To Catch a Killer Page 5

  * * *

  Lunchtime. I bring my food to the cement steps. The sun is out and the weather is balmy. I shield my eyes and scan the grounds, looking for Journey. I usually have no trouble spotting him from up here. He always comes out of the cafeteria on the ground floor and high-fives about fifty people on the quad before hitting the courts.

  But today I don’t see him at all. It’s weird.

  There’s a game on at the courts. But Journey’s not playing. And the quad is nearly empty. I trace his normal route back to the cafeteria. No Journey.

  My throat tightens. I nibble at my sandwich. It has no taste.

  “Really?” There’s an edge to Spam’s voice, like a saw biting into an extra-thick block of wood. “Really?” she repeats.

  Spam and Lysa are standing behind me. Lysa looks almost sunny, dressed in various shades of lemon. Meanwhile Spam’s paired a cowboy hat with light-up disco-ball earrings.

  “I am truly shocked to find you here,” Spam says.

  I look to Lysa, who is usually our voice of reason.

  “I’m with her,” she admits. “Finding you up here looking for him is pathological.”

  “Not to mention creepy,” Spam adds.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I feign ignorance.

  Spam lifts her chin, indicating something down in the quad. I follow her gaze. I didn’t notice him before but Journey’s sitting on a bench, in the middle of the quad, directly across from my spot on the stairs. He’s completely alone … and staring straight up at me.

  “Oh man,” I whisper.

  “Stop it! Stop looking at him.” Spam grabs my chin and turns my face.

  “But he’s looking at me,” I say.

  “He’s trying to intimidate you.” Lysa’s using her calm voice.

  “You think so?” I can’t quite accept the notion of Journey as the complete opposite of who I thought he was.

  Spam throws her hands in the air. “What is it with you? Are you just blinded by flashy white teeth? He’s clearly trying to scare you so you won’t tell what you saw.” She glares down at him. “He’s a shark in sheep’s clothing.” She pinches a spot on my jacket and twists it between her fingers. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Oh, yeah you are.”

  I cram my lunch into my bag and roll my legs back over the ledge. I don’t want to follow them, but they’re not taking no for an answer.

  “It’s wolf,” I say. “Wolf in sheep’s clothing. Not shark.”

  “Trust me,” Spam says. “That one down there is a shark.” I’m at least a full five inches taller than Spam, but her glare is so intense I’m afraid my hair will burst into flames if I don’t follow her.

  “You guys, no one knows everything I saw that night. And I mean no one.”

  With a tight grip on my jacket, Spam hauls me down the stairs.

  Lysa is right behind us. “Well, you must’ve seen something because even my dad says you’re a witness.”

  Spam agrees. “And you’re the one who dropped the dime on him.”

  “The what?” At the bottom of the stairs I stop and pull my sleeve away from Spam.

  She turns to face me, one hand resting on her hip while the other flutters over her head. “Don’t tell me you don’t watch Law & Order. Dropped a dime … like, you know, dropped a dime in a pay phone and called the police.”

  I look from her to Lysa. “Just so you know, I used my cell phone and called 911, which is what any normal person would do.”

  9

  What’s really important about investigating a murder is finding the truth. Sometimes it will seem like you’re the only one who cares about that part other than the family of the victim.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  The area at the bottom of the cafeteria stairs gets a lot of foot traffic during lunch. The fact that Spam and I are engaged in a mild tug-of-war over the sleeve of my jacket in this spot attracts even more attention. She’s trying to pull me away from the spotlight, while I want to walk straight over to the quad and confront Journey Michaels right where he sits.

  Finally, I pull away from her and when I turn, there’s Journey Michaels standing right in front of me. Towering over me, actually, with fists clenched and a murderous look on his face.

  I have no words.

  He stares into my eyes, long and hard, a twisted scowl marring his face. The crowd, hungry for a confrontation, closes in. I flinch as he brings up his fist and flings something right at me. A thin string of white and blue fabric hits me in the chest. “I think you dropped this,” he says, nearly spitting his words.

