To Catch a Killer(24)

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s all I have to say.” With a sweep of her hand she places her napkin on her lap. And then we eat our entire meal in complete silence.

My guilt and worry transforms her delicious meatloaf into a glop of sawdust that sticks in my throat. There’s still one orange left in the fruit bowl. I stop eating, take it out of the bowl, and press it to my nose. I never actually told Miss P about stealing the box. But I did tell her about finding my mother’s things in the attic and about the men my mother might have dated. If she were still here would I be able to tell her about discovering the missing tie?

Rachel gives me a funny look but doesn’t say anything. I set the fruit back in the bowl and try to choke down a few more bites.

In the heat of the moment, when Rachel and Sydney were bearing down on us, I almost fessed up about the box and the tie from my mother’s shirt. Isn’t this exactly what Rachel has always warned me about—my mother’s killer staying close and watching me? Doesn’t the reappearance of the tie from that shirt prove that he’s close?

Given the way they acted, though, I’m glad I didn’t tell them. After catching me with Journey, Sydney wasn’t going to believe anything I said. And the box—the only source of comfort I have left—would be gone.

When we’re done eating, Rachel carries her plate to the sink. “Good night,” she says before leaving quietly and going to her room. I clean up the kitchen and head upstairs to mine. With another long night ahead of me, I gather my notebook and pen.

My goal? A list of questions that need answers.

I crawl into bed without washing my face or putting on pajamas and bury my head in the covers. Just when I had convinced myself that I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Miss P there’s new evidence to suggest the opposite.

At first, I was willing to believe that finding her body was an unlucky coincidence and I just needed to grieve for her and find a way to go on. But that strip of fabric clearly binds her story to mine.

*

My morning classes are a blur. I move from one to the next, turning in papers and taking notes. Brain = not engaged. Instead, I turn to my personal notebook and jot down a step-by-step list for investigating Miss Peters’s murder. One: What she was working on that caused someone to take her life. Two: What is the connection to my mother. Three: Who left a shoe print in my bedroom.

I grab lunch and head outside to my spot at the top of the stairs. Instead of settling in like I usually do, I wait for Spam and Lysa. When they show up I suggest a remote outdoor table around the back of the cafeteria, where we can talk.

Their attitudes are a little frosty. The rumors are already flying about Journey and me cutting school together yesterday. To Spam and Lysa this is another instance of me going off and doing something on my own.

“You could have at least let us know you weren’t coming to school yesterday,” Lysa says. “You were so upset the day before. We were really worried and then you didn’t return any calls or texts.”

I recount how I arrived home to find the police searching my room. Then I run down the list of all the things they took, including my cell phone. I even tell Spam and Lysa about the shoe print in my bedroom and the man on Rachel’s balcony. And before they can lecture me, I also describe how I begged Rachel to call the police on the spot, but she refused. The only thing I left out was how the tie that Journey threw at me matched my mother’s shirt. It’s too scary for me to think about, let alone discuss.

Even without that detail their worry is palpable.

“What are you going to do?” Lysa asks. “You’ve got to do something.”

“First thing, I’m going to try to ID that shoe,” I say. “Who wants to go to Shoe Haven after school?”

Spam can’t make it because she has to do a computer setup for her father’s electronics store. But Lysa’s delighted. We drop my scooter off at my house and take her car.

Shoe Haven could be the largest shoe store in the world, and it’s clearly Lysa’s favorite spot on earth. The room is lined with narrow tables from one side to the other, laid out in rows like a cornfield. But instead of golden veggies, it’s a view of every shoe imaginable.

The moment we step inside, Lysa totters, zombielike, toward a group of women around the sale section. Meanwhile, I drift toward the men’s athletic shoes. I brought the copy of the shoe print with me.

What I have to go on is the Nike logo in the middle of the sole and the top part of the tread which has horizontal rays piercing a circular design. I move quickly along the row, turning shoes over and inspecting the bottoms until I find what I’m looking for. The print exactly matches the Michael Jordan classic AJ1, a mid-top basketball shoe made by Nike. A white size eight is on display, but it’s clearly too small. From the boxes stacked below, I find a size nine. Also too small. Further down, a size eleven is a perfect match. That’s it. My intruder wears size-eleven Michael Jordan classics. I rummage in my bag for my cell phone to take a picture of the shoe. Then I remember Sydney took my phone. Grrr.

I spot Lysa wandering toward me, her arms full of shoes. I borrow her phone and take a quick photo of the top and bottom of the shoe lined up next to the print. I e-mail the photos to both myself and to Spam. I add a quick message asking her to save it for me, since I don’t have my computer at the moment.