To Catch a Killer(25)

I’m done. But to get Lysa to leave Shoe Haven, I have to get her to stop vacillating between three different pairs and to settle on the open-toe pumps in her favorite color of royal blue, which will look great with everything she owns. In exchange, she forces me to buy strappy silver high heels which will look fantastic with absolutely nothing I own. I did save 70 percent off the price. Which means I got a fantastic deal on a pair of shoes I will never wear.

*

Lysa drops me off at home and I leave my new shoes sitting out on the kitchen table. By the time Rachel comes home, I’m almost done with my homework. She looks surprised at my new shoes. I can tell she loves them, but she’s probably thinking they’re so not me. How great would it be if my current troubles could be managed by a pair of strappy silver heels instead of a pair of size-eleven Michael Jordan’s?

“You’re going to need a computer for your school work, and I’m pretty sure mine is too old to do you any good,” Rachel says.

“Spam can probably hook me up with something refurbished from her dad’s store.”

“Good idea,” Rachel says.

The words are barely out of her mouth when a knock sounds on the back door. And there’s Spam. She wanders in wearing a pair of short denim shorts, red striped soccer kneesocks, pink paisley rain boots, a red T-shirt, and a black TechNext baseball cap. Her hair is slicked back in a ponytail. She drops a heavy red canvas tool bag on the chair and gives Rachel a hug.

“Hey mamacita, how you doin’?” she asks.

Rachel hugs her back. “I’m fine, Spam. What are you up to?”

“Not much, just making a little house call.” Spam opens her tool bag and pulls out a laptop, a cell phone, and a wireless modem, stacking them on the table.

“Wow. Do you have our house bugged or something?” I ask.

Spam gives me a wide-eyed look. “I could totally do that and you would never even know. But why would I need to? You already tell me everything. Right?” Her look is more warning than question.

Spam turns to Rachel. “If you want to know something, don’t ask her. Ask me.”

Rachel laughs. “You two scare me.”

Spam throws an arm around my shoulders. “What’s scary is my girl being out of touch. I can’t have that.”

“That’s very nice of you, Spam. How much do I owe you?” Rachel asks.

Spam shakes her head. “No worries. These are trade-outs for repair. She can keep them for as long as she needs. I can help you set them up now if it won’t mess with your dinner.”

“Sydney and I are going out, but you guys can order Thai, if you want,” Rachel offers.

“Ah, thanks. I can’t stay. I promised my dad I’d make empanadas,” Spam says.

“Yum. What time should we be there?” Rachel asks with a laugh.

Spam laughs, too. “Yeah, you don’t want to do that. You’d be lucky to get a crumb with the little monsters at the table. And their manners are disgusting.”

“Come on, Spam. Your little brothers are adorable and you know it,” I say.

Spam rummages in her bag and pulls out some cables and a small plastic box of mini tools. “They’re adorable, but they’re still little monsters.”

“How old are they now?” Rachel asks.

Spam fills us in on her brothers’ ages—eight, ten, eleven, thirteen, and fifteen—and their various antics. She’s the oldest. We bonded in fourth grade over the fact that I didn’t have my mother and neither did she. Though hers just walked out one day and never came back.

When we were young, we used to pretend our mothers had very important jobs as princesses. They couldn’t just go to work in the morning and come home at night. A princess had to work the whole time and they had to do it for a lot of years. One day our moms would be promoted to queens. Then they would come back and take us to live with them and we would become the new princesses.

Around sixth grade, we grew out of the princess stage. Since then, Spam has refused to talk about our mothers at all. “Live in the now” is her motto.

I wish I could.

A light tap comes from the back door. It’s Sydney. Instead of inviting her in, Rachel grabs her purse and blows me a kiss, saying she won’t be late.

I can’t help thinking Rachel is intentionally keeping Syd and me apart—not a good sign.





14

Written documentation is so critical that my personal notebook is part of the official evidence in every case I work on.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


Spam scoops up the new equipment and charges up the stairs toward my room. I follow, even though my mind is still focused on what’s up with Rachel and Sydney.

Spam sits at my desk and silently plugs in cables and powers up the laptop. Tapping keys, she focuses on linking everything together. The silent treatment combined with the tight pinch to her mouth suggests she’s in a bad mood.

I perch on the edge of the desk.

“Spam, what’s wrong?”

“I’m going to ask you the same question.” She swivels the chair to pin me with a hard look. “I looked at the print you sent me. You do realize the love of your life was stalking you in your own bedroom.”

“I never said he was the love of my life.”