“You say that, but the things in the box give us an advantage.” I glance at Journey. “Do you think the police would have ever matched up what you found with what I have?”
To his credit, Journey doesn’t even blink. “Of course not. All they want to do is pin the crime on the first person they can. Which, if that detective has her way, will be one or both of us. She even said so.”
Lysa and Spam share concerned looks.
“Yeah, someone’s trying to make it look like Erin and I murdered Miss P … together.”
“It gets worse.” I reach my hands across the table to Lysa and Spam. “What we found links Miss Peters’s murder to my mom’s.”
Spam sits forward. “Define linked?”
“As in the same person,” Journey says.
Spam shakes her head. “That’s impossible. It’s been…”
“Fourteen years.” And every single one of them feels like a scar on my heart. “The killer—man or woman, we don’t know—who left my mother lying in a pool of blood did the exact same thing to Miss Peters.”
Lysa gnaws at a cuticle. Even Spam and Journey take a minute to stare at the scratches and chipped paint on the table.
I get it, we’re all hurting for Miss P and she’s the only person who would be willing to help us unravel this. But I also forget how uncomfortable it is for normal people to talk about these things. I’ve been dealing with words like blood, murder, and dead for so long I have a callus on that part of my soul.
“Alright. What do you need?” Spam asks, her voice thick with emotion.
“More information, for starters,” I say.
“Fine,” Spam agrees.
“I’m there,” Lysa says.
Lunch bell rings. Perfect timing.
“Let’s meet here after school to plan this out,” I say.
Everyone mumbles their agreement as we get up from the table. Lysa and Spam head off in one direction. Journey and I stand there for a minute, then he hands me a torn-off slip of notebook paper. “Here’s my cell phone number and e-mail address.” He shrugs. “I just thought, you know. In case you need to get in touch with me.”
“Great. Perfect.” I fumble with my bag. “I should give you my contact info, too.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets and turns, calling back over his shoulder, “Just text me … or e-mail,” he says. “Then I’ll have it.”
I watch him move off and blend into the crowd heading for their classes.
I tingle at the sight of the scrap of paper in my hand. Journey Michaels just gave me his phone number.
It takes an extreme amount of restraint not to Snoopy dance on the spot, because that would be a complete dork move. Instead, I toss my hair back off of my face, turn, and head to class.
It doesn’t help that I momentarily forgot which class I’m supposed to be heading to and so I’m walking in the opposite direction. I keep walking until I’m sure that Journey is out of sight before turning back and hustling to beat the tardy bell.
16
Chain of custody is critical to insure that the evidence of a crime is true and hasn’t been tampered with.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
The last bell rings and I race to the student store to pick up some drinks and snacks before heading to our meeting place. I sent Journey a text, as he instructed. It was just a brief “see ya later.” As I pass the basketball courts I catch sight of him hanging out with a couple of his teammates. A cheerleader is listening intently to what he’s saying and rubbing his shoulder in a consoling way.
So I guess I didn’t turn him into a pariah, after all. And for that I’m a mix of happy and some other emotion I’d rather not inspect too closely.
Spam and Lysa are waiting at the table. But instead of their usual nonstop chatting, they look like strangers waiting for a bus. The only signs of life are Lysa’s eyeballs, nervously sliding between Spam and the basketball courts, and Spam’s thumbs, scrolling and clicking through her phone.
I slide onto the bench opposite them and deposit the snacks and drinks in the middle of the table.
My phone pings. I pull it out of my pocket. A shiver races through me at the sight of Journey’s name. “He’s on his way.”
There Spam and Lysa go again.
Lately, they share a secret look over everything I say.
I get it. Me getting a text from Journey Michaels is a pretty big deal. At another time this would have been cause for much squealing and flailing arms. They don’t seem particularly happy, though.
Lysa looks at Journey. “He’s trying to tear himself away from some cheerleaders.”
I glance over. The one cheerleader has multiplied into three. It’s practically a pageant. They’re each giving him a parting hug. I turn back to smile at Spam and Lysa. We used to laugh about this stuff all the time. Now it looks like I’m facing a firing squad.
Journey arrives, taking the seat next to me. “Did you get my text?”
The way he asks is so casual it flusters me. My face burns with embarrassment, so I skip over his question and dive right in. “Let’s go over the night Miss Peters was murdered just to get everybody straight on what happened.”