To Catch a Killer(67)

“Right. Emphasis on eventually,” she says. “Meaning when you eventually need our help again.”

“I promise I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can, it’s just that Victor and I…”

“See, this is how you are,” Spam snaps. “First it was all Journey and I, Journey and I, and now it’s all Victor and I, Victor and I.” She gets up from the table and wags her finger between she and Lysa. “We are the ones who have been in on this with you from the beginning. When Journey and Victor bail on you, you’ll come crawling back to us. Until then, peace out.”

Spam turns and walks away. Lysa glances back at Spam and then at me. “I’ll talk to her,” she says as she gets up, and she leaves, too, slapping the table once in solidarity.

“Oh my god. Did you see that? I mean, did you hear her?” I turn my palms up.

Journey slides his arms around my waist and pulls me to him. “The question is, did you hear her? I trust you and I believe you, but you aren’t telling us everything.”

I give him a guilty look. “I think she’s jealous of you.”

“It’s not that,” he says. “I think she’s worried about you. We all are. You want us to work with you to help you stay safe, but how can we if you won’t tell us what you know?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. My uncle won’t let anything happen to me.”

The bell rings, signaling that lunch is over. Journey kisses the top of my head, balls up all of our trash from lunch, and makes a long lob into a trash can. “Two points,” he says, flashing a brief smile. He gives me a quick hug and then heads off in one direction while I head off in another.





33

We have a joke in our business that forensic science is like climate change. There are those who believe it and then there are the people who think it’s a load of crap.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


Spam has always had strong opinions, so storming off at lunch isn’t exactly out of character for her. But the fact that she hasn’t answered my last ten text messages is a bad sign.

Lysa hasn’t answered, either.

My final class of the day is biology, which Spam and I share. She won’t be able to ignore me straight to my face. I’ll convince her to ditch class and go somewhere to talk everything out. I’ll even tell her about my theory about Chief Culson. Bio’s been a complete flush anyway. In two weeks, we’ve gone through four substitutes and eight movies. Yesterday the sub told us to work in small groups, which meant everybody just talked for the whole period. I’m sure today will be the same. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

But when I peek in the door to the classroom, I’m not prepared for what I see.

Victor is standing at the whiteboard, writing his name.

I step back and flatten my back against the wall. I’m trying to catch my breath when Spam sails past me into the room.

“Whoa.” She steps back into the hall to face me. “What’s he doing here?”

“I have no clue.” My face flames. It’s one thing to have a cool uncle who works at the FBI. It’s another to have someone who lives in your house teaching your class.

Since ditching is out of the question, I grab Spam’s arm and pull her in the door. Using her as a shield, I press her into the seat in front of me. Then I take out a large folder, prop it open on my desk, and prepare to hide for the entire class.

The bell rings, but barely half the class is even in the room. The rest of them straggle in slowly, talking and laughing and pushing one another. They slam their books on their desks and mill around the room. There’s an unwritten law that says students aren’t allowed to show respect to a substitute teacher. I keep my head down behind the folder.

I’d rather no one knows that Victor and I are related.

For the next forty-seven minutes, the class pays no attention to Victor. I sneak a peek over the top of my folder at his face and I see terror.

Victor might be an awesome forensic scientist, but he pretty much bombs as a high school teacher. There’s a knack to being just cool enough to make thirty high school students sit and pay attention, and he doesn’t have it.

He tries to appeal to their sense of reason. “Just because you don’t want to learn doesn’t mean the person next to you isn’t interested,” he attempts.

Yeah, except they know the person next to them isn’t interested.

He tries negotiating. “You give me what I want, which is for you to sit down and be quiet, and I won’t summon Principal Roberts.”

They don’t care. Bring him.

He tries threats. “Okay, that’s it. I’m taking names.” The entire class, except me, does exactly what they want for the whole period. And I’m guessing Victor—like most substitute teachers who venture into the high school system—won’t be back tomorrow.

In the wrong circumstances, one hour can feel like a week. Today’s biology class has dragged on forever. When the bell finally rings, Spam bolts out of her seat and heads for the door. I don’t even try to catch up with her.

Instead, I catch a ride home with Journey. I want to talk to him about the blowup with Spam, but there’s no time. He’s frantic over not being able to find his cell phone.

“I’m 100 percent certain that I put it in my locker after lunch,” he says. “And it’s not there.”