  A couple of friends from his team haul him away before he can say more.

  It wouldn’t matter. I’m too stunned to move or speak. My fingers close around the string. I open them and stare at it, trying to focus on the print. Small. Blue and white. It can’t be, right? It just can’t.

  I’m barely aware of Spam and Lysa guiding me to the office because I’m silently freaking out. My ears buzz. My vision swims. Nothing makes any sense. Spam’s prattling on, nonstop.

  “Huh?” It’s all I can think to say.

  “You’re not listening to me,” Spam says. “I’m trying to tell you you’re a witness and that’s dangerous, mama.”

  Lysa squeezes my hand. “Go home and rest and try not to think about it.”

  But the fury on Journey Michaels’s face and this stupid strip of fabric are all I can think about.

  I wait out in the hall to see Mr. Roberts, nervously winding the strip of fabric around my fingers while he deals with irate parents. I try to listen through the door but I can’t hear much, just raised voices.

  As the parents leave his office, their wary eyes and stony faces broadcast their unhappiness. It’s not hard to guess that they don’t want their kids in the same class with a killer.

  Several of the adults recognize me. I catch the nudges between them and clock how their expressions suddenly drip with pity.

  When I finally get in to see Mr. Roberts, he overflows with concern. “What happened?” He comes around the desk and perches on the edge, hovering over me. He’s so worried, I stop nervously fiddling with the fabric and shove it down into my purse. I need him to let me go home. I have to check this out. Now.

  “You were right. It was too soon,” I say.

  “I’m sending you home.” He scribbles out a pass. “I’d drive you there myself but there’s another group of vigilante parents on their way.” He presses the pass into my hand and shoos me toward the door. I stop and look back. His face is etched with worry but he mimes a tight layup shot anyway. I offer a grim smile in response and slip out.

  My mood is lighter as I leave the campus. For just one second I pretend that everything’s okay and there is no more bad news coming and nothing terrible is about to happen. I turn down my street and make it almost to my driveway before I notice the police cars: two of them, parked on the lawn. A third one, a van, blocks the driveway.

  Our front door, which Rachel and I never use, stands wide open at the top of the stairs. A team of officers goes in and out. The dead space inside me becomes an icy brick. I ramp the scooter over the curb and dump it at the edge of the yard, racing for the house.

  A police officer comes down carrying a box. We meet mid-stairs. I move right, he blocks left. He jogs right, I move left.

  “Hey. Whoa,” he says.

  “Excuse me. I need to get through.”

  Sydney appears above on the landing.

  “Rachel?” My voice is barely human. I need to know and yet I’m terrified to know.

  “She’s fine,” Sydney says, pointing toward the house. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  The officer manages to get past me. I glance in the box. It’s filled with my stuff: clothes and shoes. My laptop is sticking up. I whirl and follow him.

  “Hey, that’s mine!”

  He holds the box out of my reach. I leap up, trying to grab it. “Step back, miss,” he orders. “We
have a warrant.”

  “That’s my computer.”

  Sydney’s fingers bite into my arm. “Erin. Stop.”

  “Why are you doing this? I told you everything.”

  “I know,” she says. “Come inside, I’ll explain.”

  Sydney holds me back. The officer steps around me and loads the box into the police van.

  “Make him stop and I will.”

  “I can’t do that. He’s doing his job. And you need to let me do mine.”

  I break away and race toward the back door. It’s the quickest route to the kitchen. I sprint up the stairs and turn the knob.

  Rachel’s at the table, clinging to a coffee mug like it’s the last life preserver on the Titanic. Her eyes are rimmed red; dark shadows exaggerate the hollows of her cheekbones. Is this exhaustion or tear-streaked mascara? I can’t tell.

  I walk straight up to her, emotion bottled in my throat. I turn my palms up. How could she let this happen?

