by Lisa Jackson
Pull yourself together!
When she reached the highway, she barely stopped, just rolled through the light and punched it, the Explorer leaping forward and roaring away.
Around a wide corner, she saw the back end of a lumbering travel coach, coasting along at forty. Through the rain, she saw no oncoming car, so she hit the gas and passed, the driver honking irritably. As it turned out the coach was following a slow-moving pickup. She sped past both the coach and truck, then caught her wild eyes in the mirror.
The road crested, and barreling in the opposite direction was a huge semi.
What’re you doing, Rachel?
Her heart knocked and she could barely breathe. She was a mother, an adult, a . . . She glanced in the rearview and saw that the white car had peeked its nose out from behind the RV, but ducked back as the driver saw the semi.
“Good. Stay there,” she said, then caught herself.
What was wrong with her?
She took in deep breaths, switched on the radio, and with one eye on the mirror turned at the next country road and drove into the hills, losing the white car.
If it was really following you.
She glanced at her reflection again. “Don’t do this,” she warned, then saw, in her sideview mirror, the white car turn off of the highway.
CHAPTER 7
Violet is dead?
Oh. God.
“No,” Rachel’s voice squeaked. She stood in the kitchen, her jacket dripping, staring at the messages on her phone. From Cade, from Lila and Mercedes, all saying the same thing, all relaying horror and shock.
No, no, no. It just couldn’t be. She’d seen Violet not long ago at the gas station . . . her car idling, facing the opposite way, while Rachel was tanking up. Violet, a small dog on her shoulder, had managed a thin wave. Rachel had been in a hurry . . . always in a hurry, at that time, late to pick up the kids at school. She didn’t even remember waving back.
And now she was gone?
Rachel slid into one of the kitchen chairs and fired up her computer, but information, so far, was sketchy. Just a report that Violet Sperry had been found dead in her home by her husband early this morning. The police had been called and were making no comments as to the cause of death, only to say it was “unexpected” and “under investigation.” What did that mean? That foul play was suspected? That she’d been the victim of what? Homicide? Suicide? What?
She dialed Cade’s cell, and when he answered on the first ring, she said, “Hey. It’s Rachel. Got your message about . . . about Violet. What happened?”
“I was called to the scene this morning,” he said. “Violet was dead, had been for a few hours. Her husband found her in the house.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true.”
“How did she die?”
“We’re still waiting for an autopsy. County jurisdiction, but I’ll be informed.”
“So not natural causes?”
“No.”
“Was it murder?” No reason to beat around the bush.
“It looks like.”
“Jesus, Cade,” she whispered and she felt her blood chill in her veins. “Why?”
“We don’t know.”
Of course. Rachel leaned against the counter. She’d been the daughter of a detective, then the wife of one; she understood. “How . . . how is her husband? Oh, God, I don’t even know him. He’s the furniture guy, right?”
“Leonard Sperry. Yes, works with the family business.” He sighed. “I talked with him. He’s not doing so great. In shock.”
“I bet,” she said. “Aren’t we all?”
A pause. Then, “I wanted you to know so I came by. Earlier. To tell you in person. You weren’t there.” Something in his voice caught her attention.
“Running errands. Actually limping. The Explorer had a flat. Fixed now.”
He hesitated again. What was that all about?
“And ... ?” she encouraged.
“And I was worried about you. Wanted you to hear it from me and so . . . I let myself in.”
“You let yourself . . . you mean, you ‘let yourself in’ as into the house?” she asked, stunned. “My house?”
“Yeah.”
She couldn’t believe it. “Really? You knew I wasn’t here and you just walked right in? How?” But she already got it. He had a key. She’d never changed the locks because if he needed to get in for the kids . . . oh, hell. “Wow, Cade. You . . . you can’t just come busting into my home. You know that.”
“I said I was worried. One of your classmates was dead, probably murdered on the anniversary of your brother’s death, there was the article in the newspaper, and . . .”
“And you think I’m so . . . mentally unstable, so crazy, I couldn’t deal with it,” she charged, her temper skyrocketing.
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you thought!” she spat out with more venom than she’d expected. Calm down. Don’t add fuel to the fire.
“You don’t know what I thought, but I can tell that you’re just fine.”
