To Right the Wrongs

by Sheryl Scarborough

“Seriously?” I agree with Lysa. “You figured out how to fake your way into Victor’s lab?”

  She’s the picture of guilt. “Blame MythBusters, not me.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” I’m both glad and mad at this fact.

  “You said you were over getting into the lab,” she says.

  “And I am. I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  “You didn’t tell either of us, but you told Lyman?” Lysa is as incredulous as I am.

  Spam rolls her head from side to side. “It’s not like I told him, exactly. We were just talking about the locks and I mentioned MythBusters and he said he saw that episode.” Her eyes dart between us. “That was it, I swear.”

  “Okay, but where would Lyman get a photocopy of Victor’s fingerprint?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I gasp, remembering Victor demonstrating the method he wanted us to use by stamping his own thumbprint onto various slips of paper. “Oh crap. All he had to do was pick up the paper with Victor’s print on it.” I glance at Spam. “Did you—”

  “No.” She shakes her head vehemently. “And he didn’t say a word to me. But it makes sense.”

  I’m horrified at how this looks. “This is totally something I might have done.”

  “We completely, totally suck,” Lysa moans. “We know something we’re not supposed to know and we can’t report it because we have a history of breaking the rules. Plus … probation.”

  “No one will believe we didn’t break into the lab,” I say.

  Spam and Lysa look at each other helplessly and agree. “No one.”

  35

  The actual contents of a crime lab must remain mysterious to the public at large.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  “So who left the lab door open?” Lysa asks.

  “Blankenship?” Spam says.

  “She used the key,” I say. “And she wasn’t surprised to see the globe back together.”

  “She never seems surprised by anything,” Lysa says.

  “It is suspicious that she went straight into Victor’s lab, though,” I say. “Victor was perfectly clear, everyone is supposed to stay out of there.”

  “Maybe she’s like you, Erin,” Spam says. “Rules don’t necessarily apply.”

  I glare at Spam. Yes, I’m tense and irritated because when this blows up, I’ll be the one getting blamed. “Me? What about your flaky—oh, no, wait—sketchy boyfriend?”

  Spam backs up and points her finger at me. When she does, a ball of paper falls out of her hand.

  “You can’t blame me for this. And you shouldn’t blame him, either,” Spam says. “You of all people know how it feels not to know things about your life that you should know.” Her intensity loses steam and winds down. “You know?” Her voice cringes with apology.

  I do know. And that’s the hardest thing about this situation. I don’t blame Lyman. Not one little bit. I bend down and pick up the wad of paper that Spam dropped.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  Spam waves it off. “I don’t know. It was with the stuff on the counter from the globe. I kept it out because I didn’t remember it being in there with our stuff.”

  “That’s because it wasn’t.” I smooth it out. It’s actually a cocktail napkin with scalloped edges and purplish stains on one side. On the other side a message is scrawled in thick black ink: A COWARD DIES A THOUSAND DEATHS … but YOU ONLY ONCE!

  “What the—”

  I hold the napkin up for Lysa and Spam to read.

  “That’s from Shakespeare,” Lysa says.

  Spam smirks. “She’s delusional. That’s a Tupac lyric.”

  “It’s totally Shakespeare,” Lysa argues.

  “Tupac!”

  “You guys are missing the point. This is clearly a threat. We need to figure out why it’s here and who it’s for.”

  “We need to go back to Spam’s and work this out,” Lysa says.

  I tuck the napkin into my bag and we slip out of the storage room, across the classroom, and up the stairs. After carefully peeking around corners and confirming that the school is deserted, we make a mad, panicked run to Lysa’s car, jump inside, and slam the doors, without running into anyone.

  All I want to do is race to the safety of my attic and collapse onto the sofa. But the threat penned on this napkin has me shaking. It’s as if catching my mother’s killer made no difference at all. The terror is as fresh as it ever was.

  Something bad is about to happen. I can feel it.

  * * *

  While I roll the whiteboard out of the storage closet, Lysa retrieves the laptops and tablets from the chargers and Spam brings us down an array of fruit and chips for snacks.

