To Catch a Killer(8)

Now I have a grasp on what she’s been dealing with all these years.

It’s hard, but I can read about my mother’s death scene because I don’t remember it. But I’m afraid the vision of Miss Peters, arms outstretched and golden curls floating on top of a seeping red sea, has become a permanent scar.

I even understand Rachel’s constant fear for me.

When I was ten, she sat me down and explained how the man who killed my mother had never been caught. Her tone was comforting, but her words were very blunt. He’s still out there walking around. He could be watching you every day and we would never know. He could come after you at any time. It was the most difficult and terrifying conversation of my life.

To keep me safe when she wasn’t around, Rachel actually gave me my first training in forensics. She taught me to pay attention to details by constantly reminding me to think about where I was and whom I was with. Over time my eyes became like a camera and my brain a recorder. I learned to speak less and listen more. I didn’t just think about my mother’s killer, I obsessed over him. Is he tall? Short? Mean? Nice? Old? Young? He could be any man walking down the street.

Someone pounding on the back door startles me out of my thoughts. I throw off the covers and slip down the stairs, cautiously scanning gaps in the front curtains for a familiar car in the driveway. I relax when I see a sliver of red.

I unlock the back door and Spam shoots through the opening with the speed of an alien popping out of a corpse. She’s wearing a short, puffy vest that’s gray and clear. Looking closer, I realize she made it out of duct tape and Bubble Wrap. She flings her arms around my neck and hugs me so hard that one whole side of her vest explodes. She doesn’t let go, even as I stumble backward into the kitchen. Our other friend, Lysa, steps in quietly behind her and closes the door.

Of the three of us, Lysa is the one who looks like she just stepped off the page of a magazine. She always wears a pair of crisply pressed designer jeans paired with hoodies, tanks, Vans sneakers, and socks that all color-coordinate. Today she’s decked out in five different shades of teal, which nicely complements her flawless, golden-brown skin.

I pry one of my arms out of Spam’s iron grasp and hold it out toward Lysa. She joins us in a quick group hug.

“You heard?” I ask.

Spam pulls back and squints, inspecting me all over.

“I’m okay.” I break from the hug and move toward a chair at the table. Lysa joins me, nervously gnawing on a cuticle.

Spam heads for the refrigerator. “We would’ve been here sooner but they had us in an assembly all morning.”

“Grief squad?” I ask.

Lysa slides her hands down the side of her face, dragging her skin into an exaggerated, sad look.

“They brought us all to the auditorium and just dropped the news on us.” Spam moves things around in the fridge.

“I still don’t believe it,” Lysa says.

Spam settles on a tub of spicy hummus and a bag of baby carrots, bringing them to the table. “Oh.” She stops and digs around in each of her pockets. “Before I forget, I know the timing sucks but we got a Cheater Check this morning.” She pulls two small Ziploc bags out of her back pocket and slides them across the table. “Hair analysis.”

Cheater Checks is a little side business we run. My obsession with forensics started by reading my Uncle Victor’s books. Following his detailed descriptions I taught myself the basics, how to lift fingerprints and analyze hair. Then freshman year I entered a chromatography test in the science fair comparing different shades and brands of lipstick. About that same time, we had a friend who thought her boyfriend was cheating on her. We tried the lipstick chromatography test on his shirt and proved it! Word got around about what we could do and people were willing to pay us to do it for them. So, we combined my forensic skills with Spam’s computer savvy and Lysa’s profiling ability and our little underground business was born.

We take on all kinds of jobs for our friends at school, like outwitting spying parents and neutralizing brothers and sisters who like to snoop. But we get the most requests for Cheater Checks—girlfriends and boyfriends who want proof they’re dating cheaters.

I hold up the bags. Inside each one is a single blond hair about five inches long. One bag is labeled with the letter B, the other reads TRAMP. I shake my head. “Brianna found a random hair in Mark’s car again?”

Spam chuckles. “I think this one came from inside his jacket.”

“How will you do this without Miss P to let you into the lab on Monday?” Lysa says.

I roll my head from side to side, contemplating the changes I know are coming. “It’s okay. I can do it here.”

“How?” Lysa asks. “Don’t you need a—”

“Microscope? Yeah. I have one up…” I catch myself. “Anyway, I can do it.” I set the bags aside and grab another orange out of the bowl.

Spam curls one leg under her on the chair. “What were you doing at Miss Peters’s?”

“Yeah, why didn’t you call us?” Lysa asks.

“Or text us … or IM us … or FaceTime us?” Spam adds.

I freeze. I’m not ready to talk about last night. I need more time to get everything straight in my own head. “How’d you even know I was there?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Spam crunches a carrot. “You being there is all over school.” She pops the last bite into her mouth.