To Catch a Killer(26)

“Yeah. But you act like it.” She goes back to pecking at the keys. “And it’s affecting your judgment.”

“Just because the print is a basketball shoe doesn’t mean it’s Journey’s. And, for the record, I’m not in love with him.… I just find him interesting.”

She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and slams it on the desk. “Then maybe you’ll be interested in this.”

I unfold the paper. It’s an order form from the athletic department of Copper South High School—our school—for forty pairs of white Michael Jordan classic AJ1 basketball shoes, in various sizes. I scan down the list and see it: Journey Michaels, size 11.

“How did you get this?”

Spam’s gaze is drawn to an imaginary spot on my ceiling. “You remember when my dad’s store donated a bunch of computers to the school, right?”

“Of course. The library would still be in the dark ages if it wasn’t for your dad’s store.”

“Yeah, so we set up the system over there and part of the maintenance agreement is that he checks it every now and then. To make sure they don’t have any viruses or anything.”

I happen to know that Spam’s been hacking her father’s computer security walls since she was ten. I gasp. “You can spy on everything our school does on computer?”

She gives me puppy dog eyes. “I don’t. I wouldn’t. I only did this to save your life,” she adds, reacting to my widening gaze.

I roll my eyes because what I know is that in third place—right behind Spam’s dream jobs of hacker and professional gamer—is working for TMZ, the online gossip site. She’s addicted to drama. “Saving my life is a little extreme, even for you.”

“Okay. Fine. Don’t focus on that,” she says. “The point is he and his shoes were in your bedroom.”

“Wrong. Anyone on the team could’ve been in here, or even anyone with the same shoes. We don’t know every person in Iron Rain who owns these shoes.” I scan down the order form. “Look. The school ordered four pairs in size eleven. One of them was Principal Roberts. Why don’t you accuse him of being in my room?”

Spam pushes a few keys on the keyboard, bringing up Skype. Melodic beeps signal she’s calling someone. Within a few seconds, Lysa’s face appears on my screen.

“Did she listen?” Lysa leans into the camera.

“What do you think?” Spam shakes her head.

“You guys were talking about me?”

“Yes,” Lysa says. “And now we’re trying to talk some sense into you.”

I flop down on the end of my bed. Spam adjusts the angle of the laptop so that we’re both visible on Lysa’s monitor.

“What I need is your support and help finding Miss P’s killer.”

“Whoa. See? Right there. That’s the crazy train,” Spam says.

Lysa agrees emphatically. “Right. You are not a police officer or a detective. You need to stand down.”

My face twitches. “Stand down? Lysa, you’re not a hostage negotiator, either, but you’re trying to sound like one.”

“I’m trying to talk some sense into you.” She makes a grumpy face.

“Here’s some sense. We’re really good at this stuff and we do it for silly things like Cheater Checks. Why would we not give our best for Miss P?”

Spam shakes her head, stands up from my desk, and gives me a quick hug. “I have to go. Hungry monsters await.” Spam moves toward the camera and her face fills the screen. “Make her listen.”

While Spam packs up her tools, Lysa knits her fingers together and straightens her shoulders. “Here’s the problem, Erin. When you get like this, we’re not sure if you need stern words or facts.”

I choke on her words. “Get like what? What are you talking about?”

Lysa leans close to the camera, her hands imitating the shape of a small box. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”

I glance over at Spam, who suddenly refuses to make eye contact. “Is this about the box, Journey Michaels, or investigating the murder?” I refuse to hide my irritation.

“It’s about all of it and keeping you safe,” Lysa insists. “That box got you into this, and as for Journey, well, Spam has already given you sufficient information—”

Oh my god. Really? Sufficient information? Lysa is channeling her mother.

“Lighten up with the psychobabble,” I say.

Lysa huffs. “It’s not psychobabble.”

“Maybe not when your mom says it. She’s a trained therapist. But you’re just … nosy and butting in.”

As Spam grabs her bag and heads for the door, I slam the laptop closed and go after her. “Spam, wait.”

She stops at the top of the stairs and tosses me a loaner cell phone. “I’m speed dial numero uno,” she says.

I follow her. “Yeah? I hope you keyed your name in as Loca because that’s what I look up when I want to call you.” With a grin, she flips me off over her shoulder. I follow her into the kitchen. She pauses at the back door.

“What do you guys want me to do?” I ask.

“Tell Rachel everything so they’ll lock Journey Michaels up and you’ll be safe,” she says.