“I know. That’s why Miss Peters was helping me.”
Victor sits forward. “The biology teacher who was murdered? She knew about all of this?”
“Yeah. Well, I’d say most adults in town know about me and what happened to my mom. But Miss P was the first to actually show me how I could get some answers on my own.”
Concern forms in the creases of Victor’s forehead. “That sounds highly inappropriate for a teacher. What did she show you … exactly?”
“She knew I was playing around with forensic stuff and she showed me—like you just said—how DNA could answer all of my questions. She helped me. Maybe you’ll help me now.”
Victor runs his thumb over a spot on his wrist, finally meeting my gaze with a look that’s just as intense as mine. “I’ll take a cursory look into the case. But first, I’m curious to know how you started ‘playing around with forensic stuff.’”
“Your books kind of started it.” I grin and he rolls his eyes in response.
“The attraction was always about finding the answers to my questions.” I adjust my position in the chair by curling one leg up under me. “But first I had to get the techniques down. And that takes a lot of practice.”
Victor rests his elbow on the table and props his head on his hand. “Some would say it requires more than practice, but go on.”
“Well, a friend of mine at school was afraid her boyfriend was cheating on her, and I thought maybe we could use forensics to prove it. I started by looking at hair samples. Then taught myself to lift fingerprints and do chromatography tests on lipstick and stuff.”
Victor looks surprised. “Wait a minute, you taught yourself to lift prints and do chromatography?”
“They teach it in high school now, so how hard can it really be?”
“I’ll be sure to tell my boss that,” he mutters. “Keep talking.”
“We helped a lot of our friends at school with problems, which prompted Miss Peters to try to get a forensics class or club on campus.”
“Wow, you’ve gone to a great deal of effort. Old Carl must be impressed with you,” Victor says.
“Yeah. Not really. I mean, Principal Roberts gets it, to a point. He says science fair projects are okay, but forensic experiments are forbidden on campus.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Victor asks.
“I wish. Mr. Roberts claims my forensic experiments could have unpleasant consequences. So, if I get caught doing any investigations on campus, it’s an automatic three-day suspension.”
Victor rolls his eyes. “He’s not wrong about the consequences, but if I told you some of the pranks we pulled when we were in school…” He gets up from the table. “Hey, I’m starving and I make some serious scrambled eggs à la Victor. What do you say?”
I nod an enthusiastic yes.
Victor heads for the refrigerator and starts unloading ingredients. “Your mother loved eating breakfast for dinner. In fact, last time I saw her we had eggs à la Victor.” He gets a distant look on his face.
“When was that?” I ask.
“I think it was June 1998, something like that. You weren’t born yet and I was home for my mother’s funeral. How’s that for the circle of life?” He musters a sad smile. “Not the happiest of moments. Your mom handled everything for Rachel, though. She was a rock.”
I don’t know what to say. I let the quiet in the room swallow us up. After a while it gets to be too much. “So you wouldn’t have a problem with my investigations?” I ask.
Victor whirls to face me; he’s got four eggs in one hand and a package of grated cheese in the other. He kicks the refrigerator door closed. “Oh, I didn’t say that. I am impressed with how smart and resourceful you are, but unsupervised investigations aren’t a good idea. And especially not with real evidence.” He nods toward my mother’s box.
“I wasn’t trying to investigate her murder … not yet, anyway.”
“What does that mean?” Victor turns his attention back to the stove. With a series of sizzles, I hear each egg hit the skillet. Next he opens the cheese and grabs a huge handful. I can’t see where it goes but I assume he’s dropping it on top of the eggs.
I clear my throat. “Not yet, because I’m thinking of making this my career.”
Victor waves the spatula over his shoulder. “You should. But take classes or go to CSI camp or something. I don’t like the idea of you doing these things unsupervised.”
I watch in quiet amazement as he moves in front of the stove, rolling the skillet from side to side while vigorously pummeling the eggs with the spatula.
“But you still think it would be good for me, right? Critical thinking and all that.” Rachel would never agree to CSI camp or anything having to do with forensics. She’s afraid exposure to that stuff will “set me off.” Whatever that means. But maybe if Victor thinks it would be good, he’ll plead my case with her.