Journey shrugs. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “She wanted to teach high school science classes and run a crime lab part-time.”
“I’m pretty sure that not having a crime lab is the whole reason my mother’s murder has never been solved.” I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth. I usually like to get to know someone a little before dumping my notorious past into their lap. Journey surprises me by not having the typical reaction.
“I hear ya. My dad probably wouldn’t be a convicted murderer right now, either.” He gives me a sheepish look.
“Wait. What?” I study his face.
“You didn’t know?” He squares his shoulders. “I don’t talk about it much, but yeah, my dad’s in prison for murdering a sixteen-year-old runaway.”
“You’re kidding!”
“He was sentenced when I was four. So far he’s refused to let me visit until I turn eighteen, which means I barely remember what he looked like then and I have no clue what he looks like now.”
“Man. That’s tough.”
“Especially since my mom completely lives for the day she can get him a new trial. That’s what the toothbrush was for. Miss Peters was going to try to grab some of his DNA from it.”
“But your dad’s still alive. Why don’t you collect a fresh sample straight from him?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Journey’s gaze becomes distant, as if he’s looking straight through me. “Here’s the thing, there are only two ways for my father to get a new trial. One of those ways is if his DNA doesn’t match what was collected at the crime scene.”
“And?” From the defeated sag in Journey’s shoulders I know there’s more to this story.
“And the attorney and my mom don’t want to try for the DNA defense.”
“Why?” This makes no sense.
“Because.” Journey looks away again. “What if his DNA does match? Then there’s no hope for anything else. At least if they try for a procedural error in the first trial there’s a glimmer of hope.”
“Wow. That’s a tough situation.”
“Yeah. It’s not like you see on TV where everything goes in order and the good guys win in the end. This game has a lot of rules that make no sense.”
“But you’re worried that his DNA would match the crime scene?”
“No.” Journey sets his jaw. “I’m one hundred percent certain that it won’t. Testing the toothbrush was Miss Peters’s idea. She said we would just go slow and take it one step at a time.”
“She was amazing,” I say.
Journey offers a wide shrug. “I don’t know about you, but my dad is screwed without her.”
Screwed doesn’t begin to describe the loss. It’s a bottomless sensation, as if there’s nothing that will ever stop the sadness pouring out of me.
Grief radiates off of Journey, too. He pretends to stare at the hair on the back of his hand; not exactly depraved killer behavior.
“Couldn’t Miss P have taken DNA from both you and your mom…”
“And then subtracted hers to figure out his?” Journey says. “Long story. He’s my dad, just not my biological dad. And besides, my mom’s backing the lawyer’s position of not wanting to get his DNA on file. I was risking a lot going along with Miss P. But I trusted her.”
I always had a sense that Journey and I shared things in common. It’s weird to discover how right I was.
“Anyway,” Journey says, snapping back to earth. “What was so life and death that you had to tell me?”
I study his face for a long moment. What I’m about to do requires a huge leap of faith and trust that I haven’t given to anyone. I ignore the tardy bell ringing in the distance. “Actually I need to show it to you … at my house.”
“Now?” he asks.
“This is more important than class. Trust me.”
“It better be, because for the record, I don’t trust anybody.” He sticks the key in the ignition and cranks it. The van sputters and wheezes through a couple of tries until it finally catches.
“Yeah. That makes two of us,” I say.
12
A crime-scene tech must process each layer methodically or he risks contaminating the entire scene.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
Journey guides the van toward the nearest parking lot exit.
“Turn right,” I say, offering directions to my house.
He flashes a brilliant, if slightly embarrassed, smile. “This is going to sound sketchy, but I actually do know where you live.”
“You do?” I slide down in my seat and wrap my hoodie tighter around me. “I didn’t think you even knew who I was.”
“Well, after you had me handcuffed and questioned for killing Miss Peters I figured I’d better check you out. You know, The Art of War, ‘know your enemy.’ By the way, that whole thing with your mom really sucks.”
“Wait, I’m your enemy?” I’m surprised by the deep ache that creates in me.
“You were that night for sure.” He shrugs. “At the moment the jury’s still out.”
“Okay, but seriously. You were in my room last night? Right?”
“I said no. Why do you keep asking?”
“Because someone was.”
“Someone in your family, maybe?” he asks.
“No. Trust me. It was much creepier.”