What’s wrong with me? Why is this so hard?
The timer goes off, signaling that the test is complete. I lift the chopstick off the measuring cup, carefully slide the strips off, and lay them on a paper towel to dry. I make sure that the strips don’t touch each other, but I don’t take the time to inspect them. I’m still panicking over creating the perfect response to Journey.
I’m trying to think of something witty to say and a new photo to take when I remember how the last time we were together he was playing with the tips of my hair. That memory sends some dreamy goodness through me and gives me a strange confidence. Over the weirdly angled photo of my hair I type: “My hair misses you.” Yep. I’m going with that. I’m just going to hit send and not look back.
But then I do look back. My hair misses you? Really? How many layers of lame is that? Thinking … thinking … thinking … I glance over at my ink tests and realize—holy crap—I’ve got a match.
I’m so shocked that I hit send and my weird photo and hair-missing-you caption is off to Journey. And, while I’m mildly freaked out about that, I’m kind of amazed that I have one pen—no wait—two pens in my possession that match the ink on that scrap of paper. A weird, creepy realization comes over me. I turn the strips over.
Chief Culson’s two pens are the winners. They both match the ink on the note.
Miss P would be so proud. Pulling clues together is hard work. I try to think through what this means. It means Miss P could have written the note. But it also means Chief Culson could have written it, too. And, if I’m being completely honest, and thinking like Victor, there are a bunch of other people who could have written it. How many of these pens has the chief handed out? Who has he been giving them to? Is it possible one of them is a killer?
“Erin?”
Holy crap. Rachel. Outside my bedroom door.
And I’m in the attic.
27
Forensic psychologists are scary good profilers. They can tell if a person is lying by reading their body language like a newspaper.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
I cram my laptop into my bag and skim down the stairs. My feet barely touch the rungs. I step out of the closet as Rachel manages to force my bedroom door open a few inches.
“What’s wrong with your door?” she asks, struggling.
“Hold on. There’s a binder on the floor.” I have to shut the door all the way before I can pull the binder out. Rachel opens the door, steps in, and looks around.
“You should be careful about leaving your binders on the floor like that,” she says. “It could be dangerous.”
“Good point.” My heart’s pounding and I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands. But on the outside I try to appear normal. “So, what’s up?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says, her gaze flitting around the room. “I’m just letting you know I’m home early.”
“Great,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“Okay.” She shrugs, looking around my room again.
“I’m going to take a shower.” I twist the ends of my hair nervously.
“Okay.” She grips the edge of the door and hesitates as if she has something else she wants to say.
I brace myself, lecture or an interrogation. It could be either, especially with all the craziness that’s been going on.
“See you at dinner,” she says finally.
“Yum.” It’s my stupidest response so far, but I can’t think of anything else. I’m struggling to rein in my tension.
Once she leaves I collapse on the bed. Rachel almost caught me in the attic. That’s huge. And it’s certainly a much bigger deal than sending a lame message to Journey. I need to get a grip.
*
After the longest weekend in history, Monday finally arrives. Thanks to Rachel’s friendship with Detective Sydney, finding out what the fingerprints reveal about Journey’s van won’t be that hard. But first I have to get through the day. At least I’m here at school where I can see Journey.
English and algebra are boring as usual. I only survive because I’ve mastered the fine art of sleeping with my eyes open. At the nutrition break, I head for the café express line because I won’t survive without a bagel. I pass Spam coming out of line as I’m going in. “I got the last sesame,” she says, raising her hand for a high five. I mouth brat but slap her hand anyway. When I do, she palms a wad of folded paper from her hand into mine.