To Catch a Killer(13)

Spam crosses her arms over her chest. “So who killed her then?”

I shrug, palms up. “No clue.”

“My dad always says the most obvious choice is probably the right one. Which means it must have been Journey,” Lysa says.

“I’d go with that,” Spam says.

I can’t agree or disagree. I’m just not sure. “I-I don’t know.”

“It’s okay that you like him,” Spam says. “Serial killers are really popular. They get prison married and everything.”

“Stop it. I don’t even know him,” I say.

“We know you like him, though,” Lysa says, glancing at Spam.

I start to deny it but Spam gives me the hand. “Don’t. Okay?”

“It’s not like that. He’s just—I don’t know—a fantasy or something. I have no clue why he was there that night, but it didn’t have anything to do with me. None of this has anything to do with me.”

Just then Brianna and two friends stroll by our table.

Brianna opens her arms wide. “Erin,” she calls out. “Thanks for the brilliant news about the hair. You always save the day.”

Brianna is a perfect distraction.

The sketch I made of the hairs she gave us is in my notebook. I pull the book out of my bag and tear out the page with the sketch.

“Bri, hold up.” I slide the paper across the table. “You’ve got to see this because it’s so cool. You know how the two hairs you gave us looked identical?” I point to the top sketch. “Well, this is your hair under a microscope. See how it’s all smooth on the outside, and inside there’s a long dark broken streak?”

“Wait. They’re different?” Brianna shifts a confused look to Spam.

“They’re crazy different,” I say.

Brianna frowns. “Spam said they were the same … that the hairs matched.”

Now Spam looks upset. “That’s what you told me to tell her.”

Feathers are getting ruffled. Tensions are rising. Brianna is about to cry.

“Everybody just calm down.” I fan them lightly with my hands. “Spam, I told you to tell her Mark’s cool. Because he is. Watch.”

I hold the sketch out where they both can see it.

“The second one is a cat hair.” I point to the bottom sketch. “That’s why forensics is so amazing. See these round, pearl-like shapes? Well, only cat hair has that. I’m guessing it’s an apricot Persian or some other long-haired cat.” I press the sketch into Brianna’s hand. “You can keep the drawing.”

But big fat tears have replaced Brianna’s smile. I take back the drawing and find a Kleenex in my purse. I press that into her hand instead.

“You heard what I said, right? Not blonde-girl hair but cat hair?”

“I heard you,” she says, sniffing. “And I have an ex-best friend who owns that stupid Persian cat, too.”

Oh. As Brianna rushes off in search of Mark, I’m starting to think the drama is piling up faster than I can process it.





8

Evidence is the engine of an investigation, but you still need the rest of the car in order for it all to make sense.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


I spend the rest of the weekend following Rachel’s orders to rest and process.

By Monday, I’m ready to go back to school even though Rachel thinks it’s still too soon. She runs me through a quick Q and A, just to make sure I’m not blaming myself, and I must pass because she agrees to let me go.

What she doesn’t know is I’ve made a list of things to check out regarding Miss Peters’s murder. And Journey Michaels is item number one.

I’ve always felt drawn to him, but never in a fearful way. Now I’m wondering if my instincts were telling me to look at him for another reason. Spam and Lysa think he’s dangerous. But the police let him go, so how bad can he be?

If I can look straight into his eyes, I believe I’ll see the truth.

It’s early when I pull into the school parking lot, even though I don’t need to be early to get a good spot. I’m allowed to park my scooter, which I affectionately call Vespy, in the green zone next to the flagpole and the administration building.

I’m not there three seconds before Principal Roberts is out the door and making his way toward me.

“Erin,” he says. “It worries me to see you back so soon. Are you sure you’re not rushing things? You need time to recover from your connection to this tragedy.”

I give him my standard bland smile, but I honestly have no idea how I would know if I am rushing things or not. Why do the adults always think time will make a difference? Aren’t I living proof that time doesn’t heal anything?

Mr. Roberts must be fascinated with static electricity, because every time I take off my helmet he can’t seem to curb the impulse to pat my hair back into place.

Today is no exception.

“This has been devastating for all of us,” he says, patting right and then left.

Mr. Roberts has been my principal since kindergarten. When I moved on to middle school, he was promoted and became my principal there, too. Then, last year, when I headed to high school, he moved again. He likes to joke that he’s growing up along with us.