“I’m in no rush,” Chief Culson says as he busies himself tidying things up around the copy machine.
His chatter reminds me that I know the number to his private line by heart. It’s two numbers away from Rachel’s. With my phone concealed against my middle, I key in his number and hit send. “Okay. I’ll hurry,” I promise.
A phone begins ringing in a nearby office. Someone hollers, “Hey, Chief … it’s your private line.”
“I better get that.” Chief Culson moves off.
One down … one to go.
Rachel fluffs her hair and digs in her purse for her lipstick while I gather my books at the speed of Jell-O melting. Finally, she checks her watch and says, “I’m going to stop at the bathroom. Meet us up front.”
“Okay,” I say.
Just as Rachel leaves, the computer beeps, signaling the IAFIS search is complete. Thank God. I glance at the door before checking the results. IAFIS only matched one of the two prints, but it was the most important one. It was the full handprint I found on the back seat of the van. According to IAFIS, that print belongs to Police Chief Charles A. Culson.
Bah. I went through all of that to get the prints of the chief of police. The only thing that’s a surprise about this is that he touched Journey’s van without putting on gloves.
Maybe Victor’s right. He is incompetent.
I forward the results to my e-mail for safekeeping, clear the cache on IAFIS, and power down. I grab my stuff and head out the door just as an exasperated Rachel is coming back for me.
I ride in Rachel’s backseat and Chief Culson rides next to her. They make pleasant conversation between themselves while I stay quiet. Victor’s car is in the driveway when we pull up, so Rachel doesn’t even turn in; she just pulls over to let me out. She leans around her seat.
“I’ve got plans for dinner; do you think you and Victor can fend for yourselves?”
“Yeah, no problem.” My mind is still kind of blown over the way the evidence seems to be tilting. I was hoping one of those prints would reveal something important. I wave good-bye to Rachel and the chief and amble away from the car without looking back. I climb the back stairs and bang the door into the wall as I enter the kitchen.
I start to smile because Victor’s sitting at the kitchen table. But a second later, I see what’s sitting on the kitchen table and it stops me cold.
The evidence box from up in my attic.
My bag thunks to the floor.
“Erin,” he says, “we need to talk.”
Giant Blue Angel jets filled with every lie I’ve ever told scream through my head at Mach speed. They fly loops and angles across the back of my brain. I force my mouth closed because I have nothing to say.
Victor pulls out a chair at the table. “Please. Have a seat.”
Numb, I walk to the chair and flop down.
He doesn’t look mad or crazy-psycho, which is how I imagine Rachel would look. Instead, there’s softness around his eyes. He seems truly interested in what I have to say.
“I think you know what this is and I think you know where I found it.”
I prop my elbows on the table and bury my face in my hands.
Victor sits back in his chair. “So, what would you like to tell me about it?”
I tilt my head back, pushing my chin out and getting just the right sweep of the hair veil over my eyes. “You haven’t been around even once in my whole life and now you show up and start going through my stuff?” My voice cracks with emotion, which I hope he will believe is anger, not fear. My expression is scornful. “I can’t believe you cut the padlock off.”
Victor reaches into his pocket and pulls out my combination lock. He lays it on the table. “It was sitting out on the desk.” He pokes a finger in his chest. “My old desk, in case you’d like to know.”
I sink lower in my seat. I was so flustered when Rachel came home early yesterday that I forgot to lock everything back up.
“I know it seems like I’m spying on you, but honestly, I wasn’t. I kept hearing noises in the attic late at night. I thought maybe there were rats up there or something. I went up there to help you and Rachel.”
I hear what he’s saying, but I’m too tired to process it. A huge blanket of brain fog settles around me. Nothing has been the same since I brought that box home. Maybe Lysa’s right. Maybe it is my Pandora’s box.
I can’t think of anything to say, so I stare at my hands. Victor gets up and paces the room.
“Look,” he says, “I get the violated privacy issue and all that. Maybe if I had found something else up there, I might have turned a blind eye to it. Or, if I thought it was serious enough, alerted Rachel.” Victor plants his hands on the table and leans across until we’re almost face-to-face. “But Erin, this is the evidence from your mother’s murder.”
“Yes.” My eyes become watery.
“And there’s other evidence up in that attic, too.”
I nod.
“I am a forensic expert. You want to talk to me about this. In fact, there is no better person for you to talk to.”