Dead Girls Don't Lie

by Marlie May

  Both the shade and the bulbs were broken, of course. But it was the cable I was most interested in. Approximately eight feet long, it had hung from a round plate that had pulled away from the ceiling when the lamp fell.

  With my pen, I shoved the long, white glass shards to the side to expose the cable. I leaned closer, but there was no need to study what was completely obvious. This cable wasn’t frayed.

  It had been cut.

  Warren, one of the maintenance men, hurried into the library. A burly guy, he bustled over to where I’d straightened beside the remains of the lamp.

  My pale face must’ve given me away.

  “You hurt?” he asked, darting his attention between me and the shattered pieces on the floor. “Were you hit?”

  “I’m fine. Someone pushed me to the side before the lamp hit me.” I pointed a trembling finger at the cable. “That looks cut.”

  “Cut? That’s not possible.” A frown bloomed on his stubbly face. “Who’d do a thing like that?”

  Who indeed? Discovering who’d written the threat I’d found on my car might point me in the right direction. It implied I needed to leave my investigation alone or I could start measuring coffins.

  As if. I’d barely gotten started.

  Warren squatted down beside the fixture and poked around. “The cable looks worn through like the ones I’ve already replaced over the past few nights.”

  “This one doesn’t look frayed to me,” I said, pointing. “It looks like someone took wire cutters to it; fraying would create finer fragments, like splayed-out threads, not a straight, clean mark passing nearly through the cable.”

  “That’s impossible.” He scratched his bald head. “I can’t believe something like that would happen.”

  I could.

  “We get a lot of traffic in here.” He straightened and brushed his hands on his blue work pants. “Students come and go all the time. The doors open and shut, all day long. That’s all it is. The lamps sway in the breeze created by the movement, and the cables wear out. That’s why we’re replacing all the lamps with something that’ll last. Crazy, artsy folk suggested these when we built the place.”

  I stooped down to study the cable again. It sure looked cut to me, but spouting off about notes left on my car, let alone the fact that I’d illegally entered Mr. Somerfield’s office to search for clues because I suspected he’d murdered my parents and friend, might not go over well with Warren. Let alone Ms. Peterson.

  “See right here?” He nudged the cable where, to me, it appeared cut. “This part connects to the plate on the ceiling. It’s the section that gets the most wear when it sways.”

  “Maybe.” This was getting me nowhere. “Are the library doors locked overnight?” Who else might be able to get in here during off hours?

  Warren narrowed his brow and rocked on his heels. “Ms. Peterson locks it up herself.”

  “Our library is busy, even after school,” she offered. “It’s a quiet place and many kids find they can’t get their studying done at home. I’m frequently here until seven. But I always lock up after that.”

  “Who else has a key?”

  Pulling off his ball cap, Warren scratched his head again then tucked the cap back in place. “I just told you the cables are all frayed. Besides, it’s a stretch to think you’d be underneath it when it fell. This is just a random event. A scary one, but random.”

  How could I explain that I was adding two plus two but coming up with five when I could barely explain it to myself? “Okay, so maybe it was an accident.” I truly did not believe that.

  “Random or not, we can’t have anything like this happening again,” Ms. Peterson said. “You do intend to replace the rest of the lamps tonight, I presume.”

  “Sure will,” he said, and to me, “To answer your question, the only other key outside maintenance and Ms. Peterson would be the one in the front office. That’s locked up.”

  How well locked up? As in, could someone who knew the keys were there steal them long enough to access the library? No matter how they’d gotten them, I was no closer to figuring this out than I’d been before.

  My gaze took in Ms. Peterson. “This was scary, and I’m a wreck. Can I leave?”

  “Of course, dear. I’m sorry this happened. It’s quite startling, in fact. And you, right underneath it, doing your schoolwork.” She frowned up at a nearby lamp, one of the older ones. “I can’t imagine how something like this could happen.”

  I had a good idea.

  It was an ‘isolated incident’.

  One brought on by snooping.

  9

  It was time to bare my soul to the world.

  I didn’t like it. Not one bit. But I’d promised.

  That night, I drove to the Land of Hope Methodist Church for my first Grief Group session.

  Frankly, I wanted to hide in my room again. The thought that someone meant me harm was unnerving. Intimidating.

  I didn’t like being scared, but what could I do? I needed to get to the bottom of this, and evidence wouldn’t be found if I lurked behind my locked bedroom door all the time.

  My aunt had called the counselor to let her know I was coming and to ask for directions to the church. She’d offered to give me a ride, but I’d refused. This wasn’t only about savoring my right to drive Dad’s car wherever I pleased, I also wanted time alone to think about what happened in the library and come up with some way to prove Mr. Somerfield was responsible for the murders. Circumstantial evidence would not result in a conviction. I needed solid proof.

  But that didn’t stop me from peering into my rearview mirror every two seconds. No one appeared to be following me but with all the traffic, it was hard to be sure.

  When nothing unusual occurred, I started to relax. I’d remain vigilant because I had to, but I was going to keep pressing this.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t dream up any new ideas before I pulled into the parking lot.

  After making sure no one was around, I got out of my car and rushed into the church.

