To Catch a Killer(5)

Miss Peters’s mailbox sat out by the curb on top of a short post. I opened it and shoved the bag of evidence inside. She didn’t want to know which sample came from whom. Only I would have that information. She called it a blind study.

As I was leaving, her front door blew open.

“Miss Peters?”

I edged up the walk. Even though she lived in an average neighborhood only a few miles from mine, the late hour gave the area a graveyard hush. As I approached her porch, a faint shadow in the shape of a cross bobbed low against the baseboard, sending terror through me like a drop of ink in water. Even once I realized it was just the moon shining through the slats of Miss P’s trellis the panic was overwhelming.

Then the smell hit me.

That smell triggered a memory so vivid and deep that it dropped me to my knees. It was a strong, raw scent, like shoving your face into a vat of pennies mixed with freshly ground hamburger.

It was the smell of blood.

Lots of blood.

And there she was, lying on her back inside the doorway. She floated on a huge sea of red.

I might have screamed. I don’t know. White noise filled my ears and my vision slid to gray. I crawled to her side, ignoring the wash of blood. I was there, but nowhere. I was breathing, but holding my breath.

“Oh, Miss Peters…”

A motion light in the front yard blinked on, shattering the dark. Someone was watching me from the shadows. Once he triggered the light, he ran. But I saw him clearly, and when I realized who it was, my insides filled with lead and sank all the way to my knees.

*

The interrogation room door bursts open, introducing a whoosh of fresh air.

“Oh my god, Erin.”

Rachel drops her purse and coat and rushes to me. Her arms circle my neck. She was my mother’s best friend and the one who found her lifeless body. She scooped me up that day and ever since, she has stood between me and any harm that might come, large or small. I know she would literally throw herself in front of a train for me. Without her, who knows where I would have ended up?

“I’m sorry you had to get out of bed for this.” Even though I feel bad, I’m grateful to have Rachel’s warmth enveloping me. Now that she’s here I don’t have to pretend to be so strong.

“Shhhh. I’m fine. Just worried about you.” Rachel brushes the hair off my face and runs her hands over my back and my arms as though she has to feel for herself that I’m really in one piece.

Hovering near the door is Detective Sydney Rankle, Rachel’s best friend. At the station she acts more formal, but when she’s at our house she calls herself Aunt Sydney.

“I’ll take it from here,” Sydney says to Baldwin. “But come get me when they bring him in.”

Rachel takes my face between her hands. “Sydney says you know the boy who did this?”

I open my mouth to speak but Sydney beats me to it.

“Alleged. We can’t say he did it. Not yet.”

“But you know him, right? He goes to your school?”

I nod.

“That settles it. We’re changing schools,” she says.

“No.” It comes out frantic. “I can’t change.”

“You don’t know what’s at work here,” Rachel says.

What I want to say is: I was there, and You don’t know what’s at work here, either. But now’s not the time for that.

“We shouldn’t knee-jerk, remember?” That was my therapist’s go-to phrase. Good for any occasion. I stopped seeing him a year ago. We weren’t getting anywhere anyway. But I still use his words when they suit me. Changing schools is not an option. Rachel needs to hear that.

She keeps her hands on my shoulders and holds me out away from her while she scans my face. Then she squeezes me in close, rocking us both from side to side. “I’m so sorry this happened; you must’ve been terrified.”

I was. What if I caused it, and Miss P’s death is my fault? What then?

There’s a light knock. Sydney opens the door. It’s Baldwin. He nods his head toward the squad room. “He’s coming in now.”

“I’ll be right there.” Sydney glances at us. Rachel’s arms are wrapped tightly around me. “Take her home,” she says. “Keep her home tomorrow. I’ll be in touch.”

Baldwin leads a group past the door. One in the middle is taller than the others and his hands are cuffed behind his back. Caramel tufts of hair curl against a chiseled profile that’s pale beneath the tan.

There’s a quick jolt of recognition. I wasn’t expecting to see him here like this, and I definitely hope he doesn’t see me.

Journey Michaels’s jaw tightens. His gaze sweeps the room, looking for who or what brought this down on his head. For the second time today, he looks directly at me, only this time instead of sizzle, his expression reveals an anger so hot it could melt tungsten.

I expected him to look different to me now. I mean, if he’s a killer he should look different. Right? I can’t help it, though—I still feel a tug. There’s something about Journey Michaels that draws me to him.

I bury my face in Rachel’s shoulder and she strokes my hair.

“Hey, it’s okay to cry, you know. This is one of those times.”

Rachel means well but she never totally gets it.