Dead Girls Don't Keep Secrets Read online

  Dead Girls Don’t Keep Secrets

  Copyright © 2020 by Amy Manuwal

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing by Jamie Evans

  Proofread by Eileen Schwartz

  Cover Design by Teressa J. Martin

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Jacob whose love and support encouraged me to go for it!

  Chapter 1

  The news breaks out like a bad case of the herp. Felicia Craig is dead, and everyone and their mother is doing the absolute most. I swear I passed by someone who fell to the ground, shook their fist at the ceiling, and cried out, “Why, God, why?” I can tell those aren’t legit tears. It’s more like the wailing of a trophy wife sobbing at her late elderly husband’s funeral—only until the will is read and she inherits his yacht and the pool boy.

  Felicia had the popularity of Beyoncé at this school, but unlike Queen Bey, she had Mariah Carey’s diva attitude down to her high-pitched harmonizing. She always got what she wanted, and if she didn’t … well, that never happened. Felicia was the most spoiled, selfish bitch I’d ever met, and she owned up to it. I guess I have to give her props for that.

  I can’t say I’m immune to the crazy that’s going on. I’m just as in shock as everyone else that Felicia killed herself. Maybe even a tiny bit more. Because like every superhero, I have a villain in my life and she wore vibrant hot pink spiky Steve Madden pumps. So, I guess that’s why, when I’m finally sent to my mandatory grief counseling with the school’s counselor, I’m dazed. As I enter the hole-in-the-wall powder-pink room—which would make even the evil cat-loving bitch professor from Harry Potter proud—I know instantly I’m not going to share anything with this woman, or anyone else.

  “So, Lake …” Miss Kemper takes a seat in her shiny new leather desk chair. It’s the only new thing in the whole room, other than her nose. Dust rises up and assaults my nose as I take a seat in the chair opposite the counselor. Though she’s pretty new to the school, her office resembles a cat lady’s tomb. Pictures of her five cats clutter her desk, as well as one single image of her carefree beer-guzzling college days. She’s sort of young, and I remember when she started working here most people thought she was just another student. She doesn’t look threatening, with her mousy brown hair and soft honey eyes. Soft is the perfect description for her. She doesn’t have a backbone. I don’t know if it’s because she thinks that by being sweet and kind, we’d let our guard down around her, or if it’s just because she’s dense as fuck and doesn’t understand her job is to counsel us and not baby us. “How are you holding up?”

  “Miss Kemper, I’m fine, really.” I give her a tight smile.

  “Just fine?” She smiles condescendingly. “You know, most of your fellow students are really heartbroken over Felicia’s suicide. It’s okay to let your true feelings out. This is a safe space. Tears are welcome.” She pushes the tissue box toward me.

  I don’t have the heart to tell her that I hated the bitch with my whole being. And I’m definitely not going to tell her Felicia’s suicide hits home in ways I never imagined. Though, from the way her eyes narrow, I know she’s not going to buy it. “Felicia and I didn’t get along.”

  “Do you feel guilty about that? I mean, it’s a devastating thing when someone dies.” She sounds like she’s trying to guilt trip me into caring. But I’m used to guilt trips, and her attempt is nothing compared to when my nana nagged me while I was in bed with pneumonia about how I let her down by missing her cat’s quinceañera.

  “No. Why?”

  She seethes as though I’m annoying her by not planning to throw myself onto Felicia’s coffin at the funeral. “I mean, do you feel bad that you didn’t have a relationship with her? Many people feel sorrow when someone dies because they wish they knew the person better.”

  I probably knew Felicia better than anyone, and because of that I should feel at least a little relieved that the bitch is gone, but for some reason I don’t feel like singing “Ding Dong, the Bitch is Dead.” Instead, I’m numb. “We didn’t like each other, but we knew each other better than anyone.”

  “Really? How so?”

  I don’t like to talk about it, and even though I’m struggling with how to feel about Felicia’s death, I’m already sick from the reek of fakeness stinking up the school halls. I swear I caught someone putting eyedrops in and then make a scene about why Felicia’s death means they can eat bread even though they’re on a cleanse for prom. “The two of us used to be best friends until she told people freshman year that I was obsessed with her and called me a rug muncher …”

  “That’s not very nice of her.” She feigns surprise and disapproval. In reality, everyone at the school knows that Felicia normally went even further with her taunts.

  I want to roll my eyes at her and say, “No duh,” but instead I just sit quietly.

  “Does this make you angry?”

  “That was a little over three years ago. I’d say I’m pretty much over it.”

  Her lips morph into a firm line. It’s definitely not what she wants to hear, but I’m not here to make her feel better.

  “I’m going to be honest with you. I’m not really upset about Felicia’s death. It’s a pity she died, but that’s life.”

  “Is that how you feel about death? That it’s just a part of life? I know your mother died when you were young. Is that how you felt when she died?”

