“If you insist. I’m entitled to a rematch.” Victor picks up the bag and takes a few steps to the hallway outside the kitchen. He opens the closet door, which is built into the space under the stairs, and stashes the gym bag inside. At first it seems weird that he would make himself so at home. Then I remember that he and Rachel grew up in this house.
I glance at the clock. It’s a quarter to six, and the girls will be here soon. I send Journey a text asking him to hold off. First I need to figure out what Victor has planned.
“So you know Rachel won’t be home for dinner tonight, right?”
Victor nods. “She called a little while ago. I’m going to run through the shower and then Carl’s taking me out on the town.”
Mr. Roberts grins. “I promised to show him the Iron Rain nightlife.”
“That’ll take fifteen minutes,” I joke. It gets a laugh out of both of them. I hope they don’t notice how relieved I am that I’ll have the house to myself for a couple of hours.
Victor plucks a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Rachel told me to buy you a pizza. Will this cover it?”
“Yep.” Normally, I’d mention that Spam and Lysa are coming over, but with our principal sitting right here, I pass. He already knows more than enough about us.
Instead, I stuff the bill into my pocket. “Have fun, you guys.” I’m smiling as I head back to my room to send Journey another text.
About thirty minutes later, Victor and Principal Roberts are gone, and the pizzas and Lysa and Spam have arrived. I lead them upstairs to my bedroom.
“Where’s Journey?” Spam asks. “Did he bail?”
“No. He’s on his way.” An awkward silence develops between the three of us as we just stand there in my bedroom. Finally, I clasp my hands together and take a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to show you something and I don’t want you to freak out.”
Spam slides her tongue over her teeth and exchanges a heavy eyebrow look with Lysa. I’m getting a little sick of all the meaningful looks going on around here.
“It’s nothing bad. In fact, it’s actually really cool. It’s just something I haven’t told you about yet.” I open the door to my closet and perform the ritual of moving in the desk chair, standing up on it, and pulling down the stairs. I don’t tell them, but I’ve left the balcony doors unlocked for Journey.
“You want us to see your attic?” Lysa asks.
Bringing the pizzas, paper plates, and napkins with me, I head up the ladder. “Yes. C’mon.”
First Spam and then Lysa tromp up the ladder behind me. Balancing the pizzas over my head, I slide through the narrow opening at the top and switch on the light. I motion them past the decoy pile of junk and into the open area. I’m slightly breathless at what they’ll think of my makeshift lounge/lab.
Their faces are a mix of confusion and awe.
“Where did all this stuff come from?” Spam asks.
“It’s my mom’s. Take a seat.” I gesture to the stylish red leather sofa.
Lysa thumps down on the sofa and bounces a little, trying it out. But Spam slowly stalks around the space, taking everything in.
“How did it get up here?” Spam wonders.
“Rachel must’ve put it up here. I found it when I needed a place to stash the box. Remember how weird it was that I didn’t have anything of hers? Well, now I do. It’s all up here. And not just her furniture.”
“How do you know all this stuff belonged to your mom?” Spam is cautious and skeptical. “It could be Rachel’s, right?”
“I found pictures. Whole photo albums.” I pull a binder from a box. “Wait ’til you see this.” I hold the album out to Spam. Instead of taking it, she crosses her arms over her chest.
I move in close so she can’t avoid looking at it. On the front is a photo of a pastel-colored beach cottage. “My mom inherited this cottage from her parents … my grandparents. Look what she wrote: ‘It is important to feel tethered to somewhere.’” I flip through the pages and stop on a downward picture of her bare feet on wet sand, each toe painted a different color. “And here she wrote: ‘Ready to put down roots.’ It’s so cute, her toes all painted…”
Spam presses her lips together and glances at Lysa. “Erin…”
“Wait. Wait. This is the best one,” I say as I flip to a photograph of just my mother’s flat belly. In pen, she had drawn an arrow pointing to a spot below her belly button. In her spidery handwriting she scribbled: “Eric? Or Erin?” “My name could have been Eric. How weird is that?”
Lysa turns away. “Erin.” Her voice is gentle. “All of this stuff is your past, and it worries me that you’re living so deeply in it.”
“This is not my past. Don’t you see? It’s my beginning.” I snap the album closed. “I was loved and wanted. My mom had a dream for the two of us to be a family, and someone took that dream away.”
“You’re still loved and wanted,” Lysa says.
Spam looks down. “What’s that?” She has noticed the edge of a chalk design on the floor, most of it covered by a rug.
I start to say it’s nothing. But Spam bends down and peels back the rug, revealing an outline of a body on the floor. An outline that exactly matches the crime-scene photos I found in the evidence box.
“Oh my God, you drew that?” whispers Lysa, covering her mouth with her hand.
Spam steps back, her face a mask of shock. “I’m guessing you didn’t find this layout in a photo album.”