To Catch a Killer(19)

“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 setting 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.