To Catch a Killer(32)

“I’m sorry. I really can’t.” I’m looking past him at the stream of students trickling into the Green Area from all points within the school. Spam’s amazing. She gives me a small shrug and a wink before sauntering off to the parking lot.

Mr. Roberts’s eyes widen at the throngs of students showing up. “What’s going on here? Excuse me. There’s no loitering on campus. What … free?! There’s nothing free here.”

I decide to leave before Journey pulls up and our plan is blown. “Bye, Lysa. Bye, Mr. Roberts.” I ease the scooter away from the curb and drive toward the nearest exit. In a show of perfect timing, Journey’s van rumbles up behind me.

Meanwhile, the crowd around Mr. Roberts continues to grow. He might suspect we were up to something, but he’ll never be able to prove it.

With Journey tailing me, I drive around the block to a neighborhood where no one at school can see us. Then I pull over. Journey gets out and comes around to the curb.

“Sorry about that. I had to ditch Principal Roberts.” I slide my helmet off and the static makes my hair stand straight out around my head.

He stifles a laugh. “With your hair sticking up like that and the sun shining through it you look like a Tesla coil.” His voice catches on a shred of emotion.

“Oh. Sorry.” I quickly try to pat my hair back into place.

“Don’t apologize.” Journey takes ahold of Vespy’s handlebars and rolls her toward the back of the van, where he hoists her carefully inside. He even covers her with a tarp and secures her with bungee cords. Then he proceeds around to the passenger side to open the door for me.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and hope I can think of something non-dorky to say. But as Journey pulls away from the curb, he launches into a detailed story about a series of mystery novels he likes where the main character is a reluctant detective who wants nothing to do with solving a crime. Clues and evidence give him an actual rash. But he keeps stumbling over corpses and suffers from a strong moral obligation to get it right.

Journey glances at me with a somber expression. “I kind of think we’re like that. We want to make sure no one decides we had anything to do with this … but at the same time we want to get it right for Miss Peters.”

“Yes. For Miss Peters,” I agree.

While Journey drives, we exchange bursts of conversation, here and there. But there are long bouts of silence, too. The normal state of my brain is a crazy cycle where I’m always trying to stay one step ahead of every situation. But for some reason the air between us just feels easy and comfortable. When I’m with Journey, I can actually breathe and relax. He knows about my past, my investigations. He even knows about the attic … all huge secrets I’ve kept from the people I love the most. It’s hard to believe my fantasy crush has turned out to be the one person I can trust with all of my secrets.

I stretch my legs out, settle back, and actually relax a little while he drives. I don’t think anything of the few unexpected turns he makes until my familiar neighborhood starts to give way to strip malls and shopping centers and then to run-down industrial areas. At that point, I sit up straighter in my seat and begin tracking the changing landscape. My surroundings are becoming increasingly remote and deserted.

Relaxed? Did I just think I was relaxed? Because I’m suddenly tense again. Very tense. My fear is threatening to become full-blown panic. I can’t think of a single good reason he would have for bringing me all the way out here. And now I feel stupid. Deadly freaking stupid. What was I thinking, trusting him? I don’t really know anything about him. And I especially don’t know where in the hell he’s taking me. Spam and Lysa know where I am, but they don’t think I’m in any trouble.

Journey glances over, as if reading my thoughts. “You’re the first friend from school that I’ve brought here.”

“I thought we were going to your house.” Rachel calls me a cool customer because I usually appear calm on the outside, but my voice comes out shaky and Journey definitely notices.

“Don’t let the neighborhood scare you. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

I blink at the trash-strewn curbs, the abandoned sofas, the wrecked car parts. It’s a rusted-out ghost town. I’ve heard stories about this place but I’ve never been here. Iron Rain includes a wedge of Oregon coastline bordered by the Pacific Ocean on one side and the Columbia River on the other. A long time ago, this whole area was one fish-canning operation after another. But as the salmon dwindled, so did the industry. Only one broken-down skeleton of a cannery still remains. The urban legend is that the ghost of an old sea captain haunts the place.

When Journey turns off the main road, it’s clear that’s where he’s headed.

A scorpion tail of fear wriggles inside me. “The Calistoga cannery’s been closed for years,” I say.

“I know it looks bad, but we can’t afford to fix it up,” Journey says.

No lie. The cannery is a condemned hot mess. There’s no way that someone actually lives there. I know Journey didn’t kill my mom or Miss Peters … but what if he knows who did? Aren’t there stories about serial killers working with young protégés? What if Journey is the messenger, bringing me to the real killer, like a gift? My body might never be found.

I squirm, wondering if I can dial 911 without looking at my phone.