To Catch a Killer Page 7

  “She was amazing,” I say.

  Journey offers a wide shrug. “I don’t know about you, but my dad is screwed without her.”

  Screwed doesn’t begin to describe the loss. It’s a bottomless sensation, as if there’s nothing that will ever stop the sadness pouring out of me.

  Grief radiates off of Journey, too. He pretends to stare at the hair on the back of his hand; not exactly depraved killer behavior.

  “Couldn’t Miss P have taken DNA from both you and your mom…”

  “And then subtracted hers to figure out his?” Journey says. “Long story. He’s my dad, just not my biological dad. And besides, my mom’s backing the lawyer’s position of not wanting to get his DNA on file. I was risking a lot going along with Miss P. But I trusted her.”

  I always had a sense that Journey and I shared things in common. It’s weird to discover how right I was.

  “Anyway,” Journey says, snapping back to earth. “What was so life and death that you had to tell me?”

  I study his face for a long moment. What I’m about to do requires a huge leap of faith and trust that I haven’t given to anyone. I ignore the tardy bell ringing in the distance. “Actually I need to show it to you … at my house.”

  “Now?” he asks.

  “This is more important than class. Trust me.”

  “It better be, because for the record, I don’t trust anybody.” He sticks the key in the ignition and cranks it. The van sputters and wheezes through a couple of tries until it finally catches.

  “Yeah. That makes two of us,” I say.

  12

  A crime-scene tech must process each layer methodically or he risks contaminating the entire scene.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  Journey guides the van toward the nearest parking lot exit.

  “Turn right,” I say, offering directions to my house.

  He flashes a brilliant, if slightly embarrassed, smile. “This is going to sound sketchy, but I actually do know where you live.”

  “You do?” I slide down in my seat and wrap my hoodie tighter around me. “I didn’t think you even knew who I was.”

  “Well, after you had me handcuffed and questioned for killing Miss Peters I figured I’d better check you out. You know, The Art of War, ‘know your enemy.’ By the way, that whole thing with your mom really sucks.”

  “Wait, I’m your enemy?” I’m surprised by the deep ache that creates in me.

  “You were that night for sure.” He shrugs. “At the moment the jury’s still out.”

  “Okay, but seriously. You were in my room last night? Right?”

  “I said no. Why do you keep asking?”

  “Because someone was.”

  “Someone in your family, maybe?” he asks.

  “No. Trust me. It was much creepier.”

  “Creepy, huh?” Journey gives me a sideways look. “Glad I’ve made such a good impression on you.”

  As tense as this is, Journey couldn’t be more charming if he tried.

  “Why do you think we were at Miss P’s at exactly the same time? Was it an accident or are we being played by some mastermind?” I ask.

  “I don’t know about a mastermind,” Journey says. “Normally, I would have gone earlier. But my mom worked a double. I always pick her up when she works late.” He shrugs. “She works late a lot because we need the extra money.”

  “I had to wait until Rachel went to sleep before I could sneak out.” He pulls up in front of my house and parks on the street. We get out of the van and walk up the driveway. He’s strolling casually, with his hands in his pockets, and I’m clinging to my messenger bag like it’s a floatation device.

  “Wow. You snuck out and got caught?” He playfully nudges my shoulder with his. “Things must be tense around your house these days.”

  Stunned, I stop in my tracks. Holy crap. Journey Michaels just did the playful shoulder nudge to ME.

  He keeps walking a few steps but I’m in shock, still processing what just happened.

  “What?” he says looking back.

  “Nothing. Just … yeah. Things have been kind of tense.”

  “At least you’re not under suspicion for murder.”

  “Actually, I’m not completely clear, either.” I lead him around to the back of the house, up the stairs, and inside. Then, he follows me up to my bedroom. I toss my bag onto my bed. “They came in here with a search warrant and went through everything.”

  “Harsh,” Journey says.

  “You have no idea—unless they went through your room, too.”

  He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

  Miss Peters’s support meant everything to me, and what I’m hearing from Journey is that she meant the same to him. I edge toward the closet and take in a deep breath. “Miss Peters trusted you, so I’m going to trust you, too. Don’t make me regret it, okay?”

  “I may not look like it, but I am totally trustworthy.” Journey follows me into the closet.

  “You need to see this to understand it.” I lower the stairs and pause for a minute, debating. If I go up first, he’s going to be looking straight up at my butt. But I’m pretty sure it would be weird for me to make him go first.

  “Wait down here until I turn on the lights.” I scramble up the ladder, slide past all the stuff, and find the foot switch. In a second, the attic is bathed in a warm glow.

  Journey grins as he pops around the pile of junk and surveys my setup. “Wow. You have your own little apartment up here.”

  “Yeah, sort of. Except no one knows I use this space.”

  “I do,” he says.

  “You can’t tell anyone about this. And I mean anyone. Promise?”

  He crosses his fingers and lays them against his chest. “Cross my heart.”

  I step over to the cabinet and start to open the lock. Journey moves in close, hovering behind my left shoulder. I don’t want him to see the combination. I point across the room. “Go sit over there.” My trust only goes so far.

