To Catch a Killer(69)

Trust is a very strange word.

Every day I do things I can’t tell Rachel about, and she does things that she can’t tell me about. I think I’m protecting her and she thinks she’s protecting me. For a brief moment, I consider confessing everything, including the box and the DNA/dad investigation that led me to find Miss P’s body. Getting it all out in the open would be transformative for me. I even think for a wild moment that Rachel will understand and want to help. But then I see the pain and longing in her face to rewrite history, and I decide not to go there.

I don’t know why she thinks I wouldn’t want her to date. If anything, it’s the exact opposite. I used to wish she would date just so she wouldn’t be so focused on me all the time. It’s not a good thing to be someone’s sun, moon, and stars. Rachel needs to spread that intensity around a little.

I slowly become aware that while I’ve been processing stuff in my head, she’s been waiting for me to say something back.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m good,” I say. “And I really think it’s great that you have someone—” I catch myself, almost saying “someone, too.” But she doesn’t seem to notice.

Her face brightens like the sun breaking through a thick bank of clouds. “You mean it? You won’t mind if I start dating someone … well, not someone.” She actually giggles. “Charles. You won’t mind if I start openly dating him?”

I don’t know what to think. I want to make Rachel happy but I still have a lot of unanswered questions about him. I choose my words carefully. “If he makes you happy, I’m happy.”

She giggles again and I’m struck by how I’ve never seen this side of Rachel before, which means she must really like him.

“I knew I could count on you, Erin. You are an amazing gem. My life wouldn’t be the same without you.” She looks at me for a minute, considering. “Now I need your help on an important decision.” She jumps up from the table and rushes off to her room. “Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”

She returns with an elegant black dress on a hanger and two pairs of shoes: one a pair of simple black pumps, and the other a pair of very high, strappy copper sandals with stiletto heels. She stands before me, eyes glistening. “We’re going to the opera in Portland tonight. Which shoes should I wear with this dress?”

Wow, high heels and the opera. This is so unlike Rachel I hardly know what to say. I’m drawn to the copper sandals because they’re sparkly. “I’ve never seen those before.”

“They’re Sydney’s. Aren’t they great? She let me borrow them. With the right jewelry, what do you think?”

I shake my head. “Go with the black. They’ll look classy and they’ll be more comfortable—look at the heel on those copper ones. Your feet will kill.”

Rachel sighs. “You’re right. I was willing to suffer for one night, but…” She opens the hall closet door and hangs the sandals on one of the hooks. “I’m going to take a bath and get ready. Charles is coming straight from the gym. He’ll shower and change here because we have a long drive.” She forms a sour face. “I’m hoping we can get out of here before my brother gets home. Will you be okay for dinner? There are leftovers in the fridge.”

“Don’t worry about me; I have homework to do. I’ll just take leftovers up to my room.” I pick up my bag and head for the stairs. Rachel stops and comes back.

“Oh, um. Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, what?”

“Can you work on your homework down here until after we leave? I want Charles to see that you really are okay having him around.”

I sigh. “Sure.”





34

The smallest lie will taint the truth.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


I’m sitting at the kitchen table, working my way through an e-mail from Lysa.

Manifesto would be a better word for it.

She says I need to patch things up with Spam. That I must call—not text—her. She’s included a list of talking points, all the things she thinks I need to say. She’s even outlined how I should say these things and what tone I should use.

Wow. She must think I’m a complete idiot.

I know how to patch things up with Spam. I just need her to understand that the evidence was really confusing and I wasn’t ready to talk about it at lunch. I can’t just blatantly accuse the chief of police of murder. If it turned out he didn’t do it, my credibility, and our evidence, would be shot … and if he did, well, he could probably silence all of us and make it look like an accident.

Victor strolls in the back door.

I hate to say it, but he has that beat-down dog look. His collar is open and his shirt is rumpled. He’s carrying his briefcase and a large brown shopping bag.

I take pity on him. “Subbing for a high school class is like getting tossed into a pit of snakes.”

“That was one tough room.” He dumps his stuff on the floor behind his chair and kicks it into the corner. I note how this is more like my behavior than Rachel’s. Victor rummages in the refrigerator and comes up with a soda.

“Trust me,” he says, joining me at the table. “If you took every piece of evidence that went down in flames after I swore to it in front of a jury … and then added every shred of data that I was convinced would reveal some important secret, but didn’t … if you rolled all of those disasters together, the resulting humiliation wouldn’t come close to what it felt like to stand in front of that classroom today.” He leans back, tipping the chair on two legs.