  I stood in the doorway to the public room, cringing. Because, old people. Three of them, anyway, plus a girl I could only see in partial profile.

  I had nothing against old people. But, jeez. How was I supposed to talk about losing Mom, Dad, and Brianna with strangers?

  My counselor, Frances, looked over and pinned me in the doorway with her gaze before I could escape. “Lovely. Janie. Glad you could make it.”

  Had she thought I’d blow this off?

  “Why don’t you come in and have a seat?” Frances gestured to the sole empty folding chair, the one beside the girl, and stood. “Some of us were about to go down the hall and scrounge up some coffee. Want some?”

  I was no coffee snob, but coffee from a church breakroom didn’t sound very appealing to me. “No thanks.”

  While the two old ladies rose, I dropped into the empty chair. The ladies joined the sole man in the group, who rolled his walker toward the door, the bright yellow tennis balls on the bottom of the walker legs making it slide along the linoleum. They soon left the room.

  Lifting a smile, I turned toward the girl sitting beside me, my hand extended. “I’m Janie.” I looked up and gasped.

  Her glossy light brown hair had to be a wig because the pressure garment covering her face extended underneath.

  When they found me wandering Big Berry Island, my hands and arms had been burned. They’d life-flighted me to a burn center, and I’d remained there for treatment for more days than I wanted to remember. I’d seen people with worse burns while I walked the halls for exercise, and those with facial burns wore snug garments like this girl. The garments had been designed to control scarring by letting the scars mature—my physical therapist’s words, not mine—which helped improve the skin’s appearance. If there was much that could be done to improve the appearance after severe facial burns.

  The stretchy garment resembled one of those masks people wore skiing. Or the kind guys put on before th
ey robbed banks. Light tan in color, it extended part way down her neck. It must be uncomfortable to get in and out of. There were holes for her nose and lips, and she wore glasses with tinted lenses, making it difficult to see her eyes. Maybe they also hid scars?

  “Not pretty, is it?” the girl said in a deep, raspy voice. She spoke slowly, as if she had a hard time getting the words out. She waved to her head with a hand covered in a rippled pink network. Much like mine, except she’d had more skin grafts. “If you could see underneath, you’d really be shocked. But I rarely share.” Her giggle chilled me, because it implied she’d been to darker places than I had and hadn’t fully returned.

  Endless pain made you primal, savage even. It shaved the surface off your sanity. That’s why they drugged you for the first few weeks. No one could live through that kind of agony without it carving away a big part of who they were.

  “I’m sorry.” I held up my exposed arms. “I’m the last to criticize anyone’s appearance.”

  To think I’d bitched about my pain, let alone my scars that might never fade on my arms and hands. This poor girl had more to deal with than I ever would. At least I looked out at the world from my same face.

  “I don’t care, really.”

  How could she not? I shuddered in remembrance of what I’d lived through.

  Her shrug shifted her orange tee. She also wore denim shorts, plus tennis shoes on her feet. “Unlike my father and little brothers, I’m lucky to be alive.”

  Hence her reason for being part of Grief Group.

  “House fire,” she said casually. Like she was commenting on rain falling outside. “Killed everyone except me and my mom. So hot, they could barely find, let alone identify, the remains.”

  Her mom lived.

  Heat burst through me, followed by embarrassment. It was wrong of me to resent that she still had a family to hug. Shame was a sour word because it filled you with enough acid to make you explode. I needed to remember that I still had my aunt. She was family.

  “My burns were caused by a yacht…accident,” I said. Until I got more details, I wasn’t discussing murder with strangers.

  “Like a cruise ship?”

  “A rental.” A sixty-foot, ocean-going motor craft. When Dad went all out, he went big.

  Even though I couldn’t see it, the girl’s gaze felt heavy, like she studied every inch of my face intently. “And your reason for grief counseling?”

  “I lost my parents.”

  Her breath caught. “Ah, I see. Your parents.”

  “And my best friend.” Which felt worse than losing my arm.

  “You miss them?”

  I blinked. “How could I not?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She tugged on a loose thread hanging off her shorts, twisting it around her finger until it cut off the circulation and the tip darkened. “Sometimes, people don’t always get along with their families or their friends.”

  “That’s not the case at all.” I gulped in air and struggled to hold back my overwhelming anguish. “I miss my family.” More than anything.

  “And your best friend?”

  Before I could answer, the rest of the group filed in through the doorway with coffees in hand. They shuffled over and dropped onto their seats.

  “Perfect,” Frances said. She bumped my arm and nearly spilled her coffee. “Oops, sorry.” After setting her cup on the floor, she clapped her hands. “Now that we’re all here, we can get started.”

  I wasn’t sure I was ready for this. Talking about my parents and Brianna would only make things worse. Life was much easier when I tried to forget.

  Frances took a sip of her coffee. “How about we go around and introduce ourselves to our new member? We want Janie to feel at home.”

  The old man cleared his throat and smiled at the women sitting on either side of him. “Howdy. I’m Charles Poindexter, as you well know. I live here in Finley Cove. As I’ve told all of you before, I lost my wife six months ago.” He gulped and his eyes glistened. “Still miss her. But talking about how I feel, how I cope, with all of you, makes it a little easier on my soul. Too many times, I’m lonely. Lacking purpose.”