  He moves to the other side of the attic and sits down on the sofa. He runs his hand over the red leather. “This is nice. Where do you get something like this?”

  “It’s from Italy. Same place my scooter comes from.”

  “Your scooter is sick.”

  “Thanks. It belonged to my mother. All of this stuff up here was hers. She was a fashion photographer and Italy was her favorite assignment.”

  I snap on the gloves, remove my mother’s box from the cabinet, and ferry it to the center of the room.

  “What’s that?” Journey joins me on the floor.

  “It’s the evidence from my mother’s murder.”

  He raises one eyebrow. “How’d you get that?”

  “You don’t want to know.” My expression sends a message that sometimes you do what you have to do.

  Tight-lipped, he nods in agreement. It’s like he understands me in a way no one has before.

  I remove the top of the box. The tie that came from Journey lies on the top. I hand it to him. “This is the string you found on the floor of your van the night Miss Peters was murdered.”

  Next, I remove the plastic evidence bag containing the shirt. I partially pull it out of the plastic; just enough for Journey to see where the missing tie was supposed to be attached. He leans forward, a frown wrinkling the area above his eyes.

  He glances up, locking his gaze with mine. “It’s a match.”

  “Yeah.” I refold the shirt and slip it back into the bag. I press the bag back into the box. “My mother was wearing that top when she was murdered. Which means that tie you’re holding has been missing for fourteen years.”

  Deep concern clouds his face. “So it could be the same person?”

  “It has to be,” I say.

  “But why leave it in my van?”

  “That’s what we need to figure out.” I motion to the stairs. “C’mon. We should get back to class. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never cut before.”

  �
��Me neither, actually.”

  Journey waits by the stairs while I lock everything, including the extra tie, back into the cabinet.

  We step out of the closet. I close the door and I’m just picking up my bag when my bedroom door is kicked open with a loud bang.

  Instinctively, Journey shields me behind him. “Whoa!” He throws his hands into the air. “Don’t shoot.”

  I look around him, expecting to put a face to the shadowy visitor I saw leaving Rachel’s bedroom the other night. But instead, I see Rachel and Sydney.

  Sydney gives a commanding gesture with her gun. “Step away from her.”

  “Erin, what the hell is going on?” Rachel’s voice is shrill.

  I jump in front of Journey, waving my arms. “Everything’s fine. Nothing’s going on. Syd, put the gun away.”

  Sydney reluctantly lowers her gun.

  Rachel motions to the door. “Everybody downstairs.”

  Journey and I exchange defeated expressions. He waits for me to go first. Rachel and Sydney follow us into the kitchen.

  Rachel puts one hand on her hip. The other becomes a sinister, pointy finger. “I want to know what was going on up there and I want to know now.” Her jaw is so tight it’s a wonder the words can still leak out.

  It looks bad: cutting school and getting caught with a boy in my bedroom. “It’s not what you think, Rachel. We weren’t—”

  “You weren’t what—kidnapped? Murdered?” She looms in my direction. “Because when your principal calls to tell me you left campus with the same boy you identified running from a murder scene, that’s what I’m thinking.” She swivels, aiming a final angry glare at Journey.

  I hang my head. This is really messed up. “He didn’t kidnap me, or hurt me or anything. We just came here because we needed to talk about what happened that night.”

  Sydney’s back goes rigid and now she’s waving a pointy finger, too. “That is exactly what I did not want the two of you to do.” Her frustration resonates in the emphasis she places on each word. But at least she returns the gun to her holster. “Did I not expressly tell both of you: Do not talk about this with anyone?”

  Journey and I glance at each other, then stare at the floor.

  I weigh the odds and decide it might be worth it to come partially clean. “Syd, what if we know something you don’t?”

  “That’s a huge red flag to me. I do not want a couple of teenagers thinking they know more about this than I do.” Sydney gestures between Journey and me. “I especially do not want you two comparing notes or having anything to do with this investigation.”

  “But—” I say.

  Sydney slices an angry finger through the air. “Hear this: As of this moment, you two are the closest things I have to suspects.” She begins to pace. “The only reason you’re not locked up, Erin, is because I know you.” Sydney gets right up in my face. Then she leans toward Journey. “As for you, I don’t have enough evidence to hold you … yet! But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop looking.” She steps back and appraises us with hands on her hips. “This behavior is way out of line. Trust me. If you two had anything to do with that murder, I will find out.” She looks up at Journey. “Are you a deranged kidnapper?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then hit it.” She motions to the door. Journey takes off. I listen while his steps fade down the stairs and across the driveway. I hear the van engine crank a few times, then catch. With a thunk of his transmission he’s gone.

  Rachel takes a seat at the table and props her forehead against her hands. I’m rooted to the floor, afraid to move.

  Sydney nudges Rachel’s shoulder. “I’m going to take off.” Rachel flutters her hand in a slight wave. Sydney moves past me, keeping an icy stare on my face for an extra-long moment. And then she’s gone.

  I drop into the chair next to Rachel. Her head is down and she might even be crying. “I’m sorry I worried you … I’m…”

  She puts up the palm of her hand. “Not now.”