“That’s right. I am,” she snapped, then caught herself and said, “No . . . I mean, I’m sorry. Overreacting. You’re right; everything today is . . . shocking. Terrible. Ramped up because of the day, probably.” With difficulty she tamped down the fury that had spurted through her veins. He was just trying to help. And Violet was dead. Killed. Calmer, she said, “I’m surprised you came into the house. That’s all. We had a deal, right? Only if there was an emergency.”
“And your friend’s death doesn’t qualify?”
She wasn’t going to be baited. “Look, you can’t come in here, Cade. Unless you think there’s a danger to the kids. Got it? We’re divorced.”
“I know.”
She glanced around the room with the new knowledge that he’d been in here. Maybe looking at her phone and computer and God knew what else. Taking the phone with her, she made her way along the short hallway to the kids’ rooms and the stairs. Had he gone up to her bedroom? The room under the eaves they’d once shared.
She was more in control now, her voice low and cold and steady. “This is my space, Cade. Mine and the kids’. One I carved out when you . . . when you left, so you can’t just walk in here uninvited.” She pushed her hair from her eyes with her free hand.
Her comment was met with silence and she closed her eyes for a second. Counted backward, mentally ticking off her heartbeats as she controlled herself.
“I was just worried,” he finally said, his voice clipped. “That’s all. I know this is a tough day for you, and then on top of it, Mercedes writes that story, the first of a series about Luke, and Violet Sperry dies. Both were friends of yours.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Look . . . I don’t want to fight.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Well, I was pissed,” she admitted. “We agreed to have boundaries.”
“I was concerned, Rach, that’s all. But I guess I shouldn’t have been. You can obviously handle this and whatever else comes your way.” With that, he hung up, the disconnect a distinct click in her ear.
You’re an idiot, that horrid voice reminded her. He’s the kids’ father; he was concerned, that’s all. You don’t have to always act like a damned shrew.
“Wounded party,” she said aloud, arguing.
Fine. Then victim.
“No!”
So we’re back to crazy person whose temper controls her tongue?
“Oh, shut up!” she said aloud and stormed back to the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator, eyed the bottle of wine, and slammed the door shut. She still had a couple of hours before she picked up the kids, and then later, she was off to Lila’s for the damned meeting.
Lila.
“Ex-Stepmommy Dearest and ex-BFF all rolled into one.” She shook her head. “Awesome.”
Pull yourself together; let it all go. For God’s sake: Violet’s dead. Possibly murdered! Remember: It was Violet’s testim
ony that helped convince the judge that you weren’t responsible for Luke’s death. She provided one of the reasons for “reasonable doubt,” though the case never went to a jury.
A new sadness chased away her anger at Cade. It was true. Violet, deeply myopic and not wearing glasses in the dark cannery that night, had sworn she’d seen a flash from a gun’s muzzle just before Luke fell, and the flash had been near Rachel but not from her own gun. Violet’s shaky testimony coupled with the fact that there was no gunshot residue on Rachel’s hands or clothes had helped her defense.
Some people thought she’d somehow washed her hands clean on the way to the station, that with her father’s help she’d twisted the evidence to her advantage, which was wrong. She’d been numb after Luke had collapsed, yes, and had been grateful that her father had been first on the scene. But as much of a kaleidoscope of blurry, painful images and emotions as that night had become, she hadn’t cleaned up. Those tissues her father had given her, to wipe her eyes and blow her nose . . . they hadn’t been treated, and even so, they wouldn’t have destroyed the gunpowder residue.
But then, what did she really remember?
Don’t go there.
Not now.
Not ever.
It serves no purpose.
Just get through this miserable day.
* * *
Blam!
The back of Dylan’s head slammed against his locker and his teeth rattled in his jaw.
“Just do it,” Brad Schmidt ordered. His face was pressed nose to nose with Dylan’s, his strong fingers holding Dylan’s shoulders in a death grip, his beefy body nearly on top of him. The rest of the hallway was deserted except for Dash Parker, the lookout, standing at the juncture to the science wing.
“I can’t, man.” Dylan’s back was pressed up against his locker.
