Dead Girls: Casey Pope Series, #1

By JB Woods

I nearly died when I was shot in the head. Now, I see things that aren't alive.

They said it was a murder-suicide, that my father killed my mother, tried to kill me, then killed himself. I don't remember it like that. In fact, I don't remember it at all. But I'm left feeling alone, confused, and afraid, mostly of the things I see that no else can.

Ghosts. I never believed in them before, but now I can't stop seeing them, and they want something from me. Am I losing my mind? Or am I the only one who can help them find peace from beyond the grave?

I'll do whatever I can to help them, but I could very well become one of them if I'm not careful. My name is Casey Pope and I see dead people.

Casey may be the only person who can save a missing girl and get justice for two others who have been abducted and murdered in a small South Carolina town. Can she figure out who to trust with her newfound ability to communicate with the dead, or will she become a killer's next victim?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JB Woods
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393816461

JB Woods

JB Woods spends far too much time on the internet. When she's not online, she's probably got her nose in a book or she's binging spooky television programs while her kids are at school. She's a shameless fangirl when it comes to many YA authors and won't apologize for wanting to attend both Brakebills and Hogwarts because you just can't have too much magical education.

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Ruby Blaylock

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Copyright © 2020 by Ruby Blaylock

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

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Contents

Dead Girls

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Get the Next Book in the Casey Pope Series

Dead Girls

By JB Woods

Chapter One

The day I died was the worst day of my life.

I had no idea that anything could actually be worse than death, but it turns out, surviving death is way worse, especially if someone you love doesn’t make it through the ordeal. Technically, I was dead for just over two minutes. Emotionally, I still feel like I never took another breath. The doctors at the hospital brought me back, but it feels like a part of me stayed dead.

That day, it was just like any other day. It was a Saturday, nothing special. I woke up, skipped breakfast, drove myself to the school to run a few practice laps around the track. I didn’t always run on weekends, but it helped me clear my head and focus better.

I’d been a little stressed my senior year. Too many AP classes, trying to juggle school and a social life. I was feeling the typical stress that most seniors felt and it seemed so much heavier back then. Now, I’d give anything to have that life back. I never imagined that I’d never set foot in my high school again. I never imagined that I’d never see my parents alive again, either.

Before I left to go running, I had kissed my mom goodbye like I had a million times before, but I had no idea that it would be for the last time.

It’s funny, but I can remember being on the track behind the high school, I can remember the wind on my face and the sun shining down on my back. I can remember driving home, and I can remember parking in our driveway, but I can’t remember anything after that. Not when I’m awake, anyway. But when I dream, I seem to remember too much, and yet, I still can’t remember enough.

I know dreams aren’t memories, but this one feels so real. Every time I have this dream, it starts to feel more and more like a memory. In my dream I’m standing at the kitchen sink with my back to the door. I can’t see who’s behind me, but I think it’s my dad. He’s with my mom, and they’re fighting about something. In my dream, I turn and confront them. I beg them to stop yelling, to stop fighting, but they don’t seem to hear me. Then I try to drag my mom away, pulling her and pleading but it’s like she’s made of air and my hands slip through her.

I push at my dad and he disappears into a cloud of smoke, a black haze of nothingness that surrounds my mother and begins choking the life out of her. I watch as the blackness consumes her, bit by bit, until I can only see her eyes. They blink helplessly, then they disappear. That’s when the blackness comes for me.

In the dream, I just get a sense of what’s going on. It’s not real life, I remind myself, because in real life my father shot and killed my mother, then shot me. And then he took his own life. At least, that’s what the police say.

I woke up from the dream in a sweaty knot, holding the side of my head that has the scar. Right above my left ear, where the hair hasn’t all grown back yet. The doctors had to shave part of my head when I was in the hospital. I always thought I’d be horrified to have such a radical hairstyle forced upon me, but I guess nearly dying puts things like that into perspective.

I rubbed my fist against the pink, puffy scar. It’s still a little tender but I think I must imagine the tenderness because it’s been months now. Months since I died in an emergency room and then was pulled back to life by doctors and nurses that I’d never met before. Months since my life essentially ended and turned into something empty and aching and weird.

It took me a minute to remember where I was. Not in my room, with its pink walls and soft fluffy rug beside my comfy bed. That house and that room are a few miles away, this one belongs to my aunt. It’s her guest room, a plain cream-colored room with blue and gray trim that makes me feel like a visitor. Or a patient.

Sunlight streams into the room through the blinds. I had them drawn shut, but the sunlight is pervasive and persistent, creeping in and slithering across the floor. It must be noon, I think. It’s June and it gets light early on here, but with the amount of sunlight I can see, it must be late in the morning.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser. I’m all tensed up, shoulders hunched and hair a mess. I look almost feral, I think. I don’t feel feral. I feel empty. Lost. I blink at my reflection a few times, trying to recognize the girl I see. Same blue eyes I’ve always had. Same light brown hair, except for the new shaved style. But I just couldn’t see the old Casey Pope looking back at me.

