—WIKIPEDIA
Journey has a way about him that’s so easy, it’s as if I’ve known him my whole life. And yet this boyfriend/girlfriend thing is still new and exciting, which explains why my heart goes all drum solo the moment he enters the room.
“Hey, you.” I smile extra warmly. “How’d you know I was up here?”
“I could see the light around the edge of the window when I pulled in the driveway,” he says. “Plus, Victor said you were upstairs.” He drops a stack of bound notebooks, each about two inches thick, onto the sofa between us before bending over to give me a kiss.
I cringe a little remembering the overflowing laundry basket he had to maneuver around to get here. But then I rise to meet him halfway and slide my hand around the back of his neck. We share a nice, simple, glad-to-see-you kiss. Though he lingers just a bit. After a few seconds, he pulls away and plops down on the sofa.
“What are these?” I point to the notebooks.
“Transcripts from my father’s trial.”
“Oh my god!” My hands flutter. “I have something to tell you. But you have to promise not to get mad.”
I nervously topple the stack of notebooks into my lap and randomly flip the pages. I’m not actually looking at them, just giving my fingers something to do while I try to figure out how to tell him about the link to his father’s case. After Victor’s comment, I don’t want Spam to sound stalker-y. Also, I’m leery of admitting that both Spam and Lysa took photos of the murder board.
Frowning, he scoots a little farther away from me on the sofa. “Let me go first.”
“No,” I interrupt. “Mine’s important.”
“So’s mine.” He gently takes the notebooks out of my lap and moves them to the coffee table … out of my reach.
This resembles being scolded, but maybe I’m being oversensitive after Victor’s comment. I sit back, pinch my lips together, and fold my hands in my lap.
“First,” he says, nodding to the stack of notebooks, “Victor expects me to read those.”
“Of course.” I curl one leg under me. “You’ll read all of them. I just thought I’d read some too, so I can help. And then we can talk about the case and come up with theories and stuff. Seriously, Iron Rain has had its share of murders. Right? I’m surprised that I didn’t know anything about this case before I met you, but I started reading about it.”
“How much do you know?” Journey asks.
“Hardly anything.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He’s so serious and finger-pointy that it’s kind of freaking me out. “Okay. Well, I know that the victim was a kid.”
“He wasn’t a little kid,” Journey says quickly. “He was sixteen, same as you.”
“Right. And that’s still really sad.”
“Agreed,” Journey says. “But the fact he was a kid went hard against my father.”
Something’s wrong with this conversation. There’s something Journey wants to say, but isn’t. “I’m not getting a good vibe here. You do want my help with this, right?”
“Don’t get mad.” He draws in a ragged breath. “I know you and your friends mean well. Your intentions are all good. But here’s the thing. In your situation, nothing was going to bring your mother back.”
I gasp. It’s true, but he says it so bluntly it’s like being punched in the face.
“My father’s alive. And if we do everything right there is a slim chance we could bring him home.” Journey’s gaze is intensely piercing. “I can’t risk screwing that up by not following the rules.”
I nod and try to swallow, but a chunk of humiliation blocks my throat. My lip trembles. “You’re saying if I get involved I’ll screw it up?”
“Erin, you stole your mother’s murder box,” he says.
“Yes. Yes, I did.” I get up from the sofa and start to pace. “And it was a good thing I did, too. Because that was the only way we knew that the person who murdered Miss P was the same person who murdered my mother.”
“But it so easily could have gone the other way,” Journey argues. “If Principal Roberts hadn’t tried to kill us, any evidence contained in that box would have been inadmissible in court simply because you took it. He could have gone free.”
“Okay.” It feels like total crap to have my mistakes thrown back in my face, but I hear what he’s saying. The horrible thing is there’s no way I can tell him about Spam’s discovery now. He’ll never understand or believe it was accidental. “I promise I won’t mess with your father’s case. I just want to be supportive and share in this huge moment.”
