Pretty Dead Girls

  “Didn’t think you’d show, and here you are, early even. You actually beat me.”

  I go completely still. I know that voice. Slowly, I turn around to find…

  Cass Vincenti standing in front of me, dressed all in black and a smug smile on his face.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to remain calm.

  He tilts his head to the side, his dark gaze drifting over me. “I could ask you the same question.”

  That’s almost exactly what I said to Courtney. Oh my God. Did he overhear our conversation?

  “I came for a pumpkin spice muffin. I hear they’re to die for.”

  “Then let’s go inside and grab one.” His gaze meets mine, his brown eyes sparkling. He looks really pleased with himself. “My treat.”

  He heads for the door, and I follow him like a robot, entering the café when he holds the door open for me. The line to order is long, and I stand there, Cass next to me, the both of us acting like it’s completely normal to run into each other and hang out.

  I watch him from the corner of my eye. He’s got on black Adidas track pants with the white stripes along the side of his legs, a black sweatshirt, and those stupid faded Converse shoes. His dark brown hair is an absolute mess, like he just rolled out of bed and came straight here. His cheeks are covered with faint black stubble, and his eyes look sleepy.

  Unfortunately, he catches me checking him out and grins. “Rough night. I was still sleeping not even fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Nice,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Uh-huh.” His gaze roams over me, lingering on spots that make me vaguely uncomfortable. “What about you? You have a rough one, too?”

  “Why do you ask?” I snap, but it doesn’t faze him.

  “You look pretty beat.” His eyes lock with mine and I send him a major eye roll before I turn away.

  “You’re extra charming this early in the morning,” I tell him.

  He chuckles. “Sorry. Guess I’m not used to seeing you like…this.”

  I look at him again. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. So…normal. And cute, with your hood on and stuff.”

  My cheeks go hot at his calling me cute, and I push the hood off, trying my best to ignore him. Instead, I stare straight ahead, pretending I’m reading the chalkboard menu that hangs high up on the wall behind the counter. “Are you in mourning?”

  “What?” He sounds totally confused.

  “The black getup.” I give him a quick glance. “Looks like you’re going to a funeral.”

  “You’ve seen me at a funeral. I clean up a little better than this.” He points at himself with a laugh.

  Ugh. Everything he says seems to get right under my skin. I don’t know why he’s annoying me so much.

  “Did you really come here for the muffins, Penelope?” he asks when I remain quiet.

  “Sure.” I shrug. “Did you see Courtney?”

  He says nothing, and when I finally glance up at him, I notice the panic flickering in his eyes. “Did you see Courtney?” he finally asks.

  I nod, resuming my pretend menu reading. “She said she was here with her mom having breakfast.”

  “Huh.”

  “But no local comes here for breakfast this early, especially locals I know,” I continue. “This place is either a total tourist trap or for the retired empty nesters who walk their dogs at six in the morning and are dying for a coffee by the time they’re finished.”

  “Rather observant, aren’t you?”

  I whirl on him. “So why are you here?”

  “You know why.” His gaze never leaves mine, but at least that smug look on his face has faded away. “You’ll just have to trust me, okay?”

  Chapter

  Eleven

  “We can’t stay here,” I tell Cass as soon as we make our orders. He actually paid for my muffin and coffee, which surprises me.

  “What do you mean?” He frowns.

  We’re standing together waiting for our order along with a small crowd of people, all of them older than us. This doesn’t reassure me. What if we see someone we know, from school? What if they see Cass and me together?

  No way can that happen. We’re not friends, and if someone sees us like this, they might question it. Or worse, spread a rumor about us. I’d rather be safe than sorry.

  “I don’t think we should be seen together.”

  “What, am I going to ruin your reputation?” He shakes his head and mutters under his breath. I swear I hear him say, “They’re all the same.”

  “Listen, you send me cryptic anonymous texts, and then you ask me to meet you here. I figure you have information you want to tell me about—” I pause and glance around, making sure no one is paying attention to us. “You-know-who. And I don’t think we should discuss said information in such a public place.”

  “I thought you’d prefer to meet in a public place because you’d feel safer.”

  “But it’s so crowded.”

  “We can sit outside.”

  “On the off chance someone we know could walk by and see us together?”

  He raises his brows. “Am I really that detrimental to your reputation?”

  “My reputation has nothing to do with this!”

  “Keep your voice down. People are staring,” he says out of the side of his mouth.

  Just before he starts to laugh.

  Oh my God. He’s totally making fun of me, and this is serious. I smack him on the arm, shocked at how hard his muscles are, and he sends me an amused look. One that says, Aw, the little girl is so funny when she tries to hurt me.

  Ugh. He’s probably as strong as the jocks on the football team.

  The barista behind the counter sets a white paper bag and two to-go cups on the counter. “Cass! Your order is ready!”

  He grabs the bag and cups, handing mine over. “What’s your suggestion, then?”

  We walk together, and I follow him out of the café. “My car is parked across the street.”

  “So is mine.”

  “We’ll sit in my car.”

  “Or mine.”