  “You have to promise not to say anything about Lyman to anyone until I have a chance to talk to him,” Spam says.

  “Trust me. I’d prefer not to say anything about Lyman to anyone ever,” Lysa says. “But you have to promise to stay away from him until we figure this out. He could be dangerous.”

  I mime zipping my mouth closed and locking it with a key. I don’t even want to think about how Victor would react to knowing people were in his lab.

  The first thing I google are the words on the napkin. “Okay, you’re both right. The threat is derivative of a Tupac lyric…”

  “I told you. It’s the opening of ‘If I Die 2nite,’” Spam says. “Which, I’ll admit, is creepy.”

  Lysa opens her mouth to protest but I hold up a finger, silencing her.

  “Which is derivative of a quote from Shakespeare,” I say.

  Lysa makes a face at Spam.

  “The question is, who is it for?” I say. “Victor? Journey? Me?”

  “Miss P?” guesses Lysa.

  “She’s already—” Spam whispers.

  “Right. We have a lot to figure out,” I say. “Let’s get to work.”

  A hush and the blue glow from all the devices settles over the room. Spam spins her chair to face the television. She logs on to her game to try to hook up with Lyman.

  Lysa and I start by searching the name on the wanted poster: Todd Jenkins.

  It’s too common. There’s an actor, a doctor, and a photographer named Todd Jenkins, to start, and none of them is Lyman.

  “Not finding anything,” Lysa says.

  “Me either,” I agree.

  “Go back and plug in the date from the poster. Look for news stories about the kidnapping,” Spam calls over her shoulder.

  Lysa and I split up the task. I search for news articles about child kidnappings around that time and she searches his name around Columbus, Ohio, where the missing person notice says he was born.

  I receive a text from Journey that he and Victor made it to Salem and managed to get all the stuff into Victor’s car. He says they’ll be on their way home soon.

  YAY, I reply. Then I text: SO IS THERE ANYTHING COMPROMISING IN THE LAB?

  He writes back: WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

  Not really thinking this through, I continue: YOU KNOW. ANYTHING COOL, LIKE EVIDENCE OR???

  WHY? he writes back.

  Of course he wants to know why, I’m asking bizarre questions. JUST FANTASIZING ABOUT ALL THE COOL STUFF YOU’RE LEARNING ABOUT.

  THE CONTENTS OF A CRIME LAB SHOULD REMAIN MYSTERIOUS TO THE PUBLIC AT LARGE, he writes. THAT’S WHAT VICTOR SAYS, ANYWAY. BTW, HOW WAS THE MOVIE?

  “You guys, we never decided what movie we saw,” I say.

  “We didn’t see a movie, remember?” Spam says.

  “Yes, but everyone thinks we saw a movie, so we need to get our stories straight.”

  Lysa shakes her head. “I suggest we stick with the truth.”

  “Oh, I see. So we should just tell everyone you borrowed a designer leather thing from your mom without permission and left it in the storage room, and when we went back to get it we watched the creepy principal violate Victor’s rules and enter his lab. Only to then figure out our friend also broke into the secret, uber-secure lab to run his own fingerprint, provi
ng he was an abducted child. But we didn’t want to tell anyone because we’d get in trouble.”

  Spam and Lysa adopt similar “yeah that’s not good” expressions.

  “Exactly,” I say. “Lying about a movie is so much easier.”

  Suddenly Lysa gasps. “I found something.”

  Spam and I move to look over her shoulder.

  Lysa covers her mouth with her hand, reading ahead of us. Then I get to the spot and cover my mouth with my hand too.

  It’s an article from fourteen years ago about a couple who were found dead in their home from a drug overdose. And the same night, their toddler son went missing.

  Spam looks between me and Lysa, tears welling up in her eyes. “His parents are dead? How awful.” She thumps down into a chair. “He probably just found all of this out a few hours ago. And he’s alone.”

  “With a kidnapper,” I add.

  Spam gives me a grim look.

  Lysa searches off that article, finding more details. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Okay. So, yes, Lyman’s parents were known to have drug problems.”

