“Awww,” I say.
Journey looks a little guilty. “Well, I also realized that I had dropped my hoodie and the toothbrush somewhere in the yard. So, this time, I pulled around back and parked in the alley. I wanted a clear view of the street and yard. As I walked around the side toward the front, my hoodie and toothbrush were still in the grass where I had dropped them. When I bent over to pick them up, I triggered the motion light. The light popped on and I saw everything: Erin and Miss Peters covered in blood. I just ran. I didn’t notice the strip of fabric on the floor of my van until I got home.”
I raise my finger to interject again. “A strip of fabric that came from the shirt my mother was wearing when she was killed.”
“That’s impossible,” Spam says.
“I know,” I say. “But it’s true. I have that shirt, in the box at my house.”
“Why would the person who murdered your mom want to hurt Miss P?” Lysa asks, her voice thick with sadness.
They all look to me as if I have the answer. I wish.
“That’s what we have to figure out,” Journey says.
“What’s weird is how the tie binds you together,” Lysa says. “Without it you two wouldn’t have any connection at all.”
My stomach flip-flops. The situation sucks rocks, but having a connection to Journey is a definite plus. “We were there at the same time,” I say. “Which I’ll admit is also weird.”
“What’s the next move?” Spam asks.
“Right now we’re going to Journey’s house so I can thoroughly go through his van. I’ll be looking for fingerprints, hair, fibers, anything I can find.”
Spam squints. “Didn’t the police already do that?”
“They did,” Journey says. “But they were basically looking for evidence they could use against me. I’m counting on our little Sherlock here to find something they missed.”
He gently nudges my shoulder, sending my nerve endings into a frenzy. Is it my imagination or is he flirting with me? The table goes silent as they all look to me. Meanwhile, I’m geeking out over a stupid shoulder nudge.
“I … um, it looked like they only dusted the door handle and the steering wheel. I’m planning to go over it more carefully.”
“What do you want us to do?” Lysa asks.
“We need to pull together a view of everything Miss P was doing and everyone she talked to before she was killed. Spam, can you get her phone records?”
She shrugs. “Most people are pretty lame about passwords. I’m guessing I can hack her account. Cell phone, right?”
“Yes. I’ll text you her number,” I say.
Spam gives me a mock salute. “I’m on it.”
“What about me?” Lysa asks.
“Your dad told me not to worry,” Journey says. “But he said that to my father, too. And I know how that turned out. If you think there’s something I should worry about, will you tell me? I don’t want to get blindsided.”
Lysa flutters her hands nervously. “I can’t mess with my father’s files. There are all kinds of laws about that, and if I got caught it would make things a lot worse for you.”
“You don’t need to touch his files or take anything,” Journey says. “Just listen, snoop around, and report back.”
Lysa smiles. “I’m an awesome snoop.”
“Anything else?” Spam asks.
I catch a glimpse of Principal Roberts. He’s standing in his usual post by the parking lot, but instead of watching students leave, he’s staring at us.
“Yeah. We need to keep all of this away from Mr. Roberts.… I know he cares and he’s trying to look out for me, but he’s a direct narc line to Rachel. So this has to stay between us.”
“Got it,” Spam says.
“I’ll send everyone an e-mail tonight to let you know what we find in the van.”
“Okay.”
Spam and Lysa gather their stuff while I clean up the trash from the table. Journey is waiting for me to finish. “Text me your address and I’ll meet you at your place,” I say.
He hedges, shifting from one foot to the other. “It’ll be better if I drive you.”
We pretend not to notice the look Spam and Lysa share.
17
This won’t sound very scientific, but you should never overlook the importance of being yourself in high school.
—MISS P
“I don’t mind riding with you,” I say while nervously torturing the strap on my bag. “But I have my scooter.” I’m also freaked out about being alone in a car with you because my hands will sweat like a kitchen sponge and my throat will close like a clogged drain—but of course I’m not going to tell you that.
“I can fit your scooter in the back of the van,” Journey says. “I’ll pick you up in front at the Green Area.” He lopes off toward the parking lot.
“Okay.” I hope he doesn’t live too far away. And it’s not like this is a date or anything, but I fail at keeping one-on-one conversations going with boys, and my best friends know this. Spam and Lysa walk me to the Green Area.