9
What’s really important about investigating a murder is finding the truth. Sometimes it will seem like you’re the only one who cares about that part other than the family of the victim.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
The area at the bottom of the cafeteria stairs gets a lot of foot traffic during lunch. The fact that Spam and I are engaged in a mild tug-of-war over the sleeve of my jacket in this spot attracts even more attention. She’s trying to pull me away from the spotlight, while I want to walk straight over to the quad and confront Journey Michaels right where he sits.
Finally, I pull away from her and when I turn, there’s Journey Michaels standing right in front of me. Towering over me, actually, with fists clenched and a murderous look on his face.
I have no words.
He stares into my eyes, long and hard, a twisted scowl marring his face. The crowd, hungry for a confrontation, closes in. I flinch as he brings up his fist and flings something right at me. A thin string of white and blue fabric hits me in the chest. “I think you dropped this,” he says, nearly spitting his words.
A couple of friends from his team haul him away before he can say more.
It wouldn’t matter. I’m too stunned to move or speak. My fingers close around the string. I open them and stare at it, trying to focus on the print. Small. Blue and white. It can’t be, right? It just can’t.
I’m barely aware of Spam and Lysa guiding me to the office because I’m silently freaking out. My ears buzz. My vision swims. Nothing makes any sense. Spam’s prattling on, nonstop.
“Huh?” It’s all I can think to say.
“You’re not listening to me,” Spam says. “I’m trying to tell you you’re a witness and that’s dangerous, mama.”
Lysa squeezes my hand. “Go home and rest and try not to think about it.”
But the fury on Journey Michaels’s face and this stupid strip of fabric are all I can think about.
I wait out in the hall to see Mr. Roberts, nervously winding the strip of fabric around my fingers while he deals with irate parents. I try to listen through the door but I can’t hear much, just raised voices.
As the parents leave his office, their wary eyes and stony faces broadcast their unhappiness. It’s not hard to guess that they don’t want their kids in the same class with a killer.
Several of the adults recognize me. I catch the nudges between them and clock how their expressions suddenly drip with pity.
When I finally get in to see Mr. Roberts, he overflows with concern. “What happened?” He comes around the desk and perches on the edge, hovering over me. He’s so worried, I stop nervously fiddling with the fabric and shove it down into my purse. I need him to let me go home. I have to check this out. Now.
“You were right. It was too soon,” I say.
“I’m sending you home.” He scribbles out a pass. “I’d drive you there myself but there’s another group of vigilante parents on their way.” He presses the pass into my hand and shoos me toward the door. I stop and look back. His face is etched with worry but he mimes a tight layup shot anyway. I offer a grim smile in response and slip out.
My mood is lighter as I leave the campus. For just one second I pretend that everything’s okay and there is no more bad news coming and nothing terrible is about to happen. I turn down my street and make it almost to my driveway before I notice the police cars: two of them, parked on the lawn. A third one, a van, blocks the driveway.
Our front door, which Rachel and I never use, stands wide open at the top of the stairs. A team of officers goes in and out. The dead space inside me becomes an icy brick. I ramp the scooter over the curb and dump it at the edge of the yard, racing for the house.
A police officer comes down carrying a box. We meet mid-stairs. I move right, he blocks left. He jogs right, I move left.
“Hey. Whoa,” he says.
“Excuse me. I need to get through.”
Sydney appears above on the landing.
“Rachel?” My voice is barely human. I need to know and yet I’m terrified to know.
“She’s fine,” Sydney says, pointing toward the house. “She’s in the kitchen.”
The officer manages to get past me. I glance in the box. It’s filled with my stuff: clothes and shoes. My laptop is sticking up. I whirl and follow him.
“Hey, that’s mine!”
He holds the box out of my reach. I leap up, trying to grab it. “Step back, miss,” he orders. “We have a warrant.”
“That’s my computer.”
Sydney’s fingers bite into my arm. “Erin. Stop.”
“Why are you doing this? I told you everything.”
“I know,” she says. “Come inside, I’ll explain.”
Sydney holds me back. The officer steps around me and loads the box into the police van.
“Make him stop and I will.”
“I can’t do that. He’s doing his job. And you need to let me do mine.”