“Yes.”
“You weren’t with anyone? Not even Spam … or maybe a boy?”
I shake my head. Here we go—Rachel’s denial in action. How can she even think I could sneak out to be with some boy like a normal teenager? She’s seen the way people act when they hear my name. How the recognition lands in their eyes like cherries in a slot machine. The looks of pity that wash over me as they think, but never say, Oh, she’s the one. Rachel sees all of that but thinks I should just ignore it.
Miss Peters got it. She understood how the stigma of a notorious unsolved crime kept me from getting close to people—especially boys.
I bite into the skin of the orange, releasing even more of its rich scent.
When I finally do have a relationship, I want it to be honest. How can I tell someone everything about myself when I don’t even know the most basic facts? Miss P agreed that I deserved to know everything that was possible to know.
Rachel blows on her coffee before trying again. “Just be honest with me, Erin. This is no time for secrets.”
I widen my eyes and aim a searing look directly at her.
“I need words, not pop-eyes,” she says.
“I said I was alone.” Clearly, seeing Journey Michaels doesn’t count.
“Okay. Just checking.” The hand bringing coffee to her lips trembles. I sense she’s holding something back. Guess what, that makes two of us. Her gaze drifts around the kitchen as if she’s seeing it for the very first time. Then she stops and pins me with her own hard look. “Did you really leave a bloody towel in Miss Peters’s mailbox?”
Crap. I forgot they’d tell her about that, too.
“It’s not Miss Peters’s,” I say quickly. “The blood, I mean.”
“Whose is it? Sydney said there was a lot of it.” Rachel’s knuckles turn white against the coffee cup.
“It was just some random DNA that I picked up.” It’s partially true. “For extra credit.”
“Erin.” Her eyes stay locked onto mine in a gaze so direct I have no choice but to look away. “You honestly expect me to believe that you went through a stranger’s trash and touched a bloody towel?” Rachel frowns. “I know you. You wouldn’t touch it if it was your own blood.”
Usually I pretend I’m telling the truth and Rachel pretends to believe me, even though I’m sure she really doesn’t. In the end, we agree I won’t do the things that worry her, like sneaking out of the house, and she won’t nail me to the wall with punishments. We keep it very civilized. But today is different. Neither of us is pretending in quite the same way.
“I was wearing gloves,” I say, adding an indignant tone, as though I only did what anyone else would’ve done.
“You understand the problem, right? If you know more than you’re saying, they’re going to find out. Sydney is probably testing that bloody towel right now.”
“She doesn’t have the equipment to test blood. The best she can do is to send it to the FBI. They won’t get the results for at least a week. Probably more.”
“How do you know that?” Rachel adjusts her sweater, wrapping the fabric tighter around her neck. Her expression is a combination of scared and proud.
“How do you think? Uncle Victor’s books.”
“I can’t believe you’ve actually read those gory things.” At least now Rachel’s “the world’s gone mad” look isn’t all about me.
“And I can’t believe you haven’t. He sends us autographed copies.”
Miss P might have introduced me to forensics, but the blow-by-blow instructions came directly from my uncle’s books.
“Those books exploit the tragedy of real people,” Rachel says, slapping the table. “You shouldn’t put my brother on a pedestal like that.”
“Solving crime is his job.”
“No. Your grandfather was a police detective. He solved crimes.”
“My grandfather?” I force one eyebrow into a higher arch than the other. It might be mean, but sometimes Rachel needs to be reminded that we’re not actually related by blood.
She makes a pruney face. “Don’t get smart. He was the only grandfather you ever knew.” She tightens her jaw, which makes her voice sound strained. “What my brother does is process evidence to be used in court, and that’s different. Trust me. Dad was never thrilled about Victor going with the FBI instead of the police academy.”
I know I won’t win this argument, but I still have to try. “If you had read even one of his books you would understand why Uncle Victor does what he does. He does it for the survivors and the families of the victims. He believes they deserve to know the truth about what happened to the ones they loved.” I let that statement hang there for a minute, leaving the obvious unsaid. Uncle Victor believes the survivors deserve to know all of the things Rachel thinks I should ignore.