I crossed the room and settled in the chair I’d taken all week. Funny how a bit of comfort could be found by keeping the same routine. It was one of the few things in my life lately that remained consistent.

  A creaking sound made me peer around, but I saw nothing that could’ve created it. Other kids sat at tables, their heads bent over their books. The girl with long, blonde hair I’d seen here before had taken her usual spot in the corner, facing the wall. Perhaps she also found comfort in keeping the same routine.

  Breaking her pattern, she rose and drifted into the long row of stacks.

  I focused on the newspaper and, on page three, I found a short article about the accident.

  Reading about them dying in generic, reporter terms, dragged my pain up to the surface, making it raw all over again, like the accident happened seconds ago. Taking a shuddering breath, I forced myself to finish reading, but I learned nothing. They didn’t even mention it could be a homicide.

  What had I hoped to find? A finger pointing at Mr. Somerfield?

  I slumped back in my chair, trying not to let defeat get to me.

  I was a teenager trying to investigate a murder that was well-thought-out and planned in advance. Mr. Somerfield wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave evidence behind.

  Another creak. I frowned and peered over my shoulder. What was that sound?

  Grumbling because I couldn’t figure it out, I pushed the newspaper away and focused on my English paper. Time passed, and the only noises breaking the silence was the scratch of my pen, the turning of pages, and a few kids coming and going in the library that generated a light breeze each time the door opened.

  The creaking continued, but I ignored it. Maintenance must be working on something in the ceiling because that was where the sound seemed to be coming from.

  I also ignored the tickle on my back that suggested someone was watching me.

  Thumps rang out behind me, and I turned in my chair.

  “Watch out,” a girl shouted in a deep,
hoarse voice.

  Startled, I stood and shoved back my chair, making it screech across the floor tiles.

  “Get out of the way!” She barreled into me, knocking me sideways. Arms flailing, I tumbled to the floor, my hands and knees skidding on the unforgiving surface.

  My gasp was drowned out by a huge crash. Turning to sit on my butt, I shoved my hair out of my eyes.

  Holy… The lamp that had been suspended above the chair I’d sat in now lay shattered on the floor.

  A black-haired girl ran over and helped me stand. “You all right? That was crazy!”

  Other kids gathered around, whispering, pointing.

  Who pushed me? I hadn’t seen her face. She could be anyone standing nearby.

  Ms. Peterson burst from her office and charged in our direction. Her face florid, she tucked her hands onto her broad hips. “What is going on here? What was that loud…Oh my, Lordy, Lordy. The lamp.” She tipped her head back and blinked at the ceiling. “What…? Was anyone hurt?” Her intent gaze assessed all of us for wounds.

  “I was sitting underneath it,” I said. My legs shook, and my heart flailed like a rabbit pinned in my chest. “Someone yelled and then pushed me out of the way before the lamp fell on me.”

  “I’m truly sorry, Janie,” Ms. Peterson said. “I can’t imagine what happened. Maintenance has been replacing the fixtures in the ceiling over the past few nights.” She waved toward where a ladder leaned against the back wall. “They were going to finish up tonight.”

  “Why replace them?”

  “They’re old,” she said, tipping her head back to stare upward again. “The cords supporting them had started to fray. That’s what Maintenance told me.”

  While most of the kids drifted back to wherever they were doing before the uproar, I approached the busted lamp, my sneakers crunching on broken glass.

  “Be careful, dear,” Ms. Peterson said. “Let’s leave this for the janitor.”

  “I just want to look at one thing.”

  The lamps had been suspended on cables that looked strong enough to make it through a category five hurrican. But Ms. Peterson said they were frayed. I stooped down beside the fallen lamp. Each shade consisted of a half circle about two or three feet wide, made up of milky glass. The inside held three light bulbs.