Journey pats the sofa next to him. I move back and sit down. He puts his arm around me and pulls me close. “I know. And your support means everything to me,” he says. “We wouldn’t even be getting this opportunity if it hadn’t been for you. But from what I’ve read so far, this case is going to get messy.”
I wince. “What happened? Did your father and this kid get into a fight, or what?”
Journey makes a dejected cluck. “Worse. My father set up a motion-activated trap … with a gun.”
“So, he meant to kill an animal?” I’m tentative because let’s face it, killing a defenseless animal isn’t great either.
“At the trial, he claimed he wasn’t trying to kill anything—that he armed the trap with a paintball gun, not a real one. And he did it to prove that someone was harassing our family.”
“Oh wow,” I say. “That’s intense.”
“Exactly. And it’s why I can’t let anything mess this up.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay.” I pick up my own book. “We can just hang out here and read together.” I sit back and put my feet up on the coffee table.
“You’re not mad?” he asks.
“I get where you’re coming from.” I’m not mad. I want to help Journey, not make things worse.
Journey lies down on the sofa with his head in my lap and opens one of the notebooks. I let my fingers play through his hair in between turning pages.
Every now and then, he takes my hand and kisses my palm gently. When he does I pause to study his face, and wonder if he really thinks I’m that much of a screwup.
It’s not long before we hear the squeaky stairs and Victor sticks his head up into the attic. “Hey, kids. Rachel just sent me a text reminding me that school isn’t out yet, which means Erin has a curfew. So, you know…”
“Oh yeah.” Journey checks his phone. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Me either.”
We close up the attic and I walk Journey down to his car. Our goodbye is brief and quiet. Soft kiss. He’s probably as deeply alone in his own thoughts as I am in mine.
When I get back to my room I send a joint message to both Spam and Lysa: PLEASE DON’T MENTION THE WOMAN IN THE CAR TO JOURNEY. I’LL EXPLAIN LATER.
It’s the best I can muster under the circumstances.
Maybe I’ll feel different after a night’s sleep.
11
Shotguns are weapons of impulse. They’re heavy, loud, imprecise, short-ranged, and hard to conceal. Which is why they’re generally not the choice of most criminals.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
The lunch table at the side of the cafeteria has apparently become ours, since we’re the only ones who ever sit here and every time we show up, it’s empty. I arrive first and while I’m waiting I take out my notebook and start a list of the growing number of mysteries swirling around.
There’s the crazy driver, who’s linked to Journey’s dad’s case. Strange.
There’s Spam’s elusive soul mate, the skateboarder. Mysterious.
There’s the creepy new principal. Ugh, so creepy.
There’s Jameson’s case—which I promised to stay out of. Compelling.
There’s Victor’s problem at work—which he says he’s dealing with. Scary.
And the FedEx envelope—which Victor is clearly not dealing with. Crazy making.
I look over the list. More than enough
to keep a mystery addict engaged. But the things calling to me the hardest are the ones I really should stay away from.
I’m hoping Lysa and Spam will arrive before Journey so I can head them off about discussing his father’s case. But when I see all three of them coming toward me at the same time I resort to a quick text to Spam and Lysa: SRSLY, ZIP IT ABOUT WOMAN DRIVER IN FRONT OF JOURNEY.
Lysa checks her phone as she’s walking. She makes eye contact and nods. Spam checks her wrist. I’m hoping for the best.
I slide over to make room for Journey next to me. Spam and Lysa take places opposite us. Today it appears we’ve each bought a different food item from the cafeteria. Mine was supposed to be a chicken sandwich, but when I unwrap the package the breading on the outside is so thick it looks like a clump of kitty litter.
“Gross.” I wrap it back up.
Journey peeks in. “Is that the chicken san? I wanted it but they were gone by the time I got there.”
I shove it in his direction. “I’m not sure it’s really chicken, but it’s all yours.”
He waves his own wrapped food item. “Anyone want a bean and cheese burrito?”