“You have to!” Schmidt’s pupils dilated. His breath smelled of pizza and the pores on his nose seemed enormous. “You promised.” He gave Dylan a shake for emphasis. In a letterman’s jacket, black T-shirt, and camo shorts, Schmidt was furious, the nostrils on his nose flaring, his skin turning red.
“I’ll get caught.”
“Then find a way to not get caught. Okay? You’re a smart little shit. You’ll figure it out.”
“No, I think . . . I think my mom is on to me.”
“Then be fuckin’ careful, got it?” Another hard shake and it was all Dylan could do to stand his ground, to not pee his damned pants. Schmidt had a temper, a legendary temper that had only helped him become an all-conference tackle on the football team. “We had a deal.”
“I’m telling you, I can’t.”
Brad’s thick lip curled over his teeth and his dark eyes narrowed. “Who’re you more afraid of, Ryder? Me? Or Mommy?”
“She can be pretty badass.”
“Not as badass as me, I’ll bet.” The thick fingers dug deep into Dylan’s muscles. “Remember that.”
“Hey! Schmidt!” Parker hissed, his head whipping around. He was tall and lean, a defensive end in football, third base in baseball, an all-around jock, and a sycophant to Schmidt, which made him worse in Dylan’s opinion. “Walsh is coming!”
“Sheeeit.”
Marlene Walsh was a no-nonsense vice principal. Dylan had been busted by her on more than one occasion for cutting class. So far, nothing more serious. But Parker and Schmidt, who both, it was rumored, had scholarships to local colleges, couldn’t afford trouble. Or so Dylan hoped.
“This isn’t the end of it,” Schmidt growled. He pushed Dylan hard against the locker again, then took off at a dead run, with the faster Parker leading the way to the staircase at the far end of the hall.
Damn it, Dylan thought, caught between the ends of the hallway, one with the stairs at the front of the building and Schmidt, the other with the ever-approaching Walsh. He heard the steady click, click of her heels as she headed this way. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip, turned, and opened his locker. Then, thinking about what was inside, he grabbed his algebra book, slammed it shut, and turned, facing the corner just as Walsh appeared.
“Well, Mr. Ryder,” she said on a sigh and glanced at her watch. “What’re you doing skulking around the halls when you should be in class?” She was a petite woman with gray streaks in her short blond hair, rimless glasses, and a perpetually benign expression. Today, she was dressed in a red blazer with black pants and a white blouse.
Dylan wasn’t fooled by the smile that rained on him right now. Rumor had it that she’d earned a black belt in tae kwon do. He believed it. Beneath her harmless facade, there was an inner toughness; he could feel it.
“I’ve got study hall,” he said and tried to get past her.
“And you have a hall pass?”
“No . . .” Couldn’t lie about that.
“I see.”
He tried and failed not to let his shoulders slump.
“You know, Mr. Ryder, you’re skating on thin ice. If I’m not mistaken, this is the second time this semester when you’ve been out of class without a pass.”
How did she know these things? How could she keep track of it all in her head? There were like eight hundred or so kids in the school and she knew how many times he’d cut?
“Come with me.” She hiked her chin toward the front of the school, to indicate the staircase where Schmidt and Parker had fled. “Let’s call your mother,” she said. When he didn’t respond as he glumly tagged after her, she added, “Or maybe your dad.”
Dylan died inside. His parents, independently and together, would kill him if they found out he was ditching class. “I, um, it’s not my study hall.”
“I know. You’re supposed to be in Mrs. Marsden’s English.”
Oh. God. “Yeah.”
They reached the administration area and Walsh led him between two desks to her private office, a small room with a single window looking out to the front lawn. Her desk was neat, a few piles of perfectly stacked papers and her computer monitor along with a handful of pictures of her husband and daughter on one corner. Dylan knew. He’d been here before. Her framed degrees hung on the wall behind her.
“Sit,” she said, indicating one of two visitors’ chairs wedged between a bookcase and her desk.
He did and tried not to slouch as she took her own chair behind the desk.
“So, Mr. Ryder, how’re we going to change this behavior?”
He hated the “we” almost as much as he detested being called “Mr.” It all seemed so phony, and come on, there was no “we.” He met her gaze. “I won’t cut again. I promise,” he said, and she brushed off his words with a wave of her hand