Read Dead Girls Don't Lie for Free Online Page B

from fourth grade. There are two lines that look like they were written at different times:
    Don’t trust anyone but E . And then, The cross has the answer .
    My blood runs cold. I know the message is for me, but it doesn’t make any sense. “The cross has the answer” sounds like something religious, but Rachel hadn’t gone to church for months before she died.
    He leans close to me, reading over my shoulder.
    I whip my ponytail around to face him. “Where did you get this?”
    “She wanted me to give it to you. She said you would know—”
    “I’d know what?” My voice raises with fear.
    “Shh,” he says. Then I realize why he was leaning so close. We aren’t alone. I turn around and look farther up the bank. It looks like I swam into some kind of party.
    Tan faces and dark hair, like Rachel’s, surround me. My eyes flit from face to face, but none of them are familiar, and they’re all watching me. I stand up quickly and shove the paper back into his hand, like it is evidence I shouldn’t be caught with.
    He leans into me again. “We can trust them. At least”—he looks around again—“most of them.” He stands up and turns his back on me. “Later.” Then he melts into the crowd of people. I’m alone. It feels like I’ve crossed the border into another world. I’m not sure if I should go back into the lake or how to get away. Maybe the reason my dad didn’t want me to swim across the lake didn’t have anything to do with the distance.
    Someone touches my shoulder and I jump. “Are you okay?” The girl talking looks like she can’t be much older than me, but I’ve never seen her at school.
    “Fine.” My voice sounds hoarse and shaky.
    “Hungry?” As young as she is, she’s hovering over me, the way Araceli used to. “There is plenty.”
    A few feet away, tamales wrapped in corn husks sizzle over an open fire. Next to them a woman is flipping fresh tortillas over a propane burner.
    “No, I’m okay.” But despite everything, the smell of fresh tortillas is making my mouth water.
    “Please.” She pushes a fresh tortilla into my hands.
    I accept it, still shaking.
    Another woman with a curved back and gray hair drapes a scratchy wool blanket across my shoulders. “To make you warm.” She chooses her English words carefully, like she doesn’t have very many to use.
    I roll up the tortilla and take a bite of a thousand afternoons in Araceli’s kitchen, telling her about our day while she made homemade tortillas and gave us advice on everything from makeup to boys—things I couldn’t ask my dad about. But when the tortilla hits my throat it changes to a dry lump that gags me. I finish eating it because everyone is watching me, but I want to throw it into the lake.
    The girl who gave me the tortilla bends back over her cooking. I glance around at this other world, still wondering how to escape, but at the same time fascinated. Men, women, and children are milling around, coming in from the fields and going back to them. The women cooking over the fire fill thetortillas with a mixture of rice and beans from the pans in front of them. Then they pile the tamales and tortillas on paper towels. They speak in quick Spanish, too fast for me to pick out anything but a couple of words. Everything has a hurried but close atmosphere. The word “community” flashes across my brain, but this is a different community than the rest of Lake Ridge.
    While I watch them, somewhere between frightened and fascinated, a cloud of dust rolls in, a big silver pickup in the center. As soon as I see it, I know it’s out of place, but I don’t recognize it until Skyler steps out. The men stop eating and look up at him with suspicion. A little boy steps forward and points at the truck, a little girl hides in the skirts of the old woman. Skyler glances around him, looking almost as nervous as the little girl. There are two other people in the truck, Claire and Taylor.
    Claire stays in the truck, but Taylor