“Oh. Me.” Spam reaches grabby hands across the table. “I’m starving and seriously need carbs.” She passes her lunch to me, which is two apples and a banana. “Here, eat mine.”
I shrug. “Hmmm. Perfect.”
Lysa looks at her salad. “I’m still happy with you.”
Spam nudges Lysa. “How many do you have now?”
My insides jump and I die a little. I haven’t had a chance to talk to them yet. I sneak a worried glance at Journey; fortunately he’s absorbed in devouring his sandwich.
Lysa pulls out her phone and scrolls through. “Six videos. Fifteen witness statements and seven stills.” She looks up. “They all say the same thing: The driver was not watching where she was going.”
Journey perks up. “What are you talking about?”
Lysa sets her phone aside. “We’re gathering witness statements from the accident.”
“Did someone ask you to do this?” Journey asks.
I shoot him a quick look. It’s day one and he already sounds like Victor.
Spam scrunches her mouth to the side and gives me a pointed look before answering him. “No … why?”
Journey backtracks a little. “I thought you guys promised no more stuff.” He makes a waffling hand gesture.
“We promised no more Cheater Checks,” Lysa says, stashing her phone. “But this is different.”
“Is it?” Journey asks.
“Uh, yeah.” Lysa, Spam, and I all say it at the same time.
“Don’t you remember when you were on the receiving end of this kind of tyranny and blaming by the police?” I realize that “tyranny” is maybe taking it a little far. But Journey knows my commitment to the truth. Especially for people our age.
He brings his hands up. “Fine. I’ll stay out of it. Which means you need to leave me out of it. Because I’m pretty sure Victor expects me to report stuff like this to him.”
I gasp. “Did he say that?”
Journey shakes his head. “No. But intern is like boots on the ground, have your back—”
“Butt monkey.” Spam coughs into her fist as she says it.
Journey levels a serious look at Spam. “Dude. Did you just insult-cough me?”
Spam shrugs.
Lysa and I stifle giggles.
Journey gets up. “I have to go. Duty calls.” He wads up his sandwich wrapping.
Now it’s my turn to say it. “Don’t be mad.”
He plants a kiss on the top of my head. “Not mad, late for a game. See you later.” As he passes a trash can he slam-dunks his lunch trash with full basketball style. He glances back to see if I was watching and blows me an air-kiss as a reward.
I blow an air-kiss back and my eyes stay on him until he disappears out the door.
I turn back to Lysa and Spam and find them smushed together, frozen in a goofy pose: Spam’s pulling down the skin around her eyes and Lysa’s sticking out her tongue.
“Stop.”
“We can’t help it,” Lysa says. “You guys are just so darn cute it makes our faces freeze like that.”
Spam leans forward. “So, Journey’s narcing us out to Victor now?”
I hedge. I don’t want to point-blank say Journey forbids us to work on his father’s case. But I have to tell them something. “He’s just really sensitive about Jameson’s case. You know how that is.”
They frown, not buying it.
“I started reading about it online, and wow,” Lysa says.
“FYI, me too,” admits Spam. “I wouldn’t want to talk about it either.”
“No. Wait.” I panic. “That’s not why he doesn’t want to talk about it. I mean, it is and it isn’t. Basically, you both should stop reading about it.”
“Right, because you’re not?” Spam gives me her famous one-raised-eyebrow look.
“I’m not…”
Spam tilts her head at me. Then she and Lysa share a chuckle. “It’s just us,” Spam says. “So, you know, keep it real.”
“I’m real. Really real,” I say. “It’s just Journey asked me—us—not to get involved.”
Lysa smooths her napkin on the table and shares a sideways glance with Spam. Their indignation rises. “Why does he care what we do?”
“It’s not that. It’s that—well, this isn’t about us.”
Now they’re both laughing.
“Stop it, you guys.” I harden my look. “Lysa, you try to get us to follow all of our parents’ rules every single time. But this time you’re blasting me for not reading up on a case we were told to stay out of.”
