I break away and race toward the back door. It’s the quickest route to the kitchen. I sprint up the stairs and turn the knob.
Rachel’s at the table, clinging to a coffee mug like it’s the last life preserver on the Titanic. Her eyes are rimmed red; dark shadows exaggerate the hollows of her cheekbones. Is this exhaustion or tear-streaked mascara? I can’t tell.
I walk straight up to her, emotion bottled in my throat. I turn my palms up. How could she let this happen?
“Sit down,” she says. “Sydney will explain.”
I glare at the three police officers prowling our living room. They systematically open every drawer, fan through every stack of magazines, and inspect every pile of mail. Two more officers tromp down the stairs carrying more stuff from my bedroom. My freaking room.
I haven’t done anything. How are they even allowed up there? Don’t I have any rights?
I thump into the chair next to Rachel. My foot taps air, shaking the table. But I don’t care. Sydney wanders in from the front door and heads in our direction. She stops to oversee the snooping officers along the way.
By the time she joins us at the table, I’m practically coming out of my skin.
“Syd, this is freaking me out. It’s like you’re looking for the murder weapon or something.” I say it as a bad joke but Sydney and Rachel exchange the look of doom.
Sydney reaches into her bag.
“We have that.” She removes a plastic evidence bag from her purse and carefully lays it on the table.
It’s so thin, barely a mound where her fingers rest as she pushes the bag across the table at me. I expect to catch the glint of something sinister like a shiny metal scalpel or a flat hand-sharpened stake. My lungs practically collapse when Sydney lifts her fingers and I see it’s … a nail file. This thing is eight inches long and three-quarters of an inch wide. It’s made of hardened glass with a grinding surface that’s guaranteed to last forever and a tip that tapers to a very wicked point. It’s a completely stylish implement of ragged nail destruction. But I can see how it could also be a very deadly murder weapon.
I suck in a tattered breath. “My nail file?”
“So, you confirm that it is yours?” Sydney’s eyes shift to Rachel. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip.
I look from one to the other. I couldn’t deny it even if I wanted to. My name’s painted on the handle in huge, purple letters, embellished with fairy wings. Not my taste but it was a party favor from Lysa’s birthday. “Just because you found it in my room…”
“That’s the problem, Erin, we didn’t find it in your room,” Sydney says, letting implication hang in her silence. “And you were there at Miss Peters’s house.”
“What about Journey Michaels? He was there, too.”
“Erin, I believe you saw someone. I do,” Sydney says. “I also believe you thought it was someone you knew. But we haven’t found a speck of anything tying the Michaels kid to the crime scene.”
My heart pauses for a moment, lurching awkwardly out of my chest like a baby bird leaving the nest for the very first time. “Wait. What?”
“The Michaels kid, we’ve got nothing on him.”
“You’re saying he’s clear?”
“For the moment.” Sydney’s look seems to question whether it will stay that way.
“And I’m not?” Anger swells, crowding my rib cage.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what to think,” Sydney says. “But so far, the only evidence we’ve found at the scene is yours.”
“Of course my evidence is there, I found her, remember?”
Sydney makes a calming gesture. “I know you found her, I just think there are things you haven’t told us yet.”
Oh crap. The box!
“Is Erin a suspect?” Rachel asks, twining her fingers with mine. I squeeze back hard. If they found it, they haven’t told Rachel yet. She’s way too calm and sad. If she knew she’d be furious.
“It just happened so fast … I…” I start to explain.
“I’m sure everything about that night is a blur,” Sydney says. “Which is why I do not want you to discuss any of this with anyone. Understand?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Good. Now, tell me about the bag in the mailbox.”
Oh my god … the stupid DNA samples! Here I’m worrying about the box and she’s focused on things that don’t matter.
“Syd, I can explain. It was just a bunch of random trash—DNA.” I’m trying to focus on her, but I’m distracted by all three of the officers tromping down the stairs from my room.
“I hope you’re telling the truth, because we’re sending it off to be processed,” Sydney says.
One of the officers leans in the door. He’s got a white file box tucked under his arm. “We got it.”
I stop breathing. Oh no. There it goes. No. No. It’s way too soon.
Sydney looks from me to Rachel. “Don’t worry, guys. I’ll get this straightened out.”
Me, worry? Ha! I’m a bottomless sinkhole of worry. And then I’m not, because, like the therapist always said, this is completely out of my control. They’re taking my stuff and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I stand up. “And then what?”