To Catch a Killer(17)

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 haphazard 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.

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.