What I want to say is: I was there, and You don’t know what’s at work here, either. But now’s not the time for that.
“We shouldn’t knee-jerk, remember?” That was my therapist’s go-to phrase. Good for any occasion. I stopped seeing him a year ago. We weren’t getting anywhere anyway. But I still use his words when they suit me. Changing schools is not an option. Rachel needs to hear that.
She keeps her hands on my shoulders and holds me out away from her while she scans my face. Then she squeezes me in close, rocking us both from side to side. “I’m so sorry this happened; you must’ve been terrified.”
I was. What if I caused it, and Miss P’s death is my fault? What then?
There’s a light knock. Sydney opens the door. It’s Baldwin. He nods his head toward the squad room. “He’s coming in now.”
“I’ll be right there.” Sydney glances at us. Rachel’s arms are wrapped tightly around me. “Take her home,” she says. “Keep her home tomorrow. I’ll be in touch.”
Baldwin leads a group past the door. One in the middle is taller than the others and his hands are cuffed behind his back. Caramel tufts of hair curl against a chiseled profile that’s pale beneath the tan.
There’s a quick jolt of recognition. I wasn’t expecting to see him here like this, and I definitely hope he doesn’t see me.
Journey Michaels’s jaw tightens. His gaze sweeps the room, looking for who or what brought this down on his head. For the second time today, he looks directly at me, only this time instead of sizzle, his expression reveals an anger so hot it could melt tungsten.
I expected him to look different to me now. I mean, if he’s a killer he should look different. Right? I can’t help it, though—I still feel a tug. There’s something about Journey Michaels that draws me to him.
I bury my face in Rachel’s shoulder and she strokes my hair.
“Hey, it’s okay to cry, you know. This is one of those times.”
Rachel means well but she never totally gets it.
4
The crime scene tape will separate you from everything but the emotional impact. You still have to be able to deal with that.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
I wake to the potent scent of orange.
There’s a pile of orange peels on my nightstand—Miss P’s orange. I’d savored it in the dark. It was sweet and salty, mixed with my tears.
I pick up one of the peels and pinch it under my nose, memorizing the scent and packing it away. I vow that for the rest of my life, every time I smell the scent of orange I will think of her and it will remind me of the bright orange safety goggles she wore when using ultraviolet light. It also brings to mind her sunshiny outlook on life.
By pairing the image of an orange with Miss P maybe one day I can forget my final image of her, lying still just inside her door, several officers standing guard.
What I won’t forget though are all her cute mannerisms, like the large pair of glasses she was always pushing up onto her nose, and how she kept her scrunched-up bun in place with strategically placed pencils. In the same way that Mr. Roberts isn’t just a principal, Miss Peters wasn’t just a teacher. Not to me, anyway.
I hear Rachel rattling around in the kitchen, but before I go join her I swipe the orange peels off my nightstand and drop them into a small potpourri basket. Then I wander down to the kitchen in search of some quiet comfort. I’m greeted by the smell of coffee and Rachel’s worried look. “Did you get any sleep last night?” she asks.
“A little. How about you?” I sit down at the table and take a fresh orange from the bowl. I press it to my nose, inhaling deeply even though the smell makes my heart hurt. I wonder if Rachel will ever mention Miss Peters to me again or if my favorite teacher will now join my mother on that list of things Rachel deems too dangerous for us to discuss.
She brings her coffee to the table. When she doesn’t say anything right away, I look up and find her staring at me.
She rubs the spot between her eyebrows with two fingers, as if trying to erase difficult thoughts. “Last night was—” She pauses, and then begins again. “Sydney doesn’t want us to talk too much about what happened because she might need to interview you again and she wants what you say to be fresh and not rehearsed. But she asked me something and I didn’t have an answer. Erin, what were you doing at your teacher’s house after midnight?”
I sit up slowly. I should have a Rachel-ready lie to roll off my tongue. She was asleep when I snuck out and I wasn’t planning on getting caught. I know I owe her the truth, but it’s been so long since we’ve been honest with each other, I don’t know what she can handle. I do know she can’t handle me wanting to delve into my past. She closed the door on that a long time ago. I’m supposed to just forget it and go on. As if.
I roll the orange back into the bowl and shutter my eyes to look extra exhausted.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I left here around midnight.” I’ve had insomnia for years and she knows this. “I just went for a little drive … to clear my head and get sleepy.”
“Alone?” she asks.