To Catch a Killer(42)

I can’t lie straight to Rachel’s face, so I just nod.

“Good. Then we’re on the same page,” she says.

I swirl some pasta onto my fork and manage to deliver it to my mouth. Rachel doesn’t get it. There’s no such thing as no Journey. The person who killed my mother and Miss Peters might not have intended to bring us together, but he did. Together we know things no one else knows, and together we will survive this.

Rachel’s edict about Journey leaves a prickly edge to the air in the room. Everyone is waiting for me to say something so they’ll know that I agree with Rachel’s rule. But I just can’t. My throat’s so tight I can hardly swallow my mouthful of food. Finally, after a very long silence, I manage a compliment. “The sauce is good, Rachel.”

Just letting my voice out in the room and keeping it steady and strong is enough to break the spell. Everyone digs in.

Victor slurps up sauce and then makes a big display of eyeing Rachel. “Wow, Erin’s right. This sauce even beats Mom’s.”

Rachel softens and returns Victor’s smile. Before long, they’re telling stories about when they were kids. I’m hanging on every word as Victor launches into a story about Rachel and my mother when they were young. But Rachel cuts him off. What she says sounds innocent enough: “I’m sure the girls have had enough of our ancient stories.” But I know I’m not imagining the look of warning she flashes him. Victor seems to understand her code, and switches the topic to basketball and the old hoop that used to hang out on the front of the garage. Victor inquires if Spam and I would be interested in shooting some afternoon hoops if he put up a new one. Too bad. If Journey weren’t banished from around here, Victor would have a real shot at a pickup game.

The way Rachel was able to curb Victor’s conversation about my mom makes me realize that getting his help on the investigation is probably pretty unlikely. And without the piece of information that Journey and I have on Miss Peters’s killer, the fabric that connects her to my mom, I don’t expect he’ll get very far on his own.

I call this an impasse.





21

When collecting evidence, the state that evidence is found in must not be altered at all.… Remember that: not at all.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


The next morning, a car horn out front signals that Spam and Lysa are here to pick me up for school. I asked them to show up a half hour early because I had something I needed to do in the library. But the library isn’t where we’re going.

I race down the stairs and through the kitchen and offer a quick wave to Victor, who is sitting at the table having coffee and toast. “See you later.”

“Yeah, later,” he mumbles, hoisting his cup in lieu of a wave.

Spam is waiting with the passenger door open and the front seat pulled forward to let me in. Lysa has the top down on the car. As I squeeze past Spam to land in the backseat, I bark out a few basic directions. “We have a quick stop to make. Go past the school and get on highway 30 for about five miles.”

Lysa backs out of the driveway. “I’ll drive as far as you want as long as coffee’s involved.”

I think for a minute, picturing the intersection where we’re headed. “Not only is there coffee, but it’s donut-shop coffee. And I’m buying.”

Spam squeals, but Lysa is quiet. “Where are we going?” she asks.

“It’s no big deal; just a quick stop to pick something up.”

“That’s all the way across town. What do you have to pick up over there?” she wonders.

“You’ll see when we get there. Trust me.”

I can tell she’s not convinced, because she remains quiet on the ride over. That’s not a problem this morning, though, because Spam is talking enough for all of us. She’s right in the middle of jabbering about how Chelsea caught her boyfriend making out with Sarah when I see him, walking toward the corner, in that style that’s all his own.

“Stop!” I yell.

With a loud squeal of brakes, Lysa slams the car to a halt right in the middle of the street, sending Spam and me forward against our seat belts. She whips her head right and left, looking for something that’s about to hit us. When she sees nothing, she turns to glare at me. “What?”

“Oh, um. We’re here.” I hardly need to point out the donut shop on the corner, since the smell of old grease hangs heavy in the morning air. A little unsure of me and the neighborhood, Lysa eases the car into the parking lot, but hesitates to pull into a space. “Why are we stopping here again?” she asks.

“Just park and let me out. I’ll get our coffees.”

Lysa parks, but neither she nor Spam hurry to open the doors. They both turn toward me in the backseat.

“What’s going on?” Spam asks.

“Yeah, why did you make me bring you all the way out here?” Lysa asks.

I don’t answer.

At first, Journey looks a little confused as he walks toward Lysa’s car. But once he’s sure it really is me, his smile beams as brightly as the sun coming out from behind clouds. He strides toward us. “Hey guys.”

My plan should be pretty obvious from this point on. Journey’s van was towed to the police impound lot last night, along with my munched scooter, so I texted him last night that we’d give him a ride to school.