“Probably the police,” Spam says.
“Maybe,” I say, but I’m thinking, Not really. The mess they left in my room was methodical. This is haphazard.
I wander toward the back of the room. “This stuff is new.”
Stuck in a big jumble with everything else is a small centrifuge and a plain box made of clear acrylic with a black and red electrical wire coming out of it. There are also bottles of gels and dyes, gel trays, and a small light box.
Bam! “Here it is. A motive for Miss Peters’s murder.”
Spam’s head snaps up. “What?”
“This is everything she needed to run DNA.”
Spam shakes her head. “But she was killed before she could actually do it, right?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I inspect the bottles. “These bottles have been opened.” Neither Journey nor I knew Miss Peters was looking to run DNA for anyone else. And this makes me wonder: What else didn’t we know? “She told me she was keeping her plan under wraps until the right time. But if she ran DNA on the wrong person, it could definitely be a motive for them to kill her.”
“Maybe you should show all of this stuff to the police,” Spam says.
“The equipment doesn’t prove anything, though. We need to know if she actually ran any tests.”
Since I’m standing next to the lab refrigerator, I open the freezer. It’s empty except for a large, white plastic tub with a bold black label that reads: LIVE BACTERIA. I smile. This was my favorite Miss P joke. There’s no live bacteria in here. This is where Miss P used to hide her Popsicles and candy bars.
I take out the tub and pry off the top, expecting to find a couple of fruit pops and a Snickers bar. What’s there instead is a plastic box about the size of an iPhone. Inside are four small vials. I inspect the box and the labels on the side of each vial. It’s a kind of code. I’m in the process of deciding what to do with this discovery when there’s a light tap on the door. The knob turns, but it’s locked.
“Ladies, I need you to come rejoin the class.” It’s Principal Roberts.
I glance at Spam, my expression full of questions. She gives me a thumbs-up and shuts down the computer.
“Erin?”
I make a snap decision and shove the box into the front pocket of my hoodie. “Okay, we’re coming.” With Spam behind me, I open the door. Principal Roberts is all smiles. He steps aside, allowing Spam and I to move past him into the classroom. “Is everything squared away?” he asks.
I pat my strap.
“That’s what I like to hear.” He mocks a golf swing to motion us through the door and into the classroom.
I’m stunned to see Sydney and a couple of uniformed officers standing by. Spam’s face fills with fear as she slips out ahead of me.
“The lab is all yours, Detective. Please let us know if you need anything else,” Principal Roberts says.
“I’ll do that,” Sydney says, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. She gives me a wink as she files past me into the lab.
The cold lump of the frozen box in my pocket is nothing compared with one that’s twice its size in the pit of my stomach. Should I hand this box over to Sydney? If it’s what I think it is, it shouldn’t fall into the wrong hands. I’m afraid if I give it to her it will wind up in a file box on a storage-room shelf, and fourteen years from now no one will have even looked at it, let alone figured out what it was.
I glance at Spam. She doesn’t know I took anything. But if she did, she would expect me to turn it over. I could probably even get out of trouble with a little explaining, but something in my gut holds me back.
In every one of Victor’s cases, outlined in his books, he described a point where there was obviously the right thing to do and for some reason his gut told him not to do it. And in every case, his gut proved him right. This DNA might not have anything to do with what happened. But for some reason I don’t want to give up this evidence. Not yet. So I’m going to hang in there with my gut, too.
After class, I wait in the hallway for Spam. She joins me and we start walking toward the parking lot. “I hope you’re not getting in over your head with this investigation,” she says.
“I’m not.” I hesitate at the door to the nurse’s office. “But if we don’t check this stuff out, no one will.”
Spam frowns. “Why are you going to the nurse?”
“I need an ice pack.” When she tilts her head to one side, I flash just the corner of the box in my pocket.
She gasps. “You took that from the lab? Erin, you can’t do that.”
“We need to know what it is. Don’t freak out. We’ll go over everything tonight.”
I slip into the nurse’s office, feign a sprained wrist, and pick up an ice pack, which I wrap around the box in my pocket. I hurry to the parking lot, hoping to catch a glimpse of Journey.
“Need a lift?” The voice comes from behind me.
Ugh, Principal Roberts.