  I shake my head. “It’s mine or this conversation is over.” I want to be in control of the situation. What if I get in his car and then he locks me inside before taking off somewhere? No way do I want to be completely alone with him. I can’t risk it.

  Despite his easy use of the word, I don’t trust him.

  “Your car, then.” He sounds irritated.

  I really don’t care.

  We cross the street and I stop at my mom’s Mercedes, hitting the keyless remote to unlock the doors.

  “This isn’t your car,” Cass says as he stops to stand beside me.

  I glance up at him. I’m average height, around five foot four, but he’s also really tall—like well over six feet. “It’s my mom’s.” It’s kind of disturbing that he knows my car.

  “I’m driving my grandma’s car.” He points toward a silver Lexus SUV. “Well, now it’s mine, but it used to be hers.”

  “You live with her, right?”

  “Yeah.” That’s all he says.

  Okay then.

  He opens my car door for me and I sit down, setting my coffee in the center console. He hands me the bag of muffins and then shuts the door, rounds the front of the car, and then he’s settling into the passenger seat. The moment the door shuts, I realize how close we’re sitting together. He seems to take up a lot of space. If I shift a little to the right, my shoulder will brush against his. And I can smell him—like warm boy, soapy clean with the underlying scent of…fabric softener. The sun shines on his dark brown hair and I notice his eyelashes are long and thick.

  He’s total swoon material, if I’m being honest. Like, seriously good looking. Why haven’t I ever noticed him before?

  “You’re staring.” His voice breaks the silence and my cheeks go hot at being caught.

  Clearing my throat, I decide to get right to the point. The faster I
find out what he wants to tell me, the faster I can get away from him.

  “What exactly did you want to talk about?”

  Cass takes a sip from his coffee, wincing a little. “Damn, that’s hot,” he mutters.

  Rolling my eyes, I open the white bag and look inside, trying to decide if I actually want to eat one of those muffins or not. “So tell me. How did you know Gretchen?”

  “We were…friends.”

  “Friends?” I look at him, one brow arched. It’s what I call my do tell look. I practiced it in the mirror for months when I was thirteen, trying to perfect it. “Intimate friends?”

  “Not in that way, no. Not really. But closer than you’d think.”

  “Really.” My voice is flat. It’s hard for me to believe him. I spent a lot of time with Gretchen. Not once did she ever mention Cass Vincenti. His name never even came up in casual conversation.

  “I wasn’t fucking her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “What? No!” He says it so casually. Yes, I hear boys talk all the time. They’re lewd and crass and love to shock. But f-bombs aren’t the norm for me, especially at nine in the morning.

  “What? It’s true.” He shrugs, then reaches over and slips his hand into the bag that is sitting on my lap. His fingers brush my thighs; I feel them through the thin paper bag, and my skin tingles.

  “You care which muffin I eat?” he asks as he pulls one out.

  “I like the way you ask after you put your fingers all over them,” I say snidely, trying to cover up my unexpected reaction to his touching me. Yeah, it was probably by accident, but he threw me.

  He laughs. “Man, you’re uptight.”

  His offhand remark pisses me off. He’s not the first boy to tell me that. Maybe I am wound a little tight. But I’m busy, like all the time. What with school, cheer, the Larks, college applications…I never get a chance to just sit down and relax.

  So please. Forgive me if I’m a little uptight sometimes.

  “I’m tired.” My excuse is lame. I take a long drink from my coffee, not caring how hot it is. It tastes heavenly. “And still caffeine deprived.”

  “Have a muffin.” He waves the one he’s holding at me. “It’ll make you nicer. Promise.”

  Rolling my eyes, I grab the other muffin out of the bag along with a napkin, and pinch a bit off the top before popping it into my mouth.

  Yum. Courtney was right. This muffin is delicious.

  “Who do you think killed Gretchen?”

  I nearly choke on my muffin. And I thought I wanted to get straight to the point. I cough a little once I swallow, then take another sip of my coffee. “I don’t know. Do you have any theories?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Don’t be coy,” I say. He glances over at me. “Tell me who you think did it.”

  “All right.” He takes a deep breath. “First of all, this stays between us,” he murmurs, his gaze intense when it meets mine. “You can’t tell anyone else that we met, we talked, nothing. Understand?”

  “Yeah.” I nod, thankful he’s the one with the demands and not me, considering I’m totally agreeing with him. “But you can’t tell anyone else, either. Got it?”

  “Not a problem.” He looks away, staring out the windshield. “But if you tell any of your bitchy friends what I said, I’ll let everyone know you met me at Sweet Offerings and made a sweet offering of your own,” he says, his voice deadly serious.

  “Like what?” I frown.

  “A hand job.”

  My mouth pops open. “Seriously?”

  “Or I could say a blow job.” His mouth kicks up on one side. “Your choice.”

  “Are you for real right now?” I ask incredulously. “Or are you seriously trying to blackmail me?”

  He starts to laugh and shake his head. “I’m totally messing with you.”

  I raise a brow. “Really?”

  “Really.” His expression is solemn as he says, “Let’s just…promise not to tell anyone about this conversation. Cool?”

