At the farthest edge of the patio, behind the table and umbrella, I take a leaf from the yard, dip it in the blood, and stamp it on the cement.
It leaves a perfect outline of the leaf and all its veins.
I can test Chief Culson’s shoe here and, according to Victor, as long as I don’t clean the shoe with oxygen bleach I won’t even destroy any real blood evidence.
Just as I’m about to stand up, headlights from a car lurch into the driveway. It’s moving fast and the brakes make a squealing stop.
I’m relieved because for a second I think it’s Victor. Then I recognize the hulking shape of Journey’s van. Even better. He can help me do the shoe print. The driver jumps out, leaving the engine running and the headlights on. But it’s not Journey. I stare, confused.
Principal Roberts?
Truth be told, I’m relieved to see any adult at this point. And at least he’s one I know I can trust. I’m about to throw myself at him when he staggers to the front of the van. His movements are jerky and frantic. He dabs at a dark stain on his forehead. There’s a stream of something dark seeping from the side of his lip, too. He presses a bright green rag to it.
Is that blood?
Wow. Now I notice that his hair is disheveled and the shoulder of his sleeve is torn. He scrubs at a spot on his hand with the bright green rag, which I slowly realize isn’t a rag at all, but the green delivery-person armband Journey was wearing.
Something’s not right.
I duck back down behind the table. That fear I earlier wrote off as crazy paranoia is back like a runaway freight train with no brakes. Victor should be home any minute and I’m not coming out until he gets here.
Just when I think it can’t get worse, I notice how the headlights cutting through the decorative rail around our back stairs cast a long, skinny, shadowy cross that points directly to my hiding place.
For my entire life, this image has been the one thing capable of sending me into a full-scale panic attack. But I’ve worked on it with my therapist. It’s just a shadow, nothing more. Just a shadow. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head and try to loosen my chest so I can breathe.
Once Principal Roberts finishes cleaning his hand, he tosses the armband into a bush. Taking out his phone, he punches in a number, then waits, agitated, pacing back and forth in front of the van.
“Pick up the phone, Erin,” he says out loud, frustrated.
There’s a vibration in my pocket, I slip my phone out just enough to view the screen. It’s Journey. First, there’s an excited flutter. Then I remember—Journey lost his phone. I study Principal Roberts, pacing angrily, phone in his hand, and my stomach sours.
38
Footprints and tire tracks can be left on—and also found and lifted from—nearly any surface.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
I’m home alone.
An angry and aggressive Principal Roberts is storming around in my driveway. He looks like he’s been in a fight. He has Journey’s van and cell phone.
I can’t find Journey. Rachel’s unreachable. Victor is MIA.
I crouch lower behind the table.
Suddenly, Principal Roberts whirls and strides straight toward me. I cower, squeeze my eyes closed, and hope for the best.
The clatter of metal scraping against concrete is deafening.
I peek. He’s grabbed a chair from the other side of the table and turned it around to face the back of the house. He sits down with an agitated thump. His rapid foot tapping on the cement mirrors my terrified heartbeat.
Seriously, what the hell?
I quietly turn my phone off. He’s sitting close enough to me to hear it if it vibrates, and he might try calling again.
Through the gauzy glass tabletop I watch him inspect his hands. He finds more wounds oozing blood. He pulls a folded square of notebook paper from his pocket and uses it to dab at his wounds. After a few minutes and some frustrated grumbling, he pulls a plastic glove from his pocket and slips it onto his right hand. Then he lurches off the chair and heads for our back stairs, mounting them two at a time. At the top, he wrenches open the door without knocking. “Erin? Rachel?” he calls into the house.
When he doesn’t get an answer, he just barges in. Through the window I see him climbing the stairs. I’m shocked. Why is he going up to my room like that?
After a couple of moments, he comes down the stairs. When he exits he’s calm, almost happy. He’s carrying Chief Culson’s shoes. Something flutters from his pocket as he passes in front of me. He’s whistling as he climbs into Journey’s van, revs the engine a few times, and backs out of the driveway before pulling away.
Once he’s gone, I race toward the house, stopping only to pick up the green armband and the paper he dropped. I get inside but my hands are trembling so violently I can hardly secure the lock.