  I lean over Lysa’s shoulder to read the article along with her. “They had both been in rehab several times. But not in months after their son was born.”

  Spam shakes her head. “Poor Lyman.”

  “Have you met his mom?” I ask.

  “You mean the kidnapper?” Spam asks.

  “Yes. The one you called the hover mom?”

  “Not yet,” Spam reports. “Why?”

  “Because, according to this article, there’s a good chance that she’s his real aunt.” Lysa swivels the laptop so Spam can see the article. “She disappeared the same night.”

  “Wow,” Spam says. “I can’t imagine what he must be feeling right now.”

  I know what Lyman’s feeling.

  “He’s feeling like his whole world just blew apart,” I say.

  36

  Missing children is a complex issue. They are classified as either missing, abducted, runaway, or thrownaway.

  —NISMART-2, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE

  We’re lucky that Mr. Ramos isn’t very nosy because we can just blast in here and invade Spam’s basement, any time of the day or night, and he never checks on us or asks a single question.

  “Look, this is huge,” Lysa says. “As big as catching Miss P’s murderer. And when they hear our story everything will make sense because Lyman was the skateboarder and this is probably why he didn’t come forward. We’ll tell them the truth. They might be a little mad at first. But we’ll make them understand.”

  “We have to make sure it is the truth before we tell anyone anything,” I say.

  Spam brings the whiteboard out of the closet and starts a new list. “The age-progressed photo looks exactly like him. He told me they move all the time and that his mom works nights at hospitals.”

  “He’s homeschooled,” I say. “Probably to keep his records out of the system.”

  Lysa taps her pen on the table. “What else?”

  “He found us,” I say.

  “Oh my gosh.” Spam perks up. “That’s right. He knew everything about us from the newspaper and TV. He even knew about Erin’s mom and Journey’s dad.” She smacks her forehead. “I’m so stupid. I’m so used to talking about you guys that I didn’t even think it was weird that he asked so many questions.”

  “All I know is when questions about my life kept bubbling up they made me determined,” I say. “Finally, I got to the point where I was going to get answers one way or the other.”

  “I think we can conclude that Lyman suspected there was something not right about the facts of his life,” Lysa says.

  I nod. “Trust me. It’s possible to know things like that without knowing them exactly.”

  “So, Lyman became friends with us, and figured out how to get into the crime lab. But how did he know about the AFIS computer and how to run a fingerprint?” Lysa asks.

  Spam sinks into her chair, flops her head onto the table, and covers her face with her arm.

  “Let me guess,” Lysa says. “You told him step-by-step how Erin did it?”

  Spam sits up. “In all fairness, that newspaper article gave up most of details. I maybe only said a few things.”

  “Running a print is incredibly easy,” I say.

  “The main thing is you have to let me talk to him before we tell anybody,” Spam says. “I owe him that.”

  “Okay, then let’s go to his house,” I suggest.

  “We can’t,” Spam says. “He says his mom has a phobia about unexpected visitors.”

  Lysa and I make eye contact. She nods. “Right. Adding wary of visitors to the list.”

  Spam scrawls the words onto the board. “I know it’s starting to sound like Lyman just used us to find his truth. But I really do know him and I’ll get through to him, I promise. I just need you guys to be patient.”

  I inhale deeply and breathe out slowly, hoping this simple act will unlock the layers of stress that are threatening to suffocate me.

  “You say you know him, Spam. But you really don’t. His life is a complete mess,” Lysa says. “And you didn’t know about any of it.”

  “In all fairness, I suspected something. Not this, though. I didn’t expect this,” Spam says. “And, if it’s all true, then none of it is his fault. So lay off a little.”

  “Spam’s right. Lyman’s the victim here,” I say.

  “You guys should spend the night,” Spam says. “Then we can keep working on this.”

  “I’m sure Rachel would be okay with it,” I say.

  Lysa nods. “I can probably do it, but I’ll have to go home first and pack a proper bag. You know my mom.”

  “I’ll go with you. Spam can stay here and troll for Lyman,” I say.

  “I can go too,” Spam says.

