I need to say something but I can’t seem to dredge up a new lie.
“Come on. We helped you steal it, and if that box caused what happened with Miss Peters, you can bet we’re going to get grilled about it.” Lysa’s voice gets higher and louder, a clear sign that she’s starting to panic.
“Miss Peters was murdered by a person, not a box. No one even knows I have it. I promise.”
“Erin, my father’s a criminal attorney. I know all the ways that this can go wrong for us,” Lysa says.
“Where’s the box now?” Spam asks.
“It’s in a safe place,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Maybe you should give it to one of us,” Spam says. “For safekeeping.”
“No!” My tone is sharp and nonnegotiable. The box is mine. I’m keeping it. “It’s fine where it is.”
“Where exactly is it?” Lysa asks. “Since we’re involved, I think we should know.”
I push away from the table so fast I bang the chair against the wall. “I should be resting.” I manage a shaky half smile. “Rachel agrees that I probably have PTSD. Don’t worry about the box; it’s hidden in a place where no one would think to look.”
I stand like I’m going to walk them to the door. Spam and Lysa rise and ease in that direction, but then Lysa turns back for one more question.
“When did you first suspect there was something weird about Journey Michaels?”
“Huh?” I freeze, and the image of him walking past the interrogation room door leaps to my mind. Pale and sullen, his hands cuffed behind him. “I never suspected anything about him. Why?”
“Because isn’t it weird that just yesterday you were watching him?” Spam says.
“The same day he killed Miss Peters and you found her body,” Lysa adds.
“Allegedly,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking. “You can’t say he did it. Not yet.”
Lysa and Spam exchange a tight-lipped frown that suggests there’s something seriously deranged about what I just said, but I’m done talking for the day.
“I need to lie down.” I wait quietly while they slip back out the door. Then I flip the lock behind them and race up the stairs to my bedroom, bringing the Cheater Check bags with me.
6
If you want to spot a liar, just remember that concealing the truth is like swallowing a slow-acting poison. It might take a while, but it will get them in the end.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
I check the time and wonder how long I have before Rachel will be home. I can’t risk her catching me with the box, so I usually restrict my time with it to when she’s working a night shift or after she’s gone to sleep.
In a true example of Rachel’s love for all things police-related, she’s the supervisor of our 911 emergency call center. Her usual hours are 7:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. But if someone calls in sick she has to cover their shift. Today she said she would only be there a few hours.
I send her a quick text. I THOUGHT YOU’D BE HOME FOR LUNCH.
While I wait for her reply, I’m already prepping my bedroom.
I close the door and shove a thick three-ring binder into the gap between the bottom of the door and the carpet. With the door secured, I roll my desk chair into the roomy walk-in closet. Then I stand on the chair to reach a small knot of rope that blends in with the murky old plaster ceiling.
Pulling gently on the rope releases a wide trapdoor, and a sturdy wooden stairway unfolds from the attic. My phone vibrates with Rachel’s reply. GO AHEAD AND EAT. I’M STUCK HERE ANOTHER TWO HOURS.
Two whole hours!
Relieved, I fly up the wooden steps that emerge into the middle of a huge attic that spans both my bedroom and the guest bedroom next door.
It’s pitch-dark up here even in the middle of the day because I’ve covered the small round window at the peak in the roof. Rachel never comes up here, but just to be on the safe side, I’ve staged it to look like I don’t come up here, either. I shifted most of the boxes to the guest room side. Then along the stairs on my side, I’ve carefully arranged a pile of boxes, trunks, suitcases, tarps, and rolled-up rugs to act as a screen. If anyone sticks their head up here they’ll think there’s nothing to see on the other side of this pile but more junk and storage.