  I suck the inside of my cheek in between my teeth and clamp down. Things have never looked worse. We know things they don’t know and no one wants to listen to us.

  13

  You must combine physical evidence with witness statements and known facts in order to get a complete picture of what happened.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  Rachel’s furious. Instead of letting me go back to school, she sends me to my room. I spend the day reading and doing homework and putting away things that were moved during the police search. I stay there until she calls me down for dinner.

  I smell meatloaf before I even hit the bottom of the stairs. I’m in for the lecture from hell, as well as some evil punishment, all of which I rightly deserve.

  If it hadn’t been for friggin’ Principal Roberts being a snoop and calling Rachel, Journey and I would have been back in class before the end of first period. Our worst fate might have been a late slip.

  Rachel has already set the table, which is another sign of the level of trouble I’m in since setting the table is usually my job. I can’t believe I got caught with Journey in my bedroom. So embarrassing. Even though what she thinks was going on wasn’t, I’d rather shave my head than have to explain it.

  I slide quietly into my seat.

  Rachel remains tight-lipped as she delivers plates of food and glasses of water to the table. When she finally sits down I begin to worry that we might go through the whole meal without speaking a word.

  She pauses briefly, shifting a tired expression in my general direction. “Don’t ever let that happen again.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “I expect you to do detention for cutting,” she adds.

  I agree enthusiastically. “I will. No problem.”

  “If you continue to act out we will be going back to the therapist. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s all I have to say.” With a sweep of her hand she places her napkin on her lap. And then we eat our entire meal in complete silence.

  My guilt and worry transforms her delicious meatloaf into a glop of sawdust that sticks in my throat. There’s still one orange left in the fruit bowl. I stop eating, take it out of the bowl, and press it to my nose. I never actually told Miss P about stealing the box. But I did tell her about finding my mother’s things in the attic and about the men my mother might have dated. If she were still here would I be able to tell her about discovering the missing tie?

  Rachel gives me a funny look but doesn’t say anything. I set the fruit back in the bowl and try to choke down a few more bites.

  In the heat of the moment, when Rachel and Sydney were bearing down on us, I almost fessed up about the box and the tie from my mother’s shirt. Isn’t this exactly what Rachel has always warned me about—my mother’s killer staying close and watching me? Doesn’t the reappearance of the tie from that shirt prove that he’s close?

  Given the way they acted, though, I’m glad I didn’t tell them. After catching me with Journey, Sydney wasn’t going to believe anything I said. And the box—the only source of comfort I have left—would be gone.

  When we’re done eating, Rachel carries her plate to the sink. “Good night,” she says before leaving quietly and going to her room. I clean up the kitchen and head upstairs to mine. With another long night ahead of me, I gather my notebook and pen.

  My goal? A list of questions that need answers.

  I crawl into bed without washing my face or putting on pajamas and bury my head in the covers. Just when I had convinced myself that I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Miss P there’s new evidence to suggest the opposite.

  At first, I was willing to believe that finding her body was an unlucky coincidence and I just needed to grieve for her and find a way to go on. But that strip of fabric clearly binds her story to mine.

  * * *

  My morning classes are a blur. I move from one to the next, turning in papers and taking no
tes. Brain = not engaged. Instead, I turn to my personal notebook and jot down a step-by-step list for investigating Miss Peters’s murder. One: What she was working on that caused someone to take her life. Two: What is the connection to my mother. Three: Who left a shoe print in my bedroom.

  I grab lunch and head outside to my spot at the top of the stairs. Instead of settling in like I usually do, I wait for Spam and Lysa. When they show up I suggest a remote outdoor table around the back of the cafeteria, where we can talk.

  Their attitudes are a little frosty. The rumors are already flying about Journey and me cutting school together yesterday. To Spam and Lysa this is another instance of me going off and doing something on my own.

  “You could have at least let us know you weren’t coming to school yesterday,” Lysa says. “You were so upset the day before. We were really worried and then you didn’t return any calls or texts.”

  I recount how I arrived home to find the police searching my room. Then I run down the list of all the things they took, including my cell phone. I even tell Spam and Lysa about the shoe print in my bedroom and the man on Rachel’s balcony. And before they can lecture me, I also describe how I begged Rachel to call the police on the spot, but she refused. The only thing I left out was how the tie that Journey threw at me matched my mother’s shirt. It’s too scary for me to think about, let alone discuss.

  Even without that detail their worry is palpable.

  “What are you going to do?” Lysa asks. “You’ve got to do something.”

  “First thing, I’m going to try to ID that shoe,” I say. “Who wants to go to Shoe Haven after school?”

  Spam can’t make it because she has to do a computer setup for her father’s electronics store. But Lysa’s delighted. We drop my scooter off at my house and take her car.

  Shoe Haven could be the largest shoe store in the world, and it’s clearly Lysa’s favorite spot on earth. The room is lined with narrow tables from one side to the other, laid out in rows like a cornfield. But instead of golden veggies, it’s a view of every shoe imaginable.

  The moment we step inside, Lysa totters, zombielike, toward a group of women around the sale section. Meanwhile, I drift toward the men’s athletic shoes. I brought the copy of the shoe print with me.