To Catch a Killer(37)

I sit up, even though I’m woozy. My fingers explore my forehead, finding a large, tender lump and some fresh blood. “Is it bad?”

Hopping nervously from one foot to the other, he puts his hands out, afraid to touch me. “We have to get you to the emergency room.” He gingerly lifts me up and sets me on my feet. Then he stands back as if he’s afraid to be too close.

I brush myself off, checking for spots that hurt more than others, since basically everything hurts. I dab at the blood streaming into my eyes.

“Your freaking van nearly killed us,” I say.

“Sorry. Sorry. So sorry. The emergency brake must’ve slipped. I can’t believe I got to you in time.” Journey looks over the wall and grimaces. Then he wraps his arms around my shoulders and turns me away.

“Don’t look, okay?” he says. He tries to use his shirt to wipe away some of the blood.

Hearing “don’t look” makes me snap my head around.

The front of the van is wedged against the wall. If it’s dented or scratched at all from the impact, it barely shows.

What I don’t see is Vespy.

I rise onto my tiptoes and peer straight down. Now I see her. My poor scooter lies mangled between the brick wall and the van. A low moan escapes my lips.

Journey hops the wall and opens the driver’s door, peering in. His expression ratchets from worry to shock. “I’m calling 911.” He pulls out his phone.

“No!” I stagger to the wall but it’s too high for me to simply hop over. Plus, I have to keep one hand pressed to my forehead to hold back the blood. “Seriously, don’t.” It would be really bad for a call about me to come in while Rachel’s on duty.

Journey stares helplessly into his van.

I manage to slide my hip onto the top of the wall and swing my legs over. I join him at the door of his van. Now I see it.

A brick is holding down the gas pedal.

He looks at me like What should we do?

“Don’t touch anything.” I pull out my phone. This’ll go down better if I make the call.

*

First one police car shows up, then two more, along with a sergeant. Paramedics treat the lump and gash on my forehead at the scene. Then Journey and I are transported back to the police station in separate cars. Once we arrive, we are placed in separate rooms.

I’m in the room they use for briefings. It’s large, with several tables, a bunch of chairs, and a huge whiteboard. I take the seat farthest from the door, at an angle that allows me to see everyone who walks past.

Not long after I arrive, Rachel storms in and walks up to the table. She simply glares, her arms crossed over her chest and her foot tapping angrily.

“What?” I ask.

“You better have a damn good reason for ignoring my rules,” she says.

I’m almost killed, Vespy is wrecked, and all she can think about are her stupid rules? I stack my fists one on top of the other and rest my chin on them.

She turns on her heel and storms out, slamming the door. Every couple of minutes a new group barges in. They stand over by the door, talking in hushed tones, and then leave.

Everyone seems to be talking to everybody … except me.

I wonder what they’re doing to poor Journey. The first cop who arrived on the scene saw the brick on the gas pedal, but acted like we were trying to pull something. Not that he came right out and said that, but I could tell. I think they even put Journey in handcuffs again when they took him.

I’m exploring the huge bandage on my forehead with my fingers when the door opens again. Out of the corner of my eye I see a man walk in. He’s wearing a rumpled suit. I place him somewhere in his forties, but there’s a kind of hipster air about him. For one thing, he’s wearing sunglasses indoors. Another is the hair: It’s short, but mussed in a way that looks cool, not sloppy.

Based on his confident swagger, I conclude he must be a new shrink that Rachel’s hired to check me out. She thinks I’m acting out over what happened to Miss Peters. Fine. I’ll show her acting out. I take my sunglasses out of my bag and put them on. Two can play this game. I slouch in my seat and wait. Mystery Man strolls over to the opposite side of the table and takes a seat.

I concentrate on reading text messages on my phone.

Pretty soon the door opens again. Sydney leads Rachel and Principal Roberts inside and shuts the door behind them.

Principal Roberts glances over at me with a tepid smile as he explains, in hushed tones, how worried he was when he saw that boy following me out of the school parking lot.

Rachel shoots me an angry look. Yeah, okay; I’m supposed to call her if I go somewhere after school.

Mystery Man leans forward. “Maybe you should take off your sunglasses if you don’t want to piss her off even more.”

“What about your sunglasses?”

“It won’t make her less angry with you, but if you insist, I’ll go first.” He takes his sunglasses off and slips them into his pocket. “Now your turn.”

I slide my sunglasses off and look directly at him. “Oh my god. You’re—”

He extends his hand across the table. “Victor. Nice to finally meet you.”

Holy crap. It’s Uncle Victor.

“I brought this for you,” he says, handing me a small shopping bag. Inside is a tiny white ceramic unicorn wrapped in tissue paper. I give him a puzzled look.