To Catch a Killer(53)

“Stop! STOP!” he shrieks into the bullhorn.

At first I think he’s telling us to stop and I’m about to put my head down and butt him out of our way. But instead he barges between us and heads straight for the earthmover. In a frantic burst he maneuvers around the blade and bangs the bullhorn against the giant slice of metal as hard as he can. With each slam of metal against metal, the bullhorn erupts with a very loud, amplified metallic whang!

Seconds seem like hours, but within a few of them the earthmover sputters and the engine stops.

The driver of the earthmover stands up and looks over the top of the blade. “Holy— Chief! I thought you said it was all clear?”

Chief Culson points an angry finger at the driver. “You, shut up! Just shut up.” Then he strides over to us. “Erin. Are you okay?”

“That was crazy messed up. But we’re okay,” Spam says even though she’s gasping to catch her breath.

I give her a look. Seriously?

I’m bent over, hands on my thighs, begging for a breath that won’t rip my lungs apart. And I’m not so sure. I’m not hurt. But I’m not okay, either. What the hell just happened? I shift my gaze between the earthmover driver and the chief, and then look over at Spam. I have no clue what any of them are thinking.

I also don’t know how to explain what just happened or who’s to blame, but I’m pretty sure someone just tried to kill me … again.





26

Being extremely thorough—especially if you think it will prove nothing—is the number-one rule to remember when processing a crime scene.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


While Spam and I pull ourselves together, the earthmover driver scrambles over the piles of debris and gathers up Spam’s tool bag and all the scattered computer equipment. He apologizes profusely when he brings the stuff back to us.

He says he couldn’t see us. We were in his blind spot. Blah, blah, blah.

My scrutiny is on the chief. The way he’s standing off to the side, with his back turned to us, talking on the phone. He definitely looks upset. But there’s a part of me that wonders, is he upset that he screwed up and almost got us killed, or is there something more?

The chief hangs up his phone and slips it into his pocket before he turns to face us. His shoulders sag as he shuffles over. “Erin. Samantha. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Thank God you’re okay.”

“We are. We’re fine,” Spam agrees. She looks over the boxes of computer gear, which also managed to survive. “Even the computers made it.”

He looks to me for my reaction.

I nod. That’s the best I can do. It may just be nerves but something about this feels hinky.

“I called Rachel,” he continues. “She’s on her way.”

“What?! No. You can’t do that.” I grab Spam’s arm. “We have to go.”

The chief looks confused. “What about Rachel?”

“I’ll take care of it,” I snap.

Once we’re in Spam’s car, I get Rachel on the phone. It takes a lot of fast convincing for her to turn around and go back to work, but the last thing I need is for her to actually see what Spam and I went through and what could have happened. She’s so overprotective and skittish about me that if she saw this mess I’d never be allowed out of the house again. Both of us will be a lot better off with her not knowing.

But as Spam pulls her car out from behind the Dumpster, I snap a photo of the precariously chewed-up tunnel and vicious-looking earthmover with my phone anyway. I want to show it to Journey and see what he thinks.

The ride home is pretty quiet. Both Spam and I are mired in our thoughts. She pulls into my driveway and we exchange a hug before I get out of the car.

“So all that back there was just some random, bizarre thing that happened, right?” she asks. I scan her face to discern if she wants truth or comfort. The folds on her forehead and slight frown to her mouth tell me she wants comfort.

“Oh yeah. Getting attacked by earthmoving equipment is about as random as you can get.” I add a chuckle to make it convincing.

“Good.” She exhales in relief. “That’s what I thought, too. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” I get out of the car and head into the house. Rachel said she won’t be home until dinnertime, which means I still have a couple of hours to spend up in the attic. I can run the chroma test on the scrap of paper I found in Journey’s van. It probably won’t reveal any crucial information. But being thorough is the number-one rule of processing a crime scene—just ask Victor.

Even though I’m certain I’ll be done and out of the attic long before Rachel gets home, I prep my room by shoving the binder under my door just in case. It’s a habit. With my laptop under my arm and my bag slung over my shoulder, I sneak up to my attic. The room is untouched from the way we left it on Friday night, so the rug is still pulled back, revealing my chalk outline. I know Spam and Lysa think it’s creepy, but Journey nailed it.

These details are what make my mother real.

I stare at the outline for a long minute before gently covering it with the rug.

I set my stuff on the old wooden desk and open the padlock on the cabinet. Whenever I’m up here, I bring out the box and keep it near me. I just like the way it feels, having it close by.