I loosened my body, which I had tensed into something like a ball during the night. My face was wet from crying in my sleep again. I woke up feeling empty and mad, angry at the dream, and at reality, and at myself for not being able to remember what really happened all those months ago.

People who experience traumatic things process them in different ways. At least, that’s what the psychiatrist at the hospital told me. Some people break down and can’t cope. Some people push it all down and pretend it didn’t happen, only to be knocked out by it, months or even years later. I’m not sure what type of person I am. Maybe I am blocking some of it out, maybe I am falling apart. Maybe I’m coping the best way I know how, which isn’t really saying much.

The word depression has been thrown around a lot lately. Not by me, but by other people. I guess they could be right. It’s pretty depressing to lose your entire family. It’s pretty depressing to lose your life, at least life as you’ve always known it. Am I depressed? Maybe. But I’m coping.

I never had to have coping skills in my life before. Life was good. I lived in a nice house with both of my parents who loved me more than anything. They loved each other, too. That’s the weirdest thing. They never argued. They never fought about anything, not even money.

Dad was a history teacher at my high school. Mom worked at the local credit union. I was a straight-A student and a cheerleader up until my senior year, when I cut back on the extracurriculars to focus on studying more. We were the picture perfect family with everything you could want and then we weren’t. One day I walked through my front door and into a nightmare where my world basically ended.

I glance over at my diploma sitting on the corner of the dresser. I used to dream about graduating and going away to college. In fact, the only reason I quit cheerleading was so I could spend more time focusing on studying and filling out college applications. The irony is that if I hadn’t quit cheerleading, I probably would have never been shot. I would have been at practice or at one of the other girls’ houses. I guess having more free time isn’t always a good thing.

Casey, honey, are you up? Aunt Jane sounded worried, but she always sounded worried these days. My dad’s sister was anxious and mousy, not at all like my dad had been. He was loud and bright and full of life. He loved baseball and museums. Jane collected figurines and crocheted. They were what my mom called chalk and cheese, two things that didn’t seem to go together at all.

I put my feet on the cool hardwood floor. My jeans were piled up next to them, where I’d shucked them last night. I slid my feet into the jeans and shimmied them up. I’m awake, I called out, quickly pulling my quilt up to my pillow. The bed wasn’t anywhere near made, but I hoped that it didn’t look like I’d just woken up, either.

There was a gentle tap on the bedroom door. It opened almost immediately. Jane poked her head in, her mahogany hair swishing at the edges of her thick-rimmed glasses. I saved you some breakfast. It was nothing fancy, I’m afraid, just some canned biscuits and sausage. Oh, and I made some gravy, too. You think you could eat something before you head out?

She tried, she really did. For a single parent, Jane did the best she could. Then she got saddled with me and things got trickier for her. But she always tried to make me feel like I belonged in her home, like I’d always been there.

Her words finally reached my brain. Before I head out. My heart skipped a beat in my chest. I had almost forgotten what day it was.

Has Albie eaten? My cousin Albert was the same age as me, but about a foot taller. He was dark-haired, like my dad’s side of the family. He reminded me of my dad sometimes, in a good way. They were both quick-witted, they both loved telling ghost stories, and they both loved exploring strange, new places.

Oh, yes, Albie’s had two platefuls, she laughed. And he’s already packed the car. I wish you would wait until I could take some time off to go with you two. Her smile faded into a frown and worry lines creased her forehead. Are you sure I can’t just book you two into a beach house for a few weeks for some rest and relaxation?

She was worried about me. I guess I can understand why. I mean, it had been less than a year since I’d nearly died. Running off to see the world probably sounded like something impulsive, but in my mind, I’d been planning this trip since the day I left the hospital. Life as I’d always known it had ended. Try as I might, I couldn’t settle into my new life. I thought that maybe a fresh start, or at least a long break from my new normal, might just help me push through the black fog that had settled onto my shoulders.

I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I couldn’t wait for Jane to find the time to come with Albie and me. I had been patient for long enough. Weeks spent in a hospital room bled into months at Aunt Jane’s house. Under the microscopic lens of my small town, my life had become unbearably claustrophobic. I needed to get out of there. I needed to breathe.

As if losing your parents and almost dying aren’t bad enough, I’d had to deal with being the freak girl whose dad had tried to kill her. The one with the shaved hair and pale face and very pink scar. People stared at me, which was bad enough. But they also had the nerve to talk about me right in front of me. Everywhere I went, from the pharmacy to the grocery store, I felt their stares and heard their gossip. And I’d had enough.

I’m good. I plastered on the fake smile I had mastered. Breakfast smells great, I add, hoping to shift the frown from Jane’s face. My aunt is a good person. She really doesn’t deserve all the crap she’s been through thanks to me. But then again, neither do I.

Jane Jones is the plainest name on the planet, but my aunt is not plain. She’s complex, kind, and exhausted, I can tell. Her eyes have dark circles under them that mirror my own and her hair has been pulled into the same ponytail every day for the past three months. She works at the city hall as a clerk, though she’s had to cut her hours since I came to stay with her and Albie. I know this has made things tight for her, financially, but she hasn’t said a single word about it.

