To Catch a Killer(47)

“It’s my mom’s. Take a seat.” I gesture to the stylish red leather sofa.

Lysa thumps down on the sofa and bounces a little, trying it out. But Spam slowly stalks around the space, taking everything in.

“How did it get up here?” Spam wonders.

“Rachel must’ve put it up here. I found it when I needed a place to stash the box. Remember how weird it was that I didn’t have anything of hers? Well, now I do. It’s all up here. And not just her furniture.”

“How do you know all this stuff belonged to your mom?” Spam is cautious and skeptical. “It could be Rachel’s, right?”

“I found pictures. Whole photo albums.” I pull a binder from a box. “Wait ’til you see this.” I hold the album out to Spam. Instead of taking it, she crosses her arms over her chest.

I move in close so she can’t avoid looking at it. On the front is a photo of a pastel-colored beach cottage. “My mom inherited this cottage from her parents … my grandparents. Look what she wrote: ‘It is important to feel tethered to somewhere.’” I flip through the pages and stop on a downward picture of her bare feet on wet sand, each toe painted a different color. “And here she wrote: ‘Ready to put down roots.’ It’s so cute, her toes all painted…”

Spam presses her lips together and glances at Lysa. “Erin…”

“Wait. Wait. This is the best one,” I say as I flip to a photograph of just my mother’s flat belly. In pen, she had drawn an arrow pointing to a spot below her belly button. In her spidery handwriting she scribbled: “Eric? Or Erin?” “My name could have been Eric. How weird is that?”

Lysa turns away. “Erin.” Her voice is gentle. “All of this stuff is your past, and it worries me that you’re living so deeply in it.”

“This is not my past. Don’t you see? It’s my beginning.” I snap the album closed. “I was loved and wanted. My mom had a dream for the two of us to be a family, and someone took that dream away.”

“You’re still loved and wanted,” Lysa says.

Spam looks down. “What’s that?” She has noticed the edge of a chalk design on the floor, most of it covered by a rug.

I start to say it’s nothing. But Spam bends down and peels back the rug, revealing an outline of a body on the floor. An outline that exactly matches the crime-scene photos I found in the evidence box.

“Oh my God, you drew that?” whispers Lysa, covering her mouth with her hand.

Spam steps back, her face a mask of shock. “I’m guessing you didn’t find this layout in a photo album.”





24

Evidence, at its most basic level, is simply visible proof that something happened.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


Spam looks at me like I’m the prized panda who just devoured her newborn cub. Lysa seems less judgy, but her eyes are huge and sad. A few tears stain her cheeks.

“Erin, you realize this isn’t normal, right?” Lysa says. “You’ve re-created the scene of your mother’s murder.”

“But—” I try to interject.

Lysa holds up her hand, quieting me. “Your feelings about your mom were always in there. They had to be. And I can imagine the things in that box set you off on a river of rage and sadness. But instead of dealing with those emotions, you’re standing here saying, hey, check out this cool secret life I’ve created.…” She trails off, gesturing helplessly in every direction.

I get it, they’re afraid for me … or maybe of me. But they still don’t see the real me.

“You have the privilege of knowing who your parents are. Yes, your mom walked out on you, Spam. But if you passed her on the street tomorrow you would still know who she is. I grew up knowing nothing. Every photo and stick of furniture that you see up here is a brand-new link to my past. I’m learning what my mother thought about things, that her favorite color was red, that she wanted to be a mom more than anything.” I touch the chalk outline lightly. “Even this comforts me.”

A voice comes from behind me. “It comforts you because it makes her real.”

I turn around. Journey is standing just inside the attic, next to the pile of junk. His voice unleashes a slight flutter of anticipation in my chest.

He ducks to clear a low beam and moves toward us. “Otherwise, your mother would just be another one of those things we are taught to believe in—like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny … God.” He shrugs. “My dad.”

There’s a long moment when no one speaks.

Spam unfreezes first. “Seriously? He knew about your secret attic-slash-reenacted-crime-scene before we did?” I add hurt to the array of looks on her face.

“This is freaking me out,” Lysa whispers.

Spam goes to sit on the sofa next to her. Journey and I take seats on the floor.

“Erin, I’m concerned about your mental health,” Lysa says.

“My mental health is fine,” I insist. “It’s my physical health you should be worried about.”

Spam and Lysa exchange an ominous look.

I tick the points off on my fingers. “Fact: The person who killed my mother is definitely still out there. Fact: He killed Miss Peters. Fact: I need your help so I’m not next.”