  In my mind, Miss Kemper bursts into flames the second she says the word mother. By the time she says felt, her body sizzles into ash that clutters her desk. If she knew anything about counseling, especially at a school, she’d know not to say unnecessary things to people. I didn’t expect her to have the emotional capacity of a bulldozer. But what do I expect? All she has is a theater degree, and my guess is she’s lucky she didn’t flunk out.

  I don’t say anything in response. Instead, I just glare at the idiot. She squirms in her seat like a teen caught with a water bottle full of vodka on school premises. Thankfully, I’m saved by the bell.

  “I think we’re done here.” I stand without another word and walk out the door.

  She says something I can’t hear. I just keep walking, so focused on getting out of there, that I run right into a pair of too-firm-to-be-real tits. The air whooshes out of me as I fall flat on my ass.

  “Oh my gosh!” one of the spray-tanned, bleached-blond goons cries. “Jessica, are you all right?”

  A few gir
ls fawn over Jessica Sanchez while I lay on the floor with my throbbing booty.

  “I’m fine!” she says in her shrill voice.

  I look up at her and see her bucktoothed mouth morph into a smug smile. Jessica was Felicia’s best friend. Where Felicia is known for being an uber bitch, Jessica is known for being the cumbucket bitch. I hate to slut-shame, but Jessica owns up to it. She even has an Instagram dedicated to pictures of her half-naked, with captions that attempt and fail to be subtle, such as, “Cum on, boys.” She’s hot and exploits it to the point where she has good grades from some teachers … and no, she didn’t get them from her big brain. Jessica thinks Colonel Sanders fought in the Iraq War, because why else would her parents’ conservative country club have a KFC in it? She’s a grade-A dipshit. She may be pretty, with her shiny dark hair, and a beauty mark above her mouth, but her brown eyes are dull and glazed over, making me believe she isn’t paying attention to anything. It’s vastly different from Felicia’s calculating icy blue gaze that always sparkles when she’s about to strike. When she was about to strike.

  “Some people need to watch where they’re going.” She shoots me a glare, but really just looks like she’s trying to hold in a fart. That doesn’t last, because within seconds she lets out a shaky breath and wiggles her bottom lip as though she’s about to burst into tears. She doesn’t, though, because while she received a passing grade in drama freshman year, she was only cast as Umpa Lumpa #5 due to her lack of emotion and spray-on tan. “I just miss Felicia so much. I don’t know what to do. Who am I without her?” She covers her face and lets out an obnoxiously fake sob. When she pulls her hands away, her eyes are free of any wetness, and her makeup is still selfie-ready. There isn’t a tear in sight, but no one says anything, though I can tell by her friends rolling eyes that she isn’t convincing anyone.

  While she blubbers and stumbles away, my butt is still on the floor. No one notices me. I’m used to it. At least, that’s what I think until someone holds out a hand in front of me.

  “Need a hand?” A voice I despise almost as much as Felicia Craig comes from the shmuck-noodle offering his help.

  Looking up into his glossy silver stare, I cringe at the sight of the sluttiest boy in school. “Get bent, Frost.”

  I slap his hand away and push myself to my feet, hating that he still towers over me by almost a foot. He only smiles. “Just trying to help.”

  “The last time you offered a hand to someone, there was a herpes outbreak.”

  He chuckles in his sultry tone as he runs his fingers through his dark hair. Ryder is definitely easy on the eyes, with his curly black undercut and pale complexion. He even has two freaking dimples in his cheeks that make him look almost sweet. He’s got that dark and alluring vampire-wannabe thing going for him. Though, the only kind of thirst he has is for girls with big boobs.

  Even his style is appealing. He wears various t-shirts that stretch over his broad chest and tight black jeans that exaggerate his tight round ass. His shirt styles range from jokes, puns, band t-shirts, or anything that’s a conversation starter. Today’s shirt has a thesaurus covered in icing on it and below it says, Want A Synonym-Roll? Maybe in another life I’d laugh and contribute to the joke, but instead, I roll my eyes and make a petty comment about it. I’m a bitch to him, but when a guy dedicates seven years of his life to bullying you, I believe you have every right to tell him he’s one more cheerleader away from getting terminal syphilis.

  Though I know he’s bullying me, Ryder’s says time and time again that he’s not a bully. Actually, he’s professed his undying love for me on more than one occasion. Though that isn’t true in the slightest. Ryder does this thing where he’ll attempt to flirt with me and I’ll shut him down. Then the next thing I know, he has his arm flung around some sophomore’s shoulder as he strolls through the hallway. It’s always a different girl. Then what happens next makes things even worse, because Ryder doesn’t stop with his taunting, and even proceeds to do it in front of the girl he’s groping in front of me. That only pisses the girl’s off and I become another person’s target.

  “You wound me.” He puts his hand to his chest as though he’s a southern belle and I’ve just threatened his honor. I’m three seconds away from throwing my nonexistent white glove at him and declaring a duel.

  I walk on and Ryder follows. He likes to taunt me, and he finds my disgust endearing.

