To Catch a Killer Read online

  I grab the strip of fabric from my purse and head up into the attic. My insides curl and slide like melting Jell-O. I scramble past all the junk, bracing myself for the worst.

  But the attic is exactly the way I left it.

  Padlock in place … everything. The police never came up here.

  I go straight to the cabinet, do the padlock thing, and swing the doors open.

  Her box is there, on the bottom shelf, right where it’s supposed to be. That box the officer was holding … it wasn’t my mom’s. The relief that floods through me could fill this room.

  I know the contents of this box by heart but in order to be completely sure I go through each thing, one piece at a time.

  Eight-inch chef’s knife. Police reports. Paperwork and my mom’s photo albums. Everything is here and intact. I save the plastic sleeve containing her shirt for last. I don’t even need to remove it from the plastic. Just laying the string that Journey threw at me on top tells me it’s a perfect match to the blue-and-white peasant print. What does this mean? Are there two shirts exactly the same? Is someone trying to re-create my mother’s murder with me as the victim this time?

  It’s a chilling thought.

  Rachel is expecting me downstairs but I have to fully check this out. I have to know what I’m dealing with.

  Wearing rubber gloves and only touching a small spot on the neckline, I gingerly pull the shirt completely out of the plastic sleeve and open it up. The style has no collar but a deep, V-like split in the front that’s designed to have a long string or tie on each side of the split so it can be tied closed.

  One tie is attached and caked with blood.

  The other is missing.

  I examine the wad of fabric Journey threw at me. Realization drips into me like acid. This strip of fabric is not from a top like my mother’s. It’s from her actual shirt.

  A hot, nauseating chill rolls through me.

  There’s only one person who could have kept this tie for all this time, and that is the person who killed her. Journey would have been a baby back then, like me.

  So it couldn’t have been him.

  Maybe the killer gave it to Journey … and sent him here to taunt me with it.

  No. That makes no sense. No one knows I have this box. Without the box, the tie doesn’t match anything.

  I slide the shirt back into the sleeve and place the extra tie on top. Then I return the box to the wooden cabinet and lock it up.

  So much for Rachel’s assurances. I’m clearly more responsible for Miss Peters’s death than anyone knows.

  I return to my room and throw myself into a cleaning frenzy.

  While I’m at it, I track everything the police took. They left the printer, but took my laptop and my MP3 player. Sydney even made me hand over my cell phone. I’m basically banished to the ’70s that Rachel is so fond of carrying on about. She grew up just fine without all of this technology.

  Spare me.

  Once my room is back together, I head down to set the table for dinner. It’s some kind of stew, delicious and filling. Rachel’s not very talkative and neither am I. But we make it through. She cooked, so I handle the cleanup. While I work, she stays and reads. Normally, I’d hang out for a while, too. But since I don’t have my computer, it’s easy to say I’m going to bed early. Besides, after everything that’s gone down today, I’m exhausted.

  Despite a headful of fitful thoughts, I actually do drift off to sleep.

  * * *

  Hours later, I bolt awake, caught between some crazy dream and thinking a strange noise woke me up. I fumble for the light on my nightstand. It blinks on, casting a reassuring glow. Something nags at me but I can’t seem to grasp it.

  Then I spot the slash of white splayed across the carpet in front of the French doors that enter my bedroom from the balcony. It’s the English report I left on my nightstand. Except now it’s on the floor, and there’s a very large shoe print stamped onto the back of it.

  A man’s shoe print.

  Other black smudges stain the light gray carpet in several areas, but the print on the back of the paper is clear and distinct. I crouch low, my nose literally an inch away from the crisp outline of the heel of a shoe with rays that cut through a wavy circular tread at the top and a familiar logo stamped clearly in the middle.

  I rock back on my heels. While I was sleeping, someone came in through my balcony doors and stamped the bottom of his shoe in black grime on the back of my report.

  Someone was in my room.

  Bold, terrifying images of Miss Peters, floating on her back in a pool of blood, and the police photos of my mother, in the same position, wearing that blue and white shirt.

  Rachel!

  I have to get to her.

  I quietly make my way downstairs, jumping at the crazy tall shadows that suddenly dance along the wall before realizing it’s only me, sneaking past the night-light. I duck into the kitchen and collect a small knife from the drawer. Then I proceed slowly to Rachel’s bedroom at the back of the house. Where my balcony overlooks the street, Rachel’s overlooks the backyard.

  Her door is closed, no light shining from under the crack. I press my ear to the wood. At first it’s silent, like a tomb. And then I hear rustling and creaking floorboards. The hinge on her balcony door howls.

  I fling her door open wide in time to catch a tall shadow lurking on her balcony.

  I scream, and the shadow clatters down the stairs.

  Rachel leaps out of bed and grabs me.

  “There’s a man on your balcony. Right there. Right there.” I’m pointing frantically.

  Rachel barely glances outside. Instead she pulls me into the hall, even though I resist. “Rachel, you’re not listening to me.”

  She takes me by the shoulders and steers me to the kitchen.

  “Shhhh. Calm down.” She’s using her soothing voice. “There’s no one out there. It’s just a nightmare. Is that a knife? Give me that. Now sit down; I’ll make some hot chocolate.”