  “Sit down,” she says. “Sydney will explain.”

  I glare at the three police officers prowling our living room. They systematically open every drawer, fan through every stack of magazines, and inspect every pile of mail. Two more officers tromp down the stairs carrying more stuff from my bedroom. My freaking room.

  I haven’t done anything. How are they even allowed up there? Don’t I have any rights?

  I thump into the chair next to Rachel. My foot taps air, shaking the table. But I don’t care. Sydney wanders in from the front door and heads in our direction. She stops to oversee the snooping officers along the way.

  By the time she joins us at the table, I’m practically coming out of my skin.

  “Syd, this is freaking me out. It’s like you’re looking for the murder weapon or something.” I say it as a bad joke but Sydney and Rachel exchange the look of doom.

  Sydney reaches into her bag.

  “We have that.” She removes a plastic evidence bag from her purse and carefully lays it on the table.

  It’s so thin, barely a mound where her fingers rest as she pushes the bag across the table at me. I expect to catch the glint of something sinister like a shiny metal scalpel or a flat hand-sharpened stake. My lungs practically collapse when Sydney lifts her fingers and I see it’s … a nail file. This thing is eight inches long and three-quarters of an inch wide. It’s made of hardened glass with a grinding surface that’s guaranteed to last forever and a tip that tapers to a very wicked point. It’s a completely stylish implement of ragged nail destruction. But I can see how it could also be a very deadly murder weapon.

  I suck in a tattered breath. “My nail file?”

  “So, you confirm that it is yours?” Sydney’s eyes shift to Rachel. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip.

  I look from one to the other. I couldn’t deny it even if I wanted to. My name’s painted on the handle in huge, purple letters, embellished with fairy wings. Not my taste but it was a party favor from Lysa’s birthday. “Just because you found it in my room…”

  “That’s the problem, Erin, we didn’t find it in your room,” Sydney says, letting implication hang in her silence. “And you were there at Miss Peters’s house.”

  “What about Journey Michaels? He was there, too.”

  “Erin, I believe you saw someone. I do,” Sydney says. “I also believe you thought it was someone you knew. But we haven’t found a speck of anything tying the Michaels kid to the crime scene.”

  My heart pauses for a moment, lurching awkwardly out of my chest like a baby bird leaving the nest for the very first time. “Wait. What?”

  “The Michaels kid, we’ve got nothing on him.”

  “You’re saying he’s clear?”

  “For the moment.” Sydney’s look seems to question whether it will stay that way.

  “And I’m not?” Anger swells, crowding my rib cage.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to think,” Sydney says. “But so far, the only evidence we’ve found at the scene is yours.”

  “Of course my evidence is there, I found her, remember?”

  Sydney makes a calming gesture. “I know you found her, I just think there are things you haven’t told us yet.”

  Oh crap. The box!

  “Is Erin a suspect?” Rachel asks, twining her fingers with mine. I squeeze back hard. If they found it, they haven’t told Rachel yet. She’s way too calm and sad. If she knew she’d be furious.

  “It just happened so fast … I…” I start to explain.

  “I’m sure everything about that night is a blur,” Sydney says. “Which is why I do not want you to discuss any of this with anyone. Understand?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Good. Now, tell me about the bag in the mailbox.”

  Oh my god … the stupid DNA samples! Here I’m worrying about the box and she’s focused on things that don’t matter.

  “Syd, I can explain. It was just a bunch of random trash—DNA.” I’m trying to focus on her, but I’m distracted by all three of the officers tromping down the stairs from my room.

  “I hope you’re telling the truth, because we’re sending it off to be processed,” Sydney says.

  One of the officers leans in the door. He’s got a white file box tucked under his arm. “We got it.”

  I stop breathing. Oh no. There it goes. No. No. It’s way too soon.

  Sydney looks from me to Rachel. “Don’t worry, guys. I’ll get this straightened out.”

