To Catch a Killer(49)

“Whose was it?”

“I can’t tell.” Spam gives me a shrug. “It’s an old landline: 555-8446. I tried calling it but it just rings, no voice mail.”

“Wait.” I blink a couple of times, training my gaze on the ceiling. “Why is that number so familiar?” I pretend to dial it on my phone. “It’s two numbers off from Rachel’s work number.”

“Where does she work?” Journey asks.

“The police station. She’s the 911 unit supervisor.” Spam answers Journey’s question because my brain is busy trying to figure out what a number close to Rachel’s could mean.

“Are you saying the calls were to someone at the police station?” Journey asks.

“It’s possible,” Spam says. “They often link business phone numbers in sequence like that.”

“But wouldn’t there be voice mail?” Lysa asks.

I’m wondering the same thing. My paranoia kicks in. “How many calls were there?” Did Miss Peters discuss my DNA hunt with Rachel? No. If Rachel knew about that, she would have been all over me. Besides, the number isn’t Rachel’s, it’s just close to it.

Spam scans the printout. “The calls went both ways, to Miss Peters and from her. There were one or two last month, but more than ten right before…” She trails off with a sigh. A quiet moment follows while we all reflect on what we’ve lost.

No question, we are truly and irrevocably changed.

When the silence threatens to pin us to the floor, I get to my feet. “Be right back.” I lightly skim down the ladder and bound through my bedroom, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. There’s a drawer where Rachel keeps all the weird things that don’t belong anywhere else, like take-out menus, rubber bands, and her collection of little screwdrivers. Underneath all the junk is an old address book from before she put everything on her cell phone. I bring it back upstairs.

The three of them are still sitting there, silent and sad.

I curl onto the floor and slide up close to Journey. We’re not touching, but I can feel the warmth radiating off of him. Just being near him makes me feel better. He gets me. He even said so. I flip through the pages of Rachel’s phone book. The usual veil of hair slides across my forehead and into my eyes. Journey rescues it and tucks it behind my ear. The warmth of his fingers as they linger on my neck summons a minor blush. I’m hoping Spam won’t notice, but a quick glance up at her face finds a silly smirk plastered there. I’m so busted.

“Okay. I’m looking up Sydney in Rachel’s book. Her direct line is 555-8442.”

Spam checks the list. “That’s not it.”

“Who else?” I flip to C, looking for Chief Culson’s name. I find the name Charles and a notation for a private line. “What about this one: 555-8446?”

Spam sits forward. “That’s it. Whose is it?”

I gnaw on my lip, not sure how these things hook up. “According to Rachel’s book, it’s Chief Culson’s private line.”

“That could explain why I couldn’t track it down,” Spam says. “Private lines are different from direct lines. They’re supposed to be—well, private. Off the books.”

“Makes sense for the chief of police, I guess. Right?” I say.

“Maybe Miss Peters called him because she was being threatened,” Journey offers.

“But why would she call his private line and not the main line?” Spam wonders.

“Besides, the chief doesn’t investigate problems, he’s responsible for overseeing the entire unit,” Lysa says. “If Miss Peters had a complaint she would talk to an officer or a detective, like Sydney.”

“Plus, if she was afraid of someone, the police would have a record of that and they wouldn’t be looking at us,” Journey says.

Spam shakes her head. “I doubt that they’re seriously looking at you.”

Lysa picks at a ragged cuticle. “Actually, I heard my parents talking. First it was just Journey they were looking at. But now that the two of you are hanging out, well, people are starting to wonder.”

I glance over at Journey, but he just stares straight ahead. “Screw what they think. The only way for Erin and I to stay safe and out of trouble is for us to stick together,” he says.

I inch my fingers across the floor until just the tips of mine meet just the tips of his. He slides his hand forward.

“He’s right,” I agree.

We’re not holding hands exactly, but it is a touch of support. Maybe even solidarity.

“Fine. Just don’t get so caught up in your lovefest that you miss something.” Spam gets to her feet. “Anyway, I need to go. I’m helping my dad tomorrow and it’s going to be a long day.”

The rest of us stand up, too. “I can’t get to the fingerprints until Monday after school, but I will get to the chroma test over the weekend. I’ll also research the box from the lab freezer. You need to go through Miss Peters’s computer files.”

Spam gives me a quick hug. “I’ll get to the files over the weekend, too. But the minute we find something concrete, we’re taking it to Sydney. Agreed?” Spam says.

“Agreed.”

“I want you safe,” she says.

Journey slides his arm around my waist. “Don’t worry. I’ve got her back.” He squeezes my waist, sending a flush of goose bumps across my body in all directions. I’m kind of speechless. Spam’s eyebrows rise and Lysa’s mouth falls open.