  “It wasn’t a nightmare. I’m fully awake. Seriously, Rachel, call Sydney. Get the police out here. I saw someone. I know it.”

  She empties a couple of chocolate packets into cups and waits for the water to boil. “Just breathe,” she says. “What you’ve been through would give anyone nightmares. Everything’s okay. I promise.”

  “There’s a man’s footprint in my bedroom, on the back of my English report.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she says calmly. “How many police officers were up there today?”

  She’s being aggravatingly logical.

  “It happened after they left,” I insist.

  “How can you be sure?” she says.

  “Because.” Because I am sure. Because that report came home from school with me. And I have no clue how Journey ended up with a strip of fabric that matches my mom’s shirt, so how can I be sure of anything?

  I am sure I saw someone on Rachel’s balcony, though. And yet she’s so calm I’m even starting to doubt that. I make it through about half of my cocoa and then I’m ready to go back to bed. Really, I just want to be alone so I can think this through.

  Back in my room, I remember a line from one of Uncle Victor’s books: Evidence is about facts, not emotion.

  I run the logic test.

  Is the footprint from the police?

  No, because I cleaned up after they left and this report was not in my room when they were here. These pages were in my messenger bag that I brought home from school. I didn’t take them out until after the police were gone.

  Someone was definitely in my room. So who was it? Journey Michaels? One of the potential dads? My mother’s killer?

  None of these choices are good.

  I shove every binder I have under the French doors. They work like doorstops. Three on each side ought to do it. Then I set about preserving the print.

  If someone is tracking me, the smartest thing I can do is track them right back. I make a copy of the print by settin
g the resolution on my printer to high. Then I stash the original up in the attic cabinet.

  * * *

  I managed a few hours of sleep, but it’s not enough. Getting ready this morning is like trying to jog through glue. I throw on a clean pair of jeans and a midnight-blue T-shirt, rake a comb through my hair. Add a little mascara and some blush, and I’m done.

  I grab my bag and head downstairs. Rachel’s already gone. There’s a simple note on the table. “E—” with a scrawled heart … signed “R.” I smile and tuck that into my bag before I head out the door.

  I’m all for clues, but I’ll admit the strip of fabric from Journey has me completely baffled. What would my mother’s killer have to do with Journey?

  My brain throbs from overthinking.

  I make it to school early, but move fast when I see Mr. Roberts heading my way. He takes a shortcut across a planter to intercept me but gets waylaid when he steps on something stringy, probably gum. He hops on one foot while scraping the other on the planter rim.

  Once I’m sure he won’t make it to me in time to pat my hair back into place, I toss him a sweet wave. He sends me off to class with an imaginary field-goal kick. Clearly, sports are his life. But I’m on a mission.

  It’s time for Journey Michaels and me to have this out face-to-face.

  11

  Getting to the truth is almost always a combination of observation, psychology, and quick thinking.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  Instead of staking out my spot on the stairs, I anxiously pace in front of the entrance to the quad, scanning every face that comes toward me. Journey’s easy to spot. He’s head and shoulders taller than everyone else.

  I step directly into his path. “Why were you in my room last night?”

  “What?” When he realizes it’s me he jumps to the side. “Stay away from me.”

  I move back in front of him, blocking his path. “Where did that strip of fabric come from?”

  He rears back. “Screw off!” He moves angrily around me.

  “Tell me where you got it and I will,” I say, intercepting him for a third time.

  “Fine.” He throws his arms out in frustration. “I guess it came from you, when you stole my van. Now leave me alone.”

  “Wait. What? I never stole your van.” I’m trying to walk next to him, but it’s not easy. I have to take four steps to his one.

  “Really?” He stops. “Because somebody did that night. And when I got it back, that strip of fabric was on the floor. So you tell me.” He shifts his weight and moves away from me again, then he turns, walking backward. “It didn’t come off any of my clothes.” He tugs at the collar of his T-shirt for emphasis. “Dudes don’t wear little strings.”

  I can’t keep up with his pace and, for a minute, I stop trying. “I know where it came from,” I call after him. “I need you to tell me how you got it.”

  “And I need you to forget that I even exist.” Without slowing down he turns around and keeps walking in that unique, boulder-busting way of his. I scramble after him like a mini dog desperately trying to catch up.

  He slows for a couple of high fives with some of his basketball pals and a fist bump with the yearbook photographer. For her he pauses and strikes a casual pose. She complies by shooting his photo. I hang back, waiting until the last second to lunge forward so I don’t photobomb him.

  I’m ready to beg.

  “I get it. I seriously do. I don’t know how that strip of fabric got in your van, but I can tell you it came from a very dangerous person. It’s really important for us to talk. It’s probably even a matter of life and death. And I promise, no setup. Nothing bad.”

  He bites the corner of his lip and glances at the basketball court. “After school?”

  “Now.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know what game you’re running—”

  “No game.” I raise my hand and cross my heart. I’d stick my finger and make it bleed if that would convince him. “Please. Five minutes. That’s all I need.”

