To Catch a Killer(3)

He squints. “DNA, like, from a person?”

I bob my head slowly. I want to be honest but I worry where this will take me.

“Are you in one of those forensic classes?”

“Sort of.”

He frowns. “Did this DNA belong to anyone in particular?”

I shrug. “No. It was just kind of random.”

My first lie.

There was nothing random about the cigarette butts, coffee cup, and bloody towel I left in Miss P’s mailbox. But I can’t tell him that, and there’s no way he’ll find out now. It was only supposed to be three quick stops for bits of trash from three specific men.

“Are you saying your biology teacher told you to leave an assignment in her mailbox in the middle of the night?”

“She said where to leave it but she didn’t say an exact time.”

“Hang on. I want to call over there and make sure they get those things from the mailbox.” Baldwin rises from his chair and disappears out the door.

Dead. The word hammers in my head. Along with Who did this? And Why?

I can’t think of anyone who didn’t love Miss P. I rest my elbows on the table and stare quietly at my reflection in the secret mirror.





2

Basic eyewitness testimony is only accurate about half the time. Science has a much better track record than that.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


Up until nine months ago, I could count the things I knew about my mother on one hand. I knew she had curly brown hair and brown eyes. She traveled all over the world as a fashion photographer and Italy was her favorite assignment. She was twenty-five when I was born and twenty-seven when she was murdered. Her killer has never been caught.

Growing up, I was given two Polaroid photos of her: one from when she was in high school, posing with her best friend, Rachel, and the other from the hospital the day I was born. The rest of the details of her life are as hazy as those photos. And somehow Rachel expected me to be okay with that.

I’m tall, like my mother was, but my hair’s the color of rust, and if I don’t clip it back, it hangs straight over my right eye like a veil of death. My eyes are a weak blue, not brown like hers.

I want someone to tell me I have Aunt Ginny’s cheekbones and Uncle Ralph’s crooked toe. Hell, I want to know if I even have an Aunt Ginny or an Uncle Ralph. My mom was an only child and her parents are both dead. But unless I am a clone, there’s a whole other mystery family on my father’s side.

Who really believes that a couple of blurry snapshots are enough to know where you belong? That somehow I should just carry on like nothing bad happened? Grow up, be a teenager … go to school … have friends.

My mother’s life was about documenting things. But all I have are a couple of Polaroids? It doesn’t make any sense. I once asked Rachel what happened to all my mother’s stuff. She got a blank, faraway look on her face and said we would save that conversation until I’m older. In Rachel-speak that means never.

She pretends to be open and honest and willing to talk about anything in the world … except my mother. She won’t even tell stories about when they were kids growing up. She claims it’s because there’s an active police investigation. As if the police ordered her not to say anything. Why would they say that? And if they did, I’m sure they didn’t mean she couldn’t talk to me. I was there. As far as the investigation goes, it’s turned up nothing in fourteen years. Not even the identity of my father. So I wouldn’t exactly call it active.

Miss Peters became my total hero when she showed me how DNA could answer my questions about my father. And maybe someday even tell us who killed my mother. Tonight was supposed to be the beginning. We were going to take it to the next level. But something went wrong.

The door slams open against the wall with a loud bang. I drop to my hands and knees and skitter under the table, then realize it’s only Baldwin. He catches the door with his elbow because he’s holding a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. His notebook is wedged under his arm. “Do you use cream or … oh, shoot, are you okay?” His eyebrows ride high on his forehead, giving him an owlish look.

Shaking, I slide back into my seat and hold up two fingers. “Two sugars, please.”

He sets the coffee on the table and backs toward the door. “Sorry if I scared you. When I get back, I’d like to talk about the classmate of yours you saw at the scene.” He slips out, this time keeping his hand on the door until it closes gently.

Once he’s gone, I reach for one of the coffees and pull it toward me. I wrap my trembling fingers around it.

The classmate of yours.

*

Today started out as a perfectly normal Thursday.

I was in my usual spot on the wide cement banister at the top of the cafeteria stairs. Mostly I try to look like I’m just hanging out, but really that’s the best spot to catch Journey Michaels as he arrives from the parking lot and walks across the quad to the basketball courts.

Watching Journey arrive is bearing witness to a tidal wave of popularity as it engulfs the campus. Every guy he passes high-fives him or punches him in the shoulder. And every girl offers a hug or a coffee or a bite of muffin. This morning he snagged a whole bag of cookies—the little frosted-animal kind you can eat by the handful.

I’m pretty sure my interest in Journey is not the same as everyone else’s. I’m oblivious to the way the sunlight plays off the caramel streaks in his hair. And I hardly even notice how his thin, white T-shirt clings to his athletic abs.