  I halt abruptly, turning to face him. I jut out my hip and tilt my head, frustrated enough already. “What do you want?”

  “I just wanted to see how you were holding up.” He fiddles with the strap of his messenger bag. I have to give it to Ryder. He’s a better actor than Jessica. He actually looks concerned.

  “Why? What’s it to you?” I turn away from him and continue walking. He follows after me. I don’t need this right now, not with my ass still stinging.

  “Well, you and Felicia used to be close.”

  “Yeah, like four years ago.” I don’t need another reminder that I once cared for the wicked witch of Cherish Valley High, let alone pledged my undying loyalty to our friendship when we were nine. We’d both carved our initials into any surface we could find, making sure that everyone knew we would always be besties. Of course, I didn’t think that would give her leverage years later to claim I was obsessively in love with her.

  “Don’t tell me there isn’t just a little part of you that’s sad about her death,” Ryder says.

  I twirl around to face his mischievous grin. “If anything, I’m indifferent.”

  “So, you wouldn’t care to know what happened to Felicia?” he baits. I want this conversation to be over with, so I give him what he wants with the hope that it won’t take him too long to give the explanation.

  “She killed herself,” I say flatly.

  “I was just leaving the house when my dad received the call that her body was found.” Ryder’s dad is our precious town sheriff. He’s the meanest yet most effective sheriff our town has ever had, but nothing happens here other than a few public intoxication charges and DUIs. One time, they even arrested someone for littering. Slow day. My dad always tells me never to bow down to authority, especially not Sheriff Frost. I always tell him he has nothing to worry about. I’m a friendless loner, after all, and all I do is study. “The rumor is that she drank herself into a stupor and jumped off the river’s bridge. But that’s not everything.”

  “Oh?” I tried to sound interested.

  “Apparently there were some mysterious lacerations to her body. No DNA or anything since it got washed away, and the bloodwork isn’t in yet or anything.”

  “So, what? She fell and maybe hit herself on some rocks or something,” I say as my stomach hollows out.

  “Aside from the large gash on her head, there were cuts on her arm. The coroner said the pattern was familiar. Slits up her arm. Three of them.”

  I can’t breathe. No, I won’t. It’s not possible. Spots fill my vision as all the blood in my body rushes to my head. It takes all my willpower to stay conscious. I begin to sway but force myself to stand still. It feels like someone has just thrown a bucket of ice water on me. Bile rises in my throat and I swallow hard to keep this morning’s bagel down. I force my eyes to focus on Ryder’s. His concerned features are wasted on me.

  “Felicia killed herself,” I snap. “She was always white girl wasted. She had mommy issues. It’s not the same.” My voice is low and cold.

  “Lake …” He has a great poker face, but I can tell he’s tense and ready to catch me if I collapse.

  I force myself away from him and stumble toward my locker. He follows. Sometimes, I wonder if Ryder has a brain. He took French I twice and failed both times, and he doesn’t even seem to get the hint in this language. He must have some inkling how this might affect me. My body’s trembling as I grab hold of the lock on my locker.

  “Are you going to be okay?” His voi
ce is filled with worry, worry he wouldn’t have if he didn’t share this little tidbit with me.

  I attempt to do my combination, but I keep screwing up: 3-3-7. I do it a second time but still fail miserably.

  “You look like you’re going to pass out. Let me take you to the nurse?”

  “No.”

  “Lake, I’m sorry.” I hear the pity in his voice. I hate Ryder even more than I already did.

  “I-it’s not the same.”

  “Calm down …” He gently caresses my shoulder, but I flinch.

  “No!” I do my lock combination a fifth time and finally, success. I turn to look at him, fury radiating off me as my voice shakes. “Felicia was a horrible person. She probably realized how horrible she truly was and that everyone hated her and jumped. Who knows, maybe she was a cutter, too.”

  I throw open my locker door, and a bunch of stapled pieces of paper fall to the floor. I kneel down to take them, but Ryder’s faster and snatches them up. I stick out my hand, but he holds on and glares at the papers. I don’t have the energy for his crap. I grab them from his hands.

  “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but please leave me alone.” My voice cracks. I’m consumed with an emotion I haven’t felt for years.

  Damn it. I’m losing control.

  He holds up his hands. “I’m just trying to be your friend.”

  “If you haven’t noticed by now, I don’t have any friends. I like it that way.” I crumble the papers in my hand.

  He shakes his head and then says, “One day, Lake, you’ll give in.”

  I look down at the balled-up pieces of paper that are bright pink and smell like bubblegum. I unfold them and notice the first line written in a fancy scroll.

  I recognize the handwriting immediately.

  “And just for the record—” I jump at the sound of Ryder’s voice. “You never know when you’ll need someone on your side.” Then, he walks away.

  I shove the letter into my sweatshirt pocket. If there were a zombie apocalypse and I had to work with Ryder to survive, I’d rather become a brain gobbler.