  One of the women nodded.

  He sighed and continued. “I’ve learned it’s okay to grieve for my wife.” His eyes centered on me. “They all know this, but I took care of her for over a year. MS took her from me. Well, just saying. Without this group, I’d be home with my daughters, who’d be patting my shoulder and telling me it was time I got over it.” He shook his head. “Get over it after nearly sixty years with the same woman? Not going to happen. Not in just six months.”

  “Of course not, Charles,” Frances said. “That’s why we’re here tonight. To talk about our experiences and to help each other work through them.” She delivered a bright look to all of us. “Who would like to go next?”

  The women spoke. One had lost a husband, another a son overseas. Each told a story different from Charles’ but also the same in that they’d lost someone they loved. Or, three someones in my case since I also shared the same experience. This made me more like them than I’d originally thought.

  “And you, Alex?” my counselor asked the girl beside me.

  “The rest of you already know me better than my own mother,” she said.

  The others chuckled. In many ways, they acted like a family, each comfortable with the others’ stories and jokes. Did I want to fit in with them?

  “But…” Alex turned her head toward me. “I like having someone here who’s my own age.”

  She must be about seventeen like me, then. Due to her bandages, it was difficult to gauge her age. Did she go to my school or somewhere else?

  Then I remembered. The girl in the library I’d thought was watching me. The girl I’d talked to in the pool locker room. And the girl one who’d pushed me out of the way before the lamp hit me. I recognized her voice. Why hadn’t she stayed around that day so I could thank her?

  “Anyway,” Alex said. “It was a house fire. My little twin brothers were playing with matches.” She hung her head and her breath shuddered in and out for a long moment. “Sorry.” Her chin rose, and she shoved her glasses up higher on her nose. “Mom and me. We got out in time. But not my dad. He and my brothers…they died in the fire.”

  Flames. Burning up my arms. Melting my skin. I slumped in my chair, aching all over again.

  If we went to the same school, how had I not heard about this fire?

  “Thank you for sharing,” Frances said. “Is there anyone else who’d like to speak?”

  Anyone? I was the only one left. The others stared at me.

  “I’m Janie,” I blurted out.

  A long pause followed. I wasn’t ready. Would they be okay with that?

  Frances nodded. “All right, then. Let’s continue. We all experience good days and bad. Times when we’d rather stay in bed all day rather than go out into the world. How about we all share some of the coping strategies we’ve learned to get over our sadness. Charles, would you like to start?”

  Charles spoke about how he’d found comfort at his church.

  “Praise the Lord,” one of the old ladies said. She bobbed her head. “My great-grandbabies are balls of energy. I rarely have even a minute to mourn when they’re around, so I offered to take them after school three days a week.”

  “Perfect idea,” Frances said.

  “Uh-huh,” the other lady said. “Ain’t that the truth.” Her pale blue gaze swept across us. “I go for walks. Anything that’s good for the body is good for the soul, I always say.” She patted her hip. “Helps me keep my figure, too.”

  The old people chuckled. Alex just snorted.

  “How about you, Janie?” Frances asked, nodding encouragement.

  “I watch TV.”

  “Oh, I did a lot of that at first, too.” Charles leaned forward, bracing his hands on his walker. “It’s the best companion ever, especially if you turn it up loud enough to drown out your thoughts. It’s mindless.
”

  I liked mindless because thinking only made the loss worsen.

  “Alex,” Frances asked. “How about you?”

  “I haven’t been out of the hospital very long,” she said. “So, much of my time hasn’t been my own.”

  My small skin grafts had been painful. I couldn’t imagine what Alex had endured with burns on her face, neck, arms, and hands. Were other parts of her burned, as well? I couldn’t tell because of her t-shirt, but her legs were smooth and burn-free.

  Alex took a drink from her water bottle, then recapped it and dropped it on the floor. “My mom was with me throughout it all. I guess we clung together since we were all the other had.” She ran her finger along the edge of her shorts. “When I started to get better.” Her breathing grew ragged. “When it was clear I’d live, well, then we had to figure out what we were going to do after that. And where we were going to live. We had insurance and Mom and Dad had great jobs, so we’ve got plenty of money. Not that money replaces a dad or little brothers. We’ve been looking at houses together, trying to decide where we want to live. We were near the ocean before, so I imagine we’ll find another house where we can, as Mom says, smell the sea.” Her attention cut to me. “Right now, we’re staying in a hotel.”

  What if I’d not only lost my parents and friend but my home, as well? While I’d hesitated before entering their bedroom, at least I had the choice. I could still wander among their things.

  “I’ve been reading a lot to pass time and to help me put this into perspective,” Alex said. “I guess reading’s a way of escaping, more than a way of coping, though. Because I don’t have to think when I’m living someone else’s life. Mom got me a new Kindle. When I read, I pretend none of this happened.” Shifting around, she faced me. “But you probably already know that you never truly get over something like this, you just get better at forgetting.”