“Of course you are, you idiot.” Spam gives me a light smack. “That’s the deal with friends. But I’m talking about this. Did Principal Roberts fry some circuits or what? What’s going on here?”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but I think he did some bad things and now he’s looking for a scapegoat. He tried to pin this on Journey once at Miss P’s house and it didn’t work. I think he’s in there right now figuring out how to make it look like Journey is responsible for her murder.”
I slip the car into gear but leave the headlights off and turn onto the road. Within a few minutes, the creepy abandoned building looms ahead in the dark.
“Do you have a plan?” Spam asks. “Because we’re going to need one.”
“We’ll leave the car out here on the road so we can get away fast. We’ll find a break in the fence. Sneak in and see what’s up. Maybe take a photo or two, then sneak out and call the cops.”
“Works for me.” She shudders and uses her phone to shoot a random photo of the dark, hulking cannery, barely outlined in moonlight.
I crawl down the pitch-dark road at a superslow speed, looking for a good place to park the car. Just as I pull over, my phone vibrates. I take it out of my pocket and stare at the name.
Spam looks at the screen. “It’s Journey. Answer it.”
“It’s not Journey.” I click the button but I don’t know what to say.
“Erin? This is Mr. Roberts.” The calm has returned to his voice. I flick the button to put it on speaker so Spam can hear. She and I share an ominous look. I put my finger to my lips.
“What’s up, Mr. Roberts?” I purposely try to sound light and bright.
“I know you followed us, dear.”
“What are you talking about?” Playing dumb wasn’t my plan but it’s all I’ve got.
“Cut the crap. I left the gate open. Bring the car and join us at the cannery loading dock. You have five minutes before I start piling up the bodies.”
Bodies, plural? Now I know he has Victor, too.
“See you in three.” I flip my phone into Spam’s lap and mash the accelerator.
Rachel’s car skids sideways as we rocket through the gate and thunder over the wooden boards. I glance at Spam. Her extreme-roller-coaster-fear face is in place. Her left hand is braced against the roof of the car and her right has a death grip on the door handle. The bad news is I’m pretty sure we’re not getting off this ride anytime soon.
“Hang on,” I say.
She flashes devil’s horns with both hands, shouting, “Go big or go home.” Then she grabs the door handle and braces against the roof again. God, I love her, because I know she’s just as terrified as I am but she’d rather spit than admit it.
I slow down as we round the corner of the building. At first I don’t see anything.
“Over there.” Spam points to the farthest cannery building, next to the water. I can just barely make out the shape of a dark figure standing near the gaping maw of the decrepit old building.
I roll slowly up to the building. When I’m no more than ten feet away, Principal Roberts steps into the beam of our headlights.
He’s holding a gun.
Journey’s van is parked just inside the loading-bay door.
“Turn off the engine. Leave the lights on and the keys in the ignition,” he orders.
40
When processing a crime scene you’ll pick up a lot of things. The trick is determining what is crime … and what is scene.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
Spam and I get out of the car. I step quickly toward the front, hoping to get a look inside the van. The back doors are closed and I don’t see anyone, inside or out.
“Erin and Samantha. The two of you showing up together makes my job much easier.” He points the gun at us. “Keep your hands where I can see them and hand over those cell phones.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and hold it up high. Spam scampers over to my side, clutching my jacket with one hand and holding her cell phone up high with the other. One glance at her screen tells me two things: One, she’s calling Lysa on FaceTime, but she’s reversed the camera so that it’s pointing at Mr. Roberts and his gun. And two: She set the speaker to mute.
I need to stall for time and hope Lysa picks up.
“Where are they, Carl?” I stick out my hip and give him a hard glare. This is not a brave-girl act. I’ve imagined this moment my whole life. He can’t hurt me any more than he already has.
“Oh, listen to the bravado on you,” he says. “If you’d rather call me Carl than Principal Roberts … or Dad … then be my guest.”
“What?” My voice cracks. So I was wrong. He found the one word that could destroy me. I glance at Spam.
Her face crumbles. “Mr. Roberts is your dad?”
I see a glimpse of Lysa’s face on the screen just before Spam kills the connection. At least now she knows something’s wrong.
“I don’t believe you. There’s no way. I have red hair.…” It’s a struggle, but I manage to keep my voice steady.
“Your hair is the spitting image of my Aunt Grace’s.” Mr. Roberts keeps the gun on us as he moves in and takes our phones. He tucks mine in one pocket and Spam’s in the other.