To Catch a Killer(11)

Spam just thought it was an incredibly creepy thing to do.

They were both right, of course. But, like the great friends they are, neither of them turned me in or insisted we take it back.

My next problem was getting the box into my house. Rachel was taking a couple of days off from work that week, so Lysa had to drive around with my mother’s murder box in her trunk until I could slip it into my house. When I brought it up to my room I realized how much it stuck out. It looked out of place on my shelves and wouldn’t fit under my bed. I needed a secure place to stash it. One that Rachel wasn’t likely to find.

That’s how I discovered the secret space in the attic.

*

“Hi, Mom.” I lay my hands on the lid of the box, allowing narcotic tendrils of calm to work their way into my bones. After a few minutes, I move us over to the desk. Just having her near me is all I need.

On the desk I’ve arranged a microscope and the beginnings of a small lab from a box of things I found stored up here. I know this stuff belonged to my uncle Victor. Maybe someday I’ll get to ask him about it.

For hair analysis, I only need to line both hairs up on a slide and look at them under the microscope. It will be easy to see if the hairs match each other, which is of course what Brianna is hoping. If they don’t match, I’ll have no way of knowing who the other hair might belong to, but at least Brianna will have some warning and she’ll know to be careful about trusting Mark.

I place Brianna’s hair at the top of the slide and the “tramp” hair at the bottom. I slap another slide over the top to hold them in place, then arrange the hair sandwich under the lens. A few tweaks bring them into perfect focus, giving me a view of the three main parts of these hairs. The part I’m most interested in is the medulla.

Hmmm.

I open my notebook to a clean page and draw a sketch of what I’m seeing.

Without the microscope, both hairs look identical in size, shape, and color. And yet the magnified versions could not be more different.

The outside layer of Brianna’s hair is smooth and the middle is a long, dark, broken streak. The sample hair has a rough outside cuticle with little points that stick out, and the medulla isn’t a streak at all, but made up of small, light, round shapes.

Once the sketches are complete, I put the hairs back in the bags and lock them and my mother’s box back in the cabinet. I turn out the lights and head down the stairway, putting everything back as I go.

Since I’m unfamiliar with what round shapes in the medulla means, I go online to check it out, typing “medulla pearl shape” into a search engine.

The answer comes up immediately. I smile, because Brianna’s going to love this. I send a quick text to Spam: CHECKED OUT HAIRS. TELL BRIANNA MARK’S COOL.





7

It’s all about observation. Example: If a hair falls out, the root is going to have a little club shape to it. But if it’s been yanked out it will be stretched and include small tags of skin. Now you’ve got evidence!





—VICTOR FLEMMING


According to Rachel I’m supposed to spend the weekend—well, as much time as I need, but at least the weekend—wrapping my brain around what happened to Miss P.

Both the reality and the finality of it.

I’d give anything to be able to create a different ending to that night. But I am clear that I didn’t cause what happened to her … any more than my little baby self caused what happened to my mother.

Rachel wants to be sure I understand this so it doesn’t become another survivor-guilt situation. It was just a wrong-time, wrong-place moment. And sometimes those things just happen.

I see her point, but accepting it is easier said than done.

So when Spam and Lysa drop by on Saturday to see if I can go to the mall, I’m not really feeling it. Rachel encourages me to go, though. She thinks it will do me good to get out.

Lysa drives and I take the backseat. No one says much on the ride over. But when Lysa parks in front of Battery Burger, I can tell this isn’t a normal shopping excursion.

They’ve chosen our favorite restaurant. Also, Spam and Lysa look about as happy as the statues on Easter Island. I follow them to an outdoor table without protest. Spam makes it clear this isn’t just about lunch.

“Time to spill,” she says.

“Spill what?”

“Spill why you went to Miss P’s house,” Spam says.

I glance over my shoulder; the tables near us are becoming populated. “Not here. Okay?”

The waitress comes to take our orders. Spam orders pasta, I order a salad, and Lysa goes for the burger. We stay quiet until she leaves.

Lysa whispers, “My dad says they’ll probably want to talk to us, too. We need to know what we can say.”

“You weren’t there. Just say that.”

“That stupid box has changed you, Erin.” Lysa leans in close to keep from being overheard by other diners. “Ever since we helped you take it, you’ve been … different.”

“Guys, the box has nothing to do with this.”

Spam pins me with a harsh glare. “Admit it. You thought you could find your mom’s killer without our help.”

“Wrong. I thought I could find my father.” There, I said it. “Sue me for wanting to know the basic things about my life that you guys take for granted.”