To Catch a Killer(2)

I nod.

“Wow.” His chair whines as he leans forward, resting his cheek on a meaty hand. “We all remember that one.” His tone is reverent but his eyes darken, as if the pain of recalling the details of my mother’s murder is almost too great. I know this look, too. The next question is never asked out loud but I do him the favor of answering it anyway.

“I don’t know why he didn’t kill me, too.”

“And they never caught him, right?”

I shake my head. But I will … someday.

“What about your father, where’s he?”

I offer a shrug.

Baldwin’s head twitches. More shock. “He just took off?”

I shrug again. It’s all I’ve got. “Mom never told anyone who he is. I guess she was independent like that.”

“Wow. That’s got to be tough.”

“It is, kinda. My life’s like this huge blank.” I lay my palms flat on the table, framing a dark expanse of space between them.

His eyes—light chocolate, flecked with moss—study me quietly and without pity. “Tabula rasa, sweetheart.”

“What?”

“You were an innocent baby when all that went down. A blank slate. You don’t have to let any of it affect you.”

I push my lower lip up into my upper one. It’s the closest I can get to a smile. Adults always say this, as if it’s true.

He shakes his head. “And now this. So, this Laura Peters was your science teacher?”

“Biology.”

He frowns. “You don’t have any reason to believe your mother’s … uh, death could have anything to do with this, do you?” I notice the way he sits, shoulders hunched over the table and legs tucked back under his chair. He forms the perfect human question mark.

A dizzy thrum rises in my ears. He just labeled the giant ball of worry I’ve been avoiding since the moment I knew there was another murder. I grip the edge of the table. “I don’t know how they could be connected, but I guess there’s always a chance.”

He looks up toward the ceiling while thinking this through. “Yeah, I don’t think they’re connected, not after all this time.”

I desperately need him to be right about that.

His gaze drops to the dark rings of blood so caked into my cuticles that even a thorough scrub at the hospital couldn’t remove them. “What can you tell me about Miss Peters? Was she a good teacher? Did you like her?”

I slide my hands off the table and tuck them under my legs. Miss Peters always said I reminded her of herself when she was younger, and it felt so important to finally be like someone. Especially her. I picture her darting from lab table to lab table like one of those birds on the beach, pecking at our projects. “She was the best,” I say, my voice a ragged whisper.

“And your relationship was…?”

“Normal.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“You mean…?”

“Alive. When did you last see her alive?”

“Today, last period. Well, maybe I should say yesterday.”

“So, Thursday at…?”

“Two-ten to three-oh-five.”

“Do you remember the last conversation you had?” he asks.

I actually can’t stop thinking about it. Just before the final bell, she had moved close to my lab table. Her glasses were on top of her head, tangled in a mass of blond curls held in place by chewed pencils. She’d tipped her head close to my ear. “Listen, Cookie, this isn’t the only way, you know.”

But it was. She’s the one who showed me how it worked. “It’s my best shot. You said so yourself,” I argued. “Besides, what have we got to lose?”

A savage cramp twists my stomach. It was such an easy thing to say at the time.

She’d handed me an orange from her pocket, clicked her fingernails on the Formica, and pointed at me. “Be careful.”

I looked back once before heading out the door. Her smile had urged me on. There was no way I could fail.

I realize Baldwin’s waiting for my answer but a lump the size of a walnut has swelled in my throat and it’s a few seconds before I can talk again. “Um.” My voice cracks. “She basically just said to be careful.” I don’t care if telling him that makes him suspicious. It’s what she said. I wasn’t. And now she’s dead.

“Careful of what?” Baldwin’s eyes narrow as he scribbles notes. “Was she worried about something?”

I shake my head. “It was just her way of saying good-bye. Like, bye, be careful.”

We’d made a deal. She would run the test if I promised two things. One: I wouldn’t do anything illegal. And two: I’d go to the prom. The legal thing was easy. If someone throws something in the trash, it’s not illegal to pick it up. And as for the second, she knew I wasn’t the prom type, but she pushed it because I couldn’t say no. “High school’s supposed to be fun,” she said.

“You said you were passing her house and saw the door open. Why so late at night?”

“I left some things in her mailbox … for a science project.”

His head snaps up. “What kinds of things?”

“Some trash with DNA on it. It was like an extra credit thing.” I make sure to add the part about extra credit because if he checks, he won’t find any other students with the same assignment. And he is going to check.