  “Fine.” Journey’s jaw is tight. “My van.” He lightly touches my lower back to guide me through the crush of approaching students.

  I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m going to say. I haven’t thought this far ahead. And now I can’t even think straight because I can feel Journey Michaels’s fingers on my back, even through the fabric of my shirt, and they are warm.

  I’m surprised that Journey’s van is an old, hulking commercial vehicle the color of rust. I squint at it. Or maybe it’s not the color, it’s the condition. The passenger door squeals in protest when he opens it for me. It’s also high off the ground so getting in is a struggle. But I manage it.

  While he moves around the outside, I take in the inside. This vehicle is easily ten years older than we are. There are only the two front seats, and the whole back is empty. The floor has been repaired with slats of wood that appear dry and splintery. Light streams in from small, square windows on the double back doors. The gap between my seat and the driver’s seat is huge. If the giant stick-shift column jutting out of the floor wasn’t in the way, I could fit a table in here between us.

  After a second, Journey opens the driver’s door and gets in. He turns sideways on the seat, sliding his feet and legs into the area where the gearshift is located. I shift sideways in my seat, too. Now we’re facing each other, our knees only a few inches apart. The combined smell of his soap and sweat wafts toward me as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. I inhale deeply without trying to be obvious.

  “Okay,” he says. “Get to it.”

  “I’m going to ask you again, just tell me the truth. Okay? I won’t freak out.”

  He keeps a wary gaze on me. “This better not have anything to do with me going to jail.”

  “Did you sneak into my bedroom last night?”

  He scrambles for the door handle. “That’s it. I’m not down for some crazy setup.” I grab his arm to keep him from bailing out of the van.

  “Just answer me. Yes or no!”

  “No!” He practically screams it. “What do you think? I don’t want to be anywhere near you right now. And I certainly wouldn’t risk going into your bedroom. I don’t even know you. Are you insane?” He yanks his arm out of my grasp.

  “Fine. I believe you. Don’t go.”

  He pauses but keeps his hand on the door handle.

  “What were you doing at Miss Peters’s?” I ask.

  He throws his head back. “I want to hear your side of things first.”

  Just the two of us in this intimate space is intense. I struggle to get my thoughts in order. But I’m distracted by things I didn’t know. Like how his lashes and eyebrows form a dark frame around light gray eyes which are the color of steel.

  “Right. Okay. That’s fair.” I grope for words. “I went there to drop something off. She knew I was coming.”

  “Me, too.” I can tell from his tone that he finds this odd.

  “What were you dropping off?”

  “You first,” he says.

  I shake my head. “No, you this time.”

  “A toothbrush. Okay? I was dropping off a toothbrush.” He indicates that it’s my turn.

  “Cigarette butts, coffee cup, and a bloody towel.”

  At exactly the same time, we point at each other and say, “DNA.”

  “Geez, was Miss Peters trying to make a career out of DNA, or what?”

  “She didn’t tell you her plan? She has … well, had a degree in forensic chemistry. She was trying to get the school and the police department to pool their resources and share a forensics lab to handle both classes and crime.” There’s no mistaking Journey’s sadness. He misses her as much as I do.

  “I only knew about the class.”

  Journey shrugs. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “She wanted to teach high school science classes and run a crime lab part-time.”

  “I’m pretty sure that not having a crime lab is the whole
reason my mother’s murder has never been solved.” I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth. I usually like to get to know someone a little before dumping my notorious past into their lap. Journey surprises me by not having the typical reaction.

  “I hear ya. My dad probably wouldn’t be a convicted murderer right now, either.” He gives me a sheepish look.

  “Wait. What?” I study his face.

  “You didn’t know?” He squares his shoulders. “I don’t talk about it much, but yeah, my dad’s in prison for murdering a sixteen-year-old runaway.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “He was sentenced when I was four. So far he’s refused to let me visit until I turn eighteen, which means I barely remember what he looked like then and I have no clue what he looks like now.”

  “Man. That’s tough.”

  “Especially since my mom completely lives for the day she can get him a new trial. That’s what the toothbrush was for. Miss Peters was going to try to grab some of his DNA from it.”

  “But your dad’s still alive. Why don’t you collect a fresh sample straight from him?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Journey’s gaze becomes distant, as if he’s looking straight through me. “Here’s the thing, there are only two ways for my father to get a new trial. One of those ways is if his DNA doesn’t match what was collected at the crime scene.”

  “And?” From the defeated sag in Journey’s shoulders I know there’s more to this story.

  “And the attorney and my mom don’t want to try for the DNA defense.”

  “Why?” This makes no sense.

  “Because.” Journey looks away again. “What if his DNA does match? Then there’s no hope for anything else. At least if they try for a procedural error in the first trial there’s a glimmer of hope.”

  “Wow. That’s a tough situation.”

  “Yeah. It’s not like you see on TV where everything goes in order and the good guys win in the end. This game has a lot of rules that make no sense.”

  “But you’re worried that his DNA would match the crime scene?”

  “No.” Journey sets his jaw. “I’m one hundred percent certain that it won’t. Testing the toothbrush was Miss Peters’s idea. She said we would just go slow and take it one step at a time.”