  Okay, he’d better not be playing me. “All right,” I say with a nod.

  “Good.” He takes a long drink from his coffee and sets it in the center console, moving so slowly, so freaking deliberately, I know he’s just messing with me now. If he starts eating his muffin, I might launch mine at his head. “I think Courtney might be involved with Gretchen’s murder.”

  “Too obvious.” The words pop out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “I’m being serious, Pen. They hated each other.” No one calls me Pen. But he just dropped that one so casually, I didn’t even think to correct him. “Courtney threatened Gretchen more than once.”

  “Courtney has threatened all of us, at one point or another. You do realize you just threatened me, too,” I point out. “Even if it was, as you claimed, a joke.” I mean, he said it was a joke, but what if he really does spread some vicious, nasty rumor about me if I tell someone what we talked about?

  Guess I’m keeping my lips shut. That’s a chance I just can’t take.

  He ignores me. “Did you see her at the vigil last week? She said the worst things.”

  “Court always says the worst things, especially about Gretchen. She was just saying what everyone feels.”

  Cass turns so he’s looking right at me. “Did you really feel that way about Gretchen?”

  I sigh and drop my head, staring at the muffin. I don’t even know this guy. Why should I trust him? “I really shouldn’t be talking to you right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know you.” I look at him to find he’s already watching me. “At all. We’ve never really spoken until now, and it’s kind of weird.”

  “What’s weird?”

  “That we’re talking, but only because Gretchen is dead.”

  Cass remains quiet for a moment, sipping from his coffee. Taking a bite of his muffin. I drink my coffee, too, but my appetite has fled. This entire situation is making me uneasy. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but I need to say this: I think Courtney might’ve done something to Gretchen. And I want to try and prove it.”

  “So what? You want to do a little investigating and try to pin this on Court? That’s crazy.”

  “The entire situation is crazy,” he mutters, staring off into the distance.

  My mind starts to go into overdrive with all the what-if questions. “Did you see her with Gretchen that night? Up at the church?” Our Lady of Mount Carmel isn’t too far from where Cass lives with his grandma. Could he have seen the two of them in the parking lot, right before—oh my God—Courtney might’ve killed Gretchen?

  No. Impossible.

  When he says nothing, I push a little harder. “Well? Did you? I know you live pretty close to the church. Maybe you saw something that night?”

  He turns to look out the passenger-side window. “I saw nothing. I wasn’t even at home when it happened.”

  “Where were you?”

  Cass ignores my question yet again. “Do you know how Gretchen was murdered?”

  I slowly shake my head, startled by his change of topic. I let my earlier question go. “No.”

  “Her throat was slit. From here to here.” He gestures on his own throat, starting at one ear and slicing his finger across his neck to the other ear. “A clean cut. She bled out fast.”

  My heart is pounding. The way he just described it, his voice so flat, his emotionless expression…

  “How do you know that?”

  He shrugs. “My grandma read it in the paper.”

  No one reads the newspaper, not even my parents. So maybe he’s telling the truth. Or maybe he’s…

  Not.

  “That’s awful,” I murmur.

  “I know.”

  “Was she…” Raped? I can hardly make myself say the word. “Sexually assaulted?”

  “No.” He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t think she was. Actually, I’m not sure.”

  I swallow hard. As usual, I do
n’t know what to say. The image flashing in my mind is horrific. Gretchen sprawled in the parking lot, her head bent back, her throat open and exposed, glistening with blood.

  A shiver moves through me.

  “I think Courtney might’ve done it,” he whispers.

  “Why?” I shove the muffin back into the bag. My appetite is gone, gone, gone.

  “Because.” His dark gaze meets mine. “They were fighting over me.”

  Chapter

  Twelve

  “So tell me.” It’s Monday afternoon after school, and we’re at cheer practice. I’m next to Court and we’re all sitting on the field sidelines, our legs stretched out in front of us, upper bodies bent forward and arms reaching. Our coach is screaming at us to stretch those bodies! and work those muscles! while the football team is running through drills in the center of the field. I can even hear the band practicing on the lower field and I know the varsity volleyball team has finally resumed practice in the gym. It’s a busy Monday afternoon and everything feels so normal, so mundane.

  Yet it’s not. There’s this underlying vibe I can’t quite describe, but I can feel it. Lurking in the shadows, lingering in the cooling air. So many unanswered questions, a lot of fear, and plenty of paranoia will do that to people. And right now, Cape Bonita Prep is dealing with all of that and more. We’re just trying to push forward and pretend everything is okay.

  “Tell you what?” Courtney asks as she bends forward, her face practically between her knees. The girl is freaking limber, but she’s also our best tumbler, so no surprise.

  “I’m just curious.” I hesitate, then decide to go for it. “Who exactly are you hooking up with?”

  She sits up straight, glaring at me. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m hooking up with no one.”

  I try my best to read her face, searching for a sign that she’s lying. Is she? I don’t know. Her face is like a smooth, beautiful Courtney mask. Not even a flicker of emotion in her eyes. I can’t tell if she’s happy, sad, or mad right now, and I’ve known Courtney for years.