Drop Dead Gorgeous

Prologue

"Your blood was dry, it was sober; the feeling of audible cracks. And I could tell it was over from the curtains that hung from your neck [...] So I prayed for what I thought were angels, ended up being ambulances." –I Can Feel A Hot One, Manchester Orchestra

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

I'd been hearing that particular sentence for the last six days, but it didn't make it any easier to hear. In fact, I could hardly bring myself to look at the elderly woman who had uttered those words.

The days had passed in a flurry of tears, funeral arrangements and flowers. Photographs and memories, journals and ticket stubs.

It's hard to believe that a vivacious girl like Camila Stryker, someone who had so much life, was now gone. That all of my memories of her had been condensed into a shoebox. The broken flower clip. The charm bracelet. Polaroid photographs. Five years all packed away into a small cardboard box in the back of my closet, never to see the light of day again.

Just like Camila.

The room was dimly lit, candle sconces lining the wall and rich tapestries furnishing the leftover space. There was a table with refreshments, and the room was dotted with people: Cam's family, people from school, and even journalists—she had such a reputation that her death had been the spike in her popularity, and she always loved making the headlines. Police and security lined the doors of the funeral parlor that the wake was held at, almost as if they thought the killer was lurking around, ready to make a public appearance at the drop of a hat.

The words still seemed so surreal.

Camila Stryker's killer.

Someone had wanted to kill Cam. And that person had succeeded.

It wasn't like Camila was Little Miss Perfect—and anyone would laugh at hearing something like that. She had her flaws, just like everybody else. She was known for lying, cheating, manipulating, and far worse. But nothing that constituted death. She loved confrontation and drama, but something like this was too dark, even for her.

And yet, somebody followed her to Montgomery Lake. Somebody jumped on her, tearing her dress in the process. Someone gripped her arms and held her down, creating lacerations on her arms that wrapped around her flesh in the shape of fingers. Somebody wrapped their arms around her neck and strangled her until she died.

And then that somebody dumped her body in Montgomery Lake.

Where I found it.

I'll never forget that moment. The moment of walking down the soggy shores and seeing her pale body floating on the surface, her brunette hair flying around her like a halo. The pounding of my heart as I took to the water and lurched in, the desperation in my fingers as I grabbed for her. The stillness of her body, and the quietness of the night, which was shortly after pierced by my desperate and horrified screams for help.

The room was thickly coiled with tension, and the low hum of conversation was almost haunting, like the last notes plucked in a violin. I didn't miss the shifty glances that went around the room, surveying everyone else.

I'd overheard the police earlier in the day talking. They said that there was an eighty-five percent chance that the killer was in this very room. The person who killed Cam could be any one of these people.

Her boyfriend, Zach, stood in the corner, not talking to anybody, but staring at the mahogany wall as if it held answers. His eyes were rimmed with red as if he'd been crying, and he tugged uncomfortably at the tie around his neck. He'd really loved Cam, even though their relationship had been beyond complicated.

Her father was covered in sweat and cowering in the corner, wearing an expensive suit and stealing swigs of whiskey out of a metal flask. His balding read reflected the light, and his eyes were bloodshot, as if he'd taken something a little harder than alcohol earlier in the day to ease the pain. But who could blame him? They'd clashed constantly, and she'd died before they'd had the chance to make peace.

And then there was me, the best friend. The one who conveniently found the body and called the police. The last one to speak to her before she died. And the number one suspect.

It didn't look good. My DNA was on her clothing from earlier in the day, but all fingerprints from that night had been covered by leather gloves. I didn't have an alibi for that night, and I had no excuses for being down at Montgomery Lake other than the fact I had sensed something had been horribly wrong with Cam that night.

I sniffed and scratched my arm, feeling shifty and dizzy. My fingers twitched and craved for my next fix, and I found my eyes wandering over to Jeremy. As if sensing my gaze, he glanced over, and his muddy-brown eyes met mine. I wondered if he could tell even from this distance that I was desperate; just another junkie looking for the next fix.

Cam had hated my drug problem, and I'd even tried to stop for her. But I hadn't realized how deep I'd fallen until I'd tried to stop taking it. And when she died and my resolve had cracked, the hits had come twice as quickly, and the withdrawals became unbearable. And I could really use a high right now.

Desperate to take my mind off of the need, I tire my gaze away from Jeremy's and looked around the room, assessing facial expressions and conversation. There were three hundred people in this room. Two hundred and ninety-nine were innocent.

One was the killer.

And it was a matter of time until I found out who.