Spam shakes her head, stands up from my desk, and gives me a quick hug. “I have to go. Hungry monsters await.” Spam moves toward the camera and her face fills the screen. “Make her listen.”
While Spam packs up her tools, Lysa knits her fingers together and straightens her shoulders. “Here’s the problem, Erin. When you get like this, we’re not sure if you need stern words or facts.”
I choke on her words. “Get like what? What are you talking about?”
Lysa leans close to the camera, her hands imitating the shape of a small box. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”
I glance over at Spam, who suddenly refuses to make eye contact. “Is this about the box, Journey Michaels, or investigating the murder?” I refuse to hide my irritation.
“It’s about all of it and keeping you safe,” Lysa insists. “That box got you into this, and as for Journey, well, Spam has already given you sufficient information—”
Oh my god. Really? Sufficient information? Lysa is channeling her mother.
“Lighten up with the psychobabble,” I say.
Lysa huffs. “It’s not psychobabble.”
“Maybe not when your mom says it. She’s a trained therapist. But you’re just … nosy and butting in.”
As Spam grabs her bag and heads for the door, I slam the laptop closed and go after her. “Spam, wait.”
She stops at the top of the stairs and tosses me a loaner cell phone. “I’m speed dial numero uno,” she says.
I follow her. “Yeah? I hope you keyed your name in as Loca because that’s what I look up when I want to call you.” With a grin, she flips me off over her shoulder. I follow her into the kitchen. She pauses at the back door.
“What do you guys want me to do?” I ask.
“Tell Rachel everything so they’ll lock Journey Michaels up and you’ll be safe,” she says.
“But—”
“Just do it,” she says.
“I’ll think about it.” She gives me a hug and slips out the back door. But I’ve already made my decision. They don’t know about that strip of fabric, and how all of this circles back to my mother’s murder. I’m not saying anything until I figure out what the connection is.
15
Every murderer has a tell, and where it usually shows up is in their unorganized behaviors.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
I roll through morning classes on autopilot because all I can think about is how everything has changed. Before I know it, it’s time for lunch.
When Spam and Lysa arrive to hijack me from my spot on the cafeteria stairs, I’m waiting for them … with Journey Michaels in tow.
Spam gives me a half laugh, but poor Lysa’s eyes are about to fall out of her head.
I get it. Journey looks especially cute today. His snug sweater shows off his abs, and the dark gray color sets his eyes to stun.
“We need to talk.” Let them try and say this is all about Journey with him sitting right there.
Spam doesn’t look happy about my surprise lunch guest, but she turns and heads down the stairs with a motion for us to follow. She leads us to what is becoming our favorite table behind the cafeteria.
Clearly I didn’t think this through in advance. With only two sides to the table, I’m not sure where to sit. I busy myself brushing leaves and dirt off the benches to avoid picking a side. Spam and Lysa settle it by sliding in next to each other.
I offer Journey a shy smile and take a seat opposite them. Then he sits down next to me. We leave a noticeable space between us.
“So, the rumor must be true, huh?” Spam says.
Confused, I glance at Journey.
Spam waves her index finger between us. “That you two are now…” She wraps two fingers tightly together.
Journey and I squirm.
“No,” he says.
“Nothing like that,” I say at the same time.
“Really. Did you not cut class together earlier this week?” Spam’s mouth twists into a smirk. I forgot how addicted she is to gossip. Inquiring minds definitely want to know.
“We did. But it’s not what you think,” I say.
“I hope so,” Lysa says. “Because you two getting together after Miss Peters’s murder is creepy.” Lysa retrieves a sandwich from her bag and nibbles on one corner of it.
“We actually only met two days ago.” I glance at Journey.
“Really, only two days ago?” A slow, simmering fury builds up in Spam. “Should I mark that on my love calendar? Because yesterday you let us lecture you on what a lurker he is and never told us you were seeing him.”
“Who says I’m a lurker?” Journey says.
“We’re not seeing each other,” I say at the same time. “But we have figured out that together we have information we didn’t have separately.”
I’m relieved that Spam is dressed sedately. I need Journey to take her seriously. She’s her usual impatient self, though, patting her hand on the table for me to get to the point. “Like what?” she says.