“But how do you know—” she asks.
“Principal Roberts came to my house. He was all bloody, like he’d been in a fight. He’s driving Journey’s van and using Journey’s cell phone. Does that not tell you Journey’s in danger?” I swerve around a corner, deciding at the last minute it’s the way to go. Then I realize I’m driving in circles. “Do me a favor, look up Roberts’s home address on your phone.”
Spam glances at my speedometer. “Dude, you’re doing sixty in a residential zone. Slow down.”
“Address. Now.” I stop at a light and look up just as a tow truck zooms through the intersection, towing Victor’s rental car.
“Wait, never mind. There goes Victor’s car.”
“What are you doing?”
I hang a hard left and run the light. “Following it.”
39
Sometimes evidence comes in the form of strange suspect behavior. It’s important to follow your instincts.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
“Why are we following a tow truck?” Spam asks.
“To see where they’re taking Victor’s car and ask them where Victor is.”
“But Journey’s van just went the other way,” Spam says.
My mouth drops open. “Seriously?”
She points.
I pull an immediate U-turn in the middle of the street and shoot back in the direction we came from.
“You should call Rachel,” Spam suggests, gripping the car door.
“Can’t. She’s at the opera in Portland and her phone is turned off.”
“What about Chief Culson? You could ask to talk to him.”
“He’s with Rachel at the opera.”
Spam laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”
I take a dip a little too fast and the car bounds up in the air. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“No.” Spam cinches her seat belt a little tighter.
I’m just about to catch the van when it speeds through a light on a late yellow. I know if I go through, too, he’ll see me. I stop and slam my hand on the dash. But after a couple of seconds, there are no other cars, so I gun it and go straight through on the red.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Spam give me a look of respect. “High-five.” She offers up her palm. “We’re Thelma and Louise now.”
I follow my gut and muscle Rachel’s car through a couple of sharp turns, hoping I’m taking a shortcut. “I never saw that movie.”
Spam reaches over and swipes a chunk of hair off my face in a comforting gesture. “I’m actually really glad to know that,” she says softly.
I skid into a last-minute turn down an alley, scattering gravel. It’s reckless, but my hunch pays off. I’m just in time to catch a glimpse of the van shooting past the alley and turning off the main street onto the deserted road that leads to Journey’s house.
“He’s going to the cannery. This isn’t good.”
Spam whistles. “Can we call the police now? That place is creepy … not to mention haunted.”
I shake my head. “Not yet.” If we set one foot in the police station, the first thing they’ll do is set Spam and I aside while they get into a whole debate over what action they should take. Right now, Journey’s life depends on me being bold and taking chances. I kill my headlights and decide to hang out in the alley until we figure out our next move.
Spam’s phone be-boops, shattering the silence. We both scream. Spam drops it between the seat and the console.
“Answer it.” The tension is about to explode the car.
“I’m trying,” she shrieks, contorting in her seat. First her hand and then her arm disappear into the narrow space. The phone continues be-booping.
Spam manages to retrieve it with two fingers. “It’s Lysa,” she says. “She’s FaceTiming.” Spam pushes the button, revealing Lysa’s face on the screen.
Without even a hello, Lysa launches into a stern diatribe. “It’s after eight, so I’m doing this from my iPad. You know if I get caught I’ll lose my phone and my car for a month, so shut up and listen.”
Spam starts to speak, “I know—”
“I got an urgent e-mail from Erin. I know you’re upset with her—”
“Hey—” Spam tries to interject a second time.
“Shut up and let me finish, this is important,” scolds Lysa. “I called her but she didn’t pick up. Go to her house right now and make sure she’s okay.”
I pull my phone from my pocket. The ringer was turned off.
“But—” Spam says.
“No buts,” Lysa orders. “Just do it. That’s the deal with friends. We’ll patch this up later. And send me an e-mail once you know she’s okay, I’ll check back with my iPad.” With that, Lysa signs off and the screen goes blank.
“Lysa!” Both Spam and I scream her name at the same time. But we’re too late. She’s already gone. Spam tries to call back. No answer.
Spam half smiles. “You’ve got to give her credit, she tried.”
I chuckle. “Yep. She did.”
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
“That I’m glad you’re here,” I say.