To Catch a Killer(7)

Usually I pretend I’m telling the truth and Rachel pretends to believe me, even though I’m sure she really doesn’t. In the end, we agree I won’t do the things that worry her, like sneaking out of the house, and she won’t nail me to the wall with punishments. We keep it very civilized. But today is different. Neither of us is pretending in quite the same way.

“I was wearing gloves,” I say, adding an indignant tone, as though I only did what anyone else would’ve done.

“You understand the problem, right? If you know more than you’re saying, they’re going to find out. Sydney is probably testing that bloody towel right now.”

“She doesn’t have the equipment to test blood. The best she can do is to send it to the FBI. They won’t get the results for at least a week. Probably more.”

“How do you know that?” Rachel adjusts her sweater, wrapping the fabric tighter around her neck. Her expression is a combination of scared and proud.

“How do you think? Uncle Victor’s books.”

“I can’t believe you’ve actually read those gory things.” At least now Rachel’s “the world’s gone mad” look isn’t all about me.

“And I can’t believe you haven’t. He sends us autographed copies.”

Miss P might have introduced me to forensics, but the blow-by-blow instructions came directly from my uncle’s books.

“Those books exploit the tragedy of real people,” Rachel says, slapping the table. “You shouldn’t put my brother on a pedestal like that.”

“Solving crime is his job.”

“No. Your grandfather was a police detective. He solved crimes.”

“My grandfather?” I force one eyebrow into a higher arch than the other. It might be mean, but sometimes Rachel needs to be reminded that we’re not actually related by blood.

She makes a pruney face. “Don’t get smart. He was the only grandfather you ever knew.” She tightens her jaw, which makes her voice sound strained. “What my brother does is process evidence to be used in court, and that’s different. Trust me. Dad was never thrilled about Victor going with the FBI instead of the police academy.”

I know I won’t win this argument, but I still have to try. “If you had read even one of his books you would understand why Uncle Victor does what he does. He does it for the survivors and the families of the victims. He believes they deserve to know the truth about what happened to the ones they loved.” I let that statement hang there for a minute, leaving the obvious unsaid. Uncle Victor believes the survivors deserve to know all of the things Rachel thinks I should ignore.

She starts to interrupt but I hold up a finger, keeping her silent for one more second. “He does it because he believes that in all cases, good should triumph over evil.” I sit back in my chair. There, let her deal with that.

Rachel’s face turns to stone. “After what you’ve been through, Victor’s books are not appropriate reading material for you. Case closed!” Then she turns her attention to cleaning out her purse, a signal that our discussion is over.

I fume silently. Maybe someday she’ll understand that I am not a case. I can’t be closed.

“I have to go in to work for a couple of hours. You—”

“I know. Stay here.”

She opens the back door and pauses with her hand on the knob. “Should I put in a call to Dr. Engle?”

“No more therapists.” I add wide, laser eyes. “Unless you’re willing to open up and gut it out with me.”

Rachel leaves the door standing open and comes back to give me an awkward hug. Awkward because she’s five foot four and I’m five foot eight. I bend my knees to make it easier for her. “I’m sorry. I simply can’t relive all of that again,” she says. “I wish I could wave a magic wand and make you understand that none of the past has anything to do with who you are.”

And I wish I could make her understand that she’s wrong. It has everything to do with who I am.

“No worries, Rach. We’re good,” I say.

“We’re better than good.” She gives me a pat on the cheek. “Lock the door, okay?”





5

Most people believe that forensic evidence is the ironclad truth but they’re ignoring the fact that it’s handled by humans.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


Back in my room, I sink into bed and wrap a pile of blankets around me like flotation devices. When I was little we tried a bunch of things to jump-start my memory, including therapy and hypnosis, even acupuncture. Doctors said there was a chance I could remember the murder one day. But that never happened.

For my part, I just wanted to remember something—anything—about my mother.

I’ve read the report describing her cold, stiff body, lying on her back in an area of blood the size of a child’s swimming pool. They believed she had been dead for three days. Apparently the trail of my footprints, stamped in blood, told them how I survived three days alone by raiding the low shelves of the refrigerator and drinking toilet water. Two-year-old me, terrified, hungry, and dehydrated, but left alive, by whom and for what reason? The report is hard enough for me to stomach all these years later. Rachel was hit with the real deal. Who wouldn’t want to forget that?