To Catch a Killer(45)

“Ladies, I need you to come rejoin the class.” It’s Principal Roberts.

I glance at Spam, my expression full of questions. She gives me a thumbs-up and shuts down the computer.

“Erin?”

I make a snap decision and shove the box into the front pocket of my hoodie. “Okay, we’re coming.” With Spam behind me, I open the door. Principal Roberts is all smiles. He steps aside, allowing Spam and I to move past him into the classroom. “Is everything squared away?” he asks.

I pat my strap.

“That’s what I like to hear.” He mocks a golf swing to motion us through the door and into the classroom.

I’m stunned to see Sydney and a couple of uniformed officers standing by. Spam’s face fills with fear as she slips out ahead of me.

“The lab is all yours, Detective. Please let us know if you need anything else,” Principal Roberts says.

“I’ll do that,” Sydney says, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. She gives me a wink as she files past me into the lab.

The cold lump of the frozen box in my pocket is nothing compared with one that’s twice its size in the pit of my stomach. Should I hand this box over to Sydney? If it’s what I think it is, it shouldn’t fall into the wrong hands. I’m afraid if I give it to her it will wind up in a file box on a storage-room shelf, and fourteen years from now no one will have even looked at it, let alone figured out what it was.

I glance at Spam. She doesn’t know I took anything. But if she did, she would expect me to turn it over. I could probably even get out of trouble with a little explaining, but something in my gut holds me back.

In every one of Victor’s cases, outlined in his books, he described a point where there was obviously the right thing to do and for some reason his gut told him not to do it. And in every case, his gut proved him right. This DNA might not have anything to do with what happened. But for some reason I don’t want to give up this evidence. Not yet. So I’m going to hang in there with my gut, too.

After class, I wait in the hallway for Spam. She joins me and we start walking toward the parking lot. “I hope you’re not getting in over your head with this investigation,” she says.

“I’m not.” I hesitate at the door to the nurse’s office. “But if we don’t check this stuff out, no one will.”

Spam frowns. “Why are you going to the nurse?”

“I need an ice pack.” When she tilts her head to one side, I flash just the corner of the box in my pocket.

She gasps. “You took that from the lab? Erin, you can’t do that.”

“We need to know what it is. Don’t freak out. We’ll go over everything tonight.”

I slip into the nurse’s office, feign a sprained wrist, and pick up an ice pack, which I wrap around the box in my pocket. I hurry to the parking lot, hoping to catch a glimpse of Journey.

“Need a lift?” The voice comes from behind me.

Ugh, Principal Roberts.

I pause, mouth open, not really knowing what to say. “I-I…”

He smiles. “I’m on my way to your house anyway. Your uncle and I are going to relive our old high school glories by shooting hoops in your driveway.” He raises a couple of gym bags bulging with balls and shoes.

How is it even possible for cool, insightful Victor and clueless, dorky Principal Roberts to exist in the same universe, let alone be friends?

I blink. “But we don’t even have a basketball hoop.”

“You do now.” He flashes his phone at me for confirmation. There’s a photo of our driveway with a shiny new basketball hoop hanging above the garage door. The text reads: IT’S ON. “I’ll let him know I’m bringing you home.” He dials the phone but keeps talking to me. “Damn shame about your scooter. That was a classic. Oh, hey, Vic. I’m on my way and I’m giving your niece a ride home, too. Okay. See you soon, buddy.”

I follow Mr. Roberts to his car, which is parked right by the office. I hope no one sees me leaving school with the principal. Talk about sketchy.

*

Victor’s out in the driveway as we pull in, gesturing proudly to his new installation. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt and an ugly pair of sweats. I really can’t bear to see my idol reduced to this level of mortal humiliation, so I leave them to do their thing while I head upstairs into the house.

First order of business is to find a place to stash Miss Peters’s samples. Hiding things in plain sight was easier before Victor showed up. I could always just tell Rachel it’s one of my experiments and she wouldn’t ask any more questions, but I can’t take the chance that Victor won’t recognize DNA samples.

I rummage through the frozen food. Popsicles? No, Rachel eats those sometimes. Buffalo wings, potpies, those get eaten pretty regularly, too. Hmmmm … I dig out a tattered bag of frozen peas from the very back. Neither Rachel nor I like peas. We never eat them. But Rachel’s idea of the perfect ice pack is a bag of frozen peas, so there’s always at least one in the freezer.

I lay the bag on the counter with the seam side up. Lifting the seam, I carefully slit open the bag a few inches along the underside. I dump out some of the peas and slip the small box into the bag, then fold the flap of the seam back to hide the slit and stash the bag in the very back of the refrigerator.

I step back and give the freezer a discerning look. As long as Victor doesn’t love peas, Miss Peters’s samples should be safe.