  Me, worry? Ha! I’m a bottomless sinkhole of worry. And then I’m not, because, like the therapist always said, this is completely out of my control. They’re taking my stuff and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I stand up. “And then what?”

  Sydney stops at the door and looks back. “Erin, I—“

  “You got a search warrant, you’re taking my stuff. That means you think I—I—” I can’t say it. The words simply refuse to come out.

  Sydney’s speechless, too. She stares at me, her hand frozen on the doorknob. Rachel grabs my arm and pulls me back into my chair. “Erin, sit down,” she hisses.

  Syd leans against the door. “Is there something else you want to tell me?”

  I shake my head, horrified we’re even discussing this.

  Syd exhales. “Look, this is the process we use to check out what we call persons of interest. I’d like to think the items we’ve collected from you will bring us closer to the truth.”

  Years with professionals have taught me to recognize psychobabble. “You’re profiling me.”

  “Yes. But if you haven’t done anything wrong, we won’t find anything,” Syd says.

  That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I’ve done things. Many things. There’s no way of knowing what she knows.

  Stung, I sit perfectly still and stare at the table. After a few seconds, and without another word, Syd leaves quietly, closing the door behind her.

  Usually, Syd and Rachel hug good-bye and exchange last-minute thoughts. Sometimes, Rachel even walks all the way down to her car with her.

  This time Rachel sits, allowing the quiet to swallow us.

  10

  If you haven’t done anything wrong, we won’t find anything.

  FAMOUS LAST WORDS—DETECTIVE SYDNEY

  As soon as Sydney’s car leaves our driveway I bolt from the table, knocking over my chair.

  “Erin?” Rachel gasps.

  “Sorry. I need to go to my room.”

  She ferries her cup to the sink. “I’m coming with you.”

  I don’t want her to come, but I can’t exactly say that.

  My room is the first door at the top of the stairs and it’s open wide. The view stops me like a punch in the face. I’m not the neatest housekeeper in the world. But this …

  Every shelf, drawer, and basket has been searched. While they tried to be neat about it, there are piles of stuff everywhere, sliding and tumbling into one another. Loose beads and bracelets are like the pox, dotting everything with color. There are hap
hazard paths of scattered CDs. Photos of my friends stare up from the gray carpet. I pick up one of Spam mugging and slide it into my back pocket. My sheets, blanket, and mattress are separated from one another. I can’t believe Sydney would let them do this.

  Ironically, my closet—the only thing I actually care about—is closed up tight. I hop mini-islands of stuff to get there and swing the door open.

  Holy crap!

  The closet’s bare. Not a slip of ribbon or scrap of cloth; only bare walls, bare poles, empty shelves. To my eye the knot in the ceiling that pulls down the ladder is glaringly obvious. I slam the door and lean against it, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

  Anxiously I scan the piles of clothes, shoes, papers, and makeup stacked around the room. The cops didn’t miss so much as a safety pin. But what I don’t see down here is anything from the attic.

  Is it possible?

  Rachel trudges over to the mattress and tugs on it. “Help me with this.”

  I get on the other side and we lift it back onto the bed frame. Then we work together to put the sheets and blankets back on.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, gesturing to the mess. “When Syd said she had a search warrant I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea. Maybe I should have consulted a lawyer first. I just—” She looks lost and I feel so guilty.

  “This is my fault, Rachel. I’m the one who’s sorry.” So so so sorry—

  She hurries around the bed, pulling me into a tight hug. “Shhhh. Don’t think like that. Remember, you did not cause this. I don’t know why terrible things happen to good people, but sometimes they just do.” She lets me go, taking in the state of the room again. “I’ll help you clean this up after dinner.”

  “I can do it. It’s not that bad.” I twine my fingers with hers and squeeze.

  She squeezes back. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I should throw myself straight into picking up all this stuff. But I can’t concentrate. I almost can’t even breathe. It’s risky, but I have to know.