Lysa hangs her head a little, but a sneaky grin tugs at her lips. “C’mon. You know the urge is burning inside you. You want to try to figure it out too.”
“Fine. I do. But Journey’s worried we might do something to damage his father’s chances for a new trial. He says he’ll tell me things as he reads them in the transcripts, and I’m content with that.”
Spam points. “Which means you are curious.”
“Transcripts are public record. Anyone can read them,” Lysa says.
“Calm down, both of you. I’m trying to be supportive of my man and not cause any trouble.”
“It’s a really sad case. The victim was a runaway,” Spam says.
Unbelievable. She just goes on talking about it as if she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.
“Yeah. Apparently, he had a pretty tough life,” Lysa says.
They’re not listening to me.
“But they managed to trace him back to his family,” Spam says. “So that was good.”
“How’d they do that? How’d they trace him back?” I’m powerless to resist. It’s always the details of a case that suck me in.
“I’m not sure,” Spam says. “I haven’t read that far yet.”
“They called the shooting accidental.” Lysa slips into her judgmental mom voice. “But what adult doesn’t know that rigging a shotgun up to a motion sensor is asking for something bad to happen?”
“Journey says it was a paintball gun.” I don’t want to be defensive, but a definite tone is creeping into this discussion. “And, by the way, you sounded just like your father when you said that.”
Lysa wrinkles her nose and gives me a sour look.
“Why did he use a gun at all?” Spam asks. “That’s pretty crazy, if you think about it.”
“Journey says his family was being harassed and the police wouldn’t believe them. His father thought paint splashed on a person would be proof. Evidence they could see. Instead, everyone just wanted to believe the cannery was haunted.”
“Right. But he could have set up a camera to get proof just as easily as he set up a gun,” Spam says. “Maybe easier.”
“What if he didn’t own a camera?” I say.
“Erin, your number one rule is always follow the evidence,” Lysa says.
&nbs
p; “And I stand by that,” I say.
“Then tell me this, why did Journey want Miss P to test his father’s DNA when the main evidence in this case was a gun? And not a paintball gun, either. Police never found one of those at his house,” Lysa says.
She throws me with the DNA question. “Maybe they found DNA on the gun.”
“Not possible,” Spam says. “There was no crime lab back then, so even if there was DNA, there was no one to find it.”
I sink down, forced to admit that Jameson’s case doesn’t sound very winnable.
“Look, my father says it’s really hard to overturn a murder conviction,” Lysa says. “And he was Mr. Michaels’s attorney.”
“We can’t turn our backs on this. What if Journey’s father is innocent? Don’t we have to try?” My voice slips into pleading mode. “Doesn’t everybody—us included—have to do everything we possibly can to right a horrible wrong?”
Lysa and Spam exchange a look.
“You’re the one who promised we wouldn’t get involved,” Spam says.
“But I get it now. I can’t be fully supportive of Journey and his father’s case because I don’t have enough information about what happened. And not having enough information creates too many questions, which makes Mr. Michaels look guilty.”
Like Victor says: Information is power.
“We need to re-create the Jameson murder board,” I say. “We need to do what we do. Ask the questions no one else is asking. Not to meddle, but because we might land on something they missed. It’s happened before.”
“It totally has,” Lysa agrees.
“I just don’t want to do it in the attic because…”
“You don’t want Journey to see it,” Lysa says.
“Or Victor.”
“My basement then,” Spam says. “I can get rid of the littles by letting them watch TV in my room. But we have to keep working on the skateboarder case, too. It’s important.” She pauses. “And not just because he’s cute … even though he totally is.”
“I agree,” Lysa says.
“Okay. Spam’s basement, skateboarder, and murder board.” I raise my hand for a high five. “Chinese for dinner?”
12
Rigging a shotgun up to a motion sensor is asking for something bad to happen.
To Right the Wrongs Page 6