I settle for cinnamon raisin and grab an empty table so I can concentrate on what Spam slipped to me. The wad of paper turns out to be three pages. I unfold them and smooth them out on the table. The first page is a list summarizing the files she copied from the computer in Miss Peters’s lab. I scan down the list of headings: homework (8 files), class research (3 files), quizzes (2 files), labs (4 files), answers (8 files, Spam drew a happy face next to that entry). The last item is labeled PROJECT (2 files). Spam has drawn a star next to this folder and added a note to see page two.
I shift page one to the back of the stack and scan page two. The top reads, TEST RESULTS. It’s a list. A sequence, actually. Numbers across the top of the page are labeled MARKERS. Below each marker are coded entries. Each entry contains a string of numbers. The numbers are all different, a jumble with no distinct pattern, a list that wouldn’t mean anything to anybody … unless you know what DNA test results look like.
My nerve endings rev up and the swish-thod, swish-thod of my pulse is loud in my ears. I count the markers. Thirteen.
The exact number most commonly used to identify and compare human DNA.
I was right; Miss Peters had already run at least one DNA test using four samples. But will I be able to figure out whose DNA she tested?
The results page contains four entries labeled with letters: JM, EB, CC, ME. Initials, maybe? JM could be Journey Michaels, and EB could be me—Erin Blake. Miss Peters and I did play around with those sponge lollipop swab things that they use for getting DNA from your mouth, but I want to believe that if she had actually run my DNA, she would’ve told me.
There’s a light tug on the back of my hair. I whirl around. Journey, along with a couple of his basketball bros, has strolled past and is heading toward the quad. He glances back with a quick, brilliant smile.
“Just saying hi to your hair,” he says.
Agh. I laugh and shake my head, but turn back around quickly. My cheeks burn. I don’t know what it’s going to take, but I have to get smoother at this communicating with boys thing.
I get through the rest of the day by alternating between contemplating the mystery aspect of Miss Peters’s test results and reveling in Journey saying hi to my hair. When the final bell rings, I head out toward the bus stop. A Snapchat comes through from Journey showing a photo of the empty passenger seat in his van. The caption says: Got the van back. I’d give you a ride but I have a job interview.
He’s so cute.
I reply with a photo through the windshield of the bus that includes the back of the bus driver’s bald head. I include the caption: No sweat. Caught a ride with this guy. The truth is that taking the bus downtown to Rachel’s office is part of my plan.
Rachel’s office has a separate entrance, but it’s in the same building as the police station. As I’m walking in, I run into her coming out with her purse and keys in her hand. She’s surprised to see me. “Hi, sweetie,” she says. “What brings you here?”
I give her a pitiful look. “I didn’t want to walk home, so I took the bus over. I figured I could hang out here and catch a ride home with you.” I have to be careful not to oversell this or Rachel will get suspicious.
She looks a little pained, like this is somehow inconvenient, but she leads me back into her office anyway and stashes her purse and keys back in her desk drawer. “Were you going somewhere?” I ask.
“Not really,” she says. Her voice sounds light, like it’s no big deal. But there is a faint frown on her lips. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Do you think Syd will let me use the new computer? I’d like to get a jump on my homework.”
“We can ask her,” Rachel says.
Syd’s let me use it before, but it’s not the computer I’m after, exactly. It’s what’s attached to it. A few months ago, the department purchased the new IAFIS system, which hooks into the national fingerprint database. I was so psyched, I begged Sydney to show me how it worked. Turns out it’s exactly like making copies, which means it’s unbelievably easy.
We walk from Rachel’s side of the building through a door, down a hallway, and into the squad area, where Sydney and the other officers have desks. The copy room is at the far end, right around the corner from Chief Culson’s office.
Sydney spots us as we come through the door. “Hey,” she says, hurrying over and putting an arm around my shoulders. “I heard you had another close call yesterday. You okay?” She and Rachel exchange bug-eyed worry looks. Sydney’s sudden attention causes everyone in the room to look at me, too. I keep my head down and answer her question with a nod and a shrug.
“Thankfully, she’s fine, but we haven’t replaced the scooter yet,” Rachel says. “She took the bus over to catch a ride home with me, but I’m going to be tied up for an hour or so. Can she use the computer to get a jump on her homework?”
“Sure. If no one’s using it.” Sydney lowers her voice. “FYI, we’re probably going to be releasing all the stuff from your room tomorrow morning anyway.”
“Yay!” Rachel and I grin at each other.
“So that means she’s clear?” Rachel asks. “That part is over?”