Feelings of dread, flashbacks, nightmares, and even a loss of personal identity, also known as a fugue state, can be expected after an intense, emotional, or life-threatening event.
—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.