Ironically, I have more money than I could possibly need these days. There’s just over half a million dollars in an interest-earning account at a bank in my hometown thanks to my mother’s financial savviness and my dad’s obsessive need to provide security for our family.

Thinking about my parents makes my stomach ache. My heart speeds up a little and I try to hide the shakiness in my hands by shaking the container of orange juice extra hard before I pour a glass. I know I can’t let Jane see that I’m not quite alright. I’m fighting panic and fear and loss all over again, like I do a million times a day. Like I’ll probably do for the rest of my life.

I thought you were gonna sleep all day. Albie’s voice cuts through the panic grip on my brain. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he knows I’m not alright, but he doesn’t say anything. I can count on him for that. He’s the only person I think really understands me and he’s more like a brother than a cousin.

He elbows me gently and holds his hand out for the juice. I give it to him and grab a seat at the table. Jane’s left me a plate and two giant, fluffy buttermilk biscuits. A bowl of cold gravy sits off to one side, congealed into an unappetizing mess.

You want me to heat that up for you? Jane busies herself at the sink though I can see no dirty dishes except for my own.

No, I’m good. I split one of the biscuits in half and grab a squeeze bottle of grape jelly that’s sitting across from me. The purple goo is pure sugar and won’t fill me up, but it will make the cold biscuit more edible. I can force down sugar at the worst of times, so at least I can keep Jane happy that she’s fed me.

So, I thought we’d start out on 85, drive up towards South Carolina. We can swing out to the coast for a few days, if you want. Or, we could just drive north. You know, get on 75 till we hit Tennessee, maybe detour over to Nashville so we can see the Parthenon. Or, we could skip that and just go around to Gatlinburg. They’ve got the Ripley Museum and a couple of other things I think you’d like. He barely stopped to breathe as he rattled off our options.

Albie was trying really hard to get me excited about our trip. And I was trying really hard to get excited, but mostly I was just antsy. I wanted to get away from everything that was part of my life before. I wanted to figure out what to do with my life from here on out. I guess I just wanted—no, needed—to start over.

Did you tell your grandmother when you’d be arriving? Jane’s question dampened Albie’s enthusiasm slightly.

No, Mom. But I told her we’d call before we arrived. We don’t know how long it will take us to get there.

Albie, she’s not going to want to sit around waiting on you two to just show up out of the blue. Grandma Katie is a busy lady. Jane wiped her hands on a dish towel. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to just get you guys a couple of plane tickets? You could fly to New Hampshire from Atlanta and it would only take you a few hours.

"Mom, that totally defeats the purpose of a road trip. Besides, Grandma Katie is a busy lady. If we flew up now, she’d be stuck with us all summer. Let us have this one adventure before you send me out into the cold, harsh world of full-time jobs and college education." Albie pushed his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. Jane laughed.

Sometimes I wish you both weren’t so independent. I would have been scared to death to drive across the country alone when I was your age.

Well, we’re not alone. We’ve got each other and smartphones. We can literally take over the world. Albie grinned at his mother. His smile was contagious. I felt my own mouth twitch a little. Maybe this would be a great road trip after all and not just a way for me to escape my demons. As if I could ever hope to escape them anyway.

Chapter Two

Albie had a boxy little green Kia that he’d bought used with money he’d saved from working part time for the past three years. I was impressed by his hard work. My parents had bought my car for me at the start of my senior year. My car was newer than Albie’s but I hadn’t driven it since the shooting. I had driven Albie’s car twice since I came home from the hospital. Both times felt so weird that I just decided it was better that I let someone else drive me around for a bit longer.

The backseat of the Kia was piled high with our clothes and things we’d need on our big adventure. Jane had gone to the local supermarket and bought all kinds of snacks for us. Albie had those in a cardboard box behind the center console of the front seat. A small cooler sat beside it, filled with bottled water, sodas, and ice. His phone sat in a little dashboard stand, a maps app open and at the ready. We planned to head north. That was pretty much it.

Before ‘the incident,’ I would have freaked out without a strict itinerary or at least a list of places we planned to visit. Now, I didn’t really care. Jane did, though.

Call me whenever you stop somewhere, even if it’s just a gas station. And don’t stay in any dives. It’s not safe.

Jane’s concern was sweet, but Albie must have thought it was overkill. He rolled his eyes as she rattled off her instructions.

Mom, we’ll be fine. We’ll stick to main roads and highways. We won’t talk to strangers or sell our bodies for food, he added in an earnest tone.

Very funny, Albert Gregory Jones. You laugh, but I’m just worried that Casey isn’t ready for such a long, stressful trip yet. What if she has a seizure?

I won’t have a seizure, I replied flatly. I loved Jane, but when she started talking about me like I wasn’t there, it drove me nuts. I haven’t had one since I left the hospital, I reminded her. Besides, I’m pretty sure the seizures I had in the hospital had something to do with the bullet wound in my head. Unless our itinerary includes getting shot at, I’d say I’m probably safe. I mean this as a joke, to bring some levity to the situation, but by the