  “No, you can’t.”

  Spam looks confused.

  “Spam, you know how you get around interrogations—”

  Lysa interrupts. “If my dad even looks at you funny you’ll urp up everything you know about Lyman. You know you can’t hold it in.”

  Spam slumps in her chair. “You’re not wrong.”

  “Alright, we’re going,” I say.

  Spam holds up the leather pouch. “Don’t forget this.”

  * * *

  The ride to Lysa’s house is quick. I’m worried about the Lyman thing, but I’m also worried about something bigger.

  “What about Blankface? What was she doing in Miss P’s memorial globe and then in Victor’s lab?”

  Lysa shrugs. “Being nosy. That seems to be her superpower.”

  “Is that all, though? She was taking a pretty big risk.”

  “She obviously thinks she’s more important than Victor,” Lysa says.

  “But is she trying to hurt Victor?” I ask.

  “Why would she want to do that?”

  “I forgot to tell you, but when I was out to dinner with Journey the other night, Blankface was in the same restaurant having dinner with Arletta Stone.”

  “No way,” Lysa says. “What could those two possibly have in common?”

  “I don’t know. But they’ve both been hanging around Victor’s lab. Yesterday the coach brought Arletta down there and she was taking pictures on her phone.”

  “Why?” Lysa asks.

  “Good question. I’m worried about Victor. I don’t think he’s paying attention to stuff. Haven’t you noticed how distracted he is?” I ask.

  “I’ve noticed he’s busy,” Lysa says.

  “Yeah. But he’s also scattered. There was a problem when he was at the FBI and it’s still a problem. He might not be paying close attention to what the coach or Blankface are up to. And apparently, everyone in town knows he’s reexamining Jameson’s case. That could be dangerous.”

  “Wow. Okay,” Lysa says. “My dad calls that multiple bogies, like attacks coming from all sides.”

  “That’s exactly what Victor’s dealing with. Which is why I
really can’t disappoint him with this lab thing. I can’t be another bogie.”

  “I understand. Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out.” Lysa pulls into her driveway and her movements become very deliberate as she psyches herself up to deal with her parents. “But first we have to make it in and out past my parents, the Incredible Hulk and Wonder Woman.

  I smile. Lysa’s parents pretty much are a dynamic duo.

  * * *

  Watching Lysa handle her parents is pure poetry.

  As we step in the front door she calls out, while slipping the leather pouch into the coat closet.

  Her mom pops through the doorway to the family room. “Hey, girls,” she says. “How was the movie? What did you see?”

  I freeze, because we never agreed on a movie.

  But Lysa easily spins a line as smooth as café au lait. “Oh, the lines were really long,” she says. “So we just decided to go back to Spam’s and watch a video. We watched the first Mad Max.”

  “Old school.” Her mom lights up. “That’s one of my all-time favorite movies.”

  “I know,” Lysa says. “And I can see why. Anyway, we want to watch the next one, so can I spend the night at Spam’s?”

  “Her father’s home, right?” Mrs. Martin asks.

  “Oh yes,” Lysa says. “Along with all of her little brothers.”

  “Okay. Fine with me,” she says. She pats my elbow. “Good to see you again, Erin.”

  “Good to see you, too, Mrs. Martin.”

  Mrs. Martin walks out, but then walks back in. “When you leave here you’re going straight back to Spam’s house, correct?”

  “Yep,” Lysa says. “I just need to get my stuff.”

  We go into her bedroom and she packs a few things—pajamas, toothbrush, nail polish.

  I give her a look. “Nail polish?”

  She shrugs.

  “Bye,” she calls out as we slip out of the house.

  As soon as we’re settled in the car and she’s backing out of the driveway, I send Spam a text saying: WE’RE ON OUR WAY BACK.

  She writes back: NO. LYMAN’S HERE AND HE’S FREAKING OUT.

  “Oh no.” I read Spam’s text to Lysa.

  Lysa presses the gas pedal. “Is she in danger? Tell her to do whatever she needs to do to stay safe. Call 911. Lock herself in a bathroom. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”