“Whaaat?” Lysa says. “The report called them boyfriends?”
“Actually, it just said she might have dated them.” The notion of my mother doing something normal like dating brings a soft smile to my lips. “So I figured—you know—one of these guys could be my DNA dad and not even know it.”
“Wow.” Lysa and Spam say it at exactly the same time.
“I know, right?”
“How did you find them?” Lysa asks.
“Did you see them? Did you talk to them?” Spam clearly craves every detail, which is so funny, because I was sure she’d be against me trying to find my father. “Do any of them look like you?”
“I only saw tiny glimpses, and no, I don’t think they look like me.” I tear off a strip of my napkin and curl it around my finger. “Miss P thought I shouldn’t get them involved unless we found a connection, but one was a boat captain who lives at the docks. Another was an artist who lives in that cute bungalow neighborhood on the south side. And the last one’s an accountant who lives near Miss P.”
“The boat captain would be great,” Spam says. “He would probably be adventurous and brave.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that when I spied on him, he was actually tired and a little drunk, which is how he ended up cutting his hand and I scored a bloody towel with his DNA.
“Yeah, but an artist,” Lysa says. “Your mom was a photographer, so I could totally see you having an artist for a dad. Think how awesome and romantic it would be to hang out in one of those bungalows.”
I don’t think Lysa would find the artist chain-smoking on his back porch to be very awesome or romantic, but I’ll save sharing that image with her for another day.
“So how are you going to figure out which one is your dad?” Spam asks.
“IF. It might be none of them. The plan was to find out by comparing their DNA with mine. I went by their houses late that night, when the trash was out at the curb for collection, and pulled out something that would have DNA on it. Miss P was going to run the test. It was a long shot, but at least I’d know.“I sit back in my chair, allowing the tension to drain out of me. It feels good to finally come clean about this with them. And for the first time in a couple of days, I’m hungry. The waitress brings our food and I steal some of Lysa’s fries.
“That’s a genius plan,” Spam says, spreading her pasta around the plate to cool it off.
“It is,” Lysa agrees. “Because taking things out of the trash at the curb isn’t against the law. But why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?”
“I didn’t know how I was going to feel about the results. If there was a match—or if there wasn’t. I was definitely planning to tell you the next day, but then the whole thing with Miss P happened.” Whole thing doesn’t even begin to describe the horror of that night or the realization that it will never be over. A glance at their sad faces tells me they don’t need or want any more specific details, though. So I’m happy I let it go at that.
“What if one of them killed her?” Lysa says.
I gasp. It’s not like I haven’t thought about that. But the last thing I want is to be responsible for what happened to Miss P.
“That’s impossible,” Spam says. “If all Erin did was go through trash, then none of them even saw her.”
I rest my elbows on the table and press my fingers against my eyelids. As much as I try to block them out, the gory kaleidoscope images from that night cut through. “I tried to be careful.”
“See,” Spam says. “She was careful.”
“No. She said she tried to be careful,” Lysa argues. She curls her hands into fists and rests them solidly on the table. “But look what happened anyway. This is why I keep saying we shouldn’t be messing around with all this DNA, CSI crap.”
“Hey, it’s not like Erin killed Miss P,” Spam argues.
“Maybe not,” Lysa says. “But what if she led one of those guys there and he got upset over his DNA being stolen and did something? And it was all because she wanted to play criminal investigator instead of leaving that stuff to the professionals.”
My voice is so small it’s nearly buried by the sounds of the lunch crowd. If only I could bury my guilt, too. “Just so you know, Miss P wanted this DNA project as much as I did, and it couldn’t have been one of the potential dads who hurt her because when I got there she was already…” I make a side slash with a shaky hand, which is easier than saying the actual words.
Spam crosses her arms over her chest. “So who killed her then?”
I shrug, palms up. “No clue.”
“My dad always says the most obvious choice is probably the right one. Which means it must have been Journey,” Lysa says.
“I’d go with that,” Spam says.
I can’t agree or disagree. I’m just not sure. “I-I don’t know.”
“It’s okay that you like him,” Spam says. “Serial killers are really popular. They get prison married and everything.”
“Stop it. I don’t even know him,” I say.
“We know you like him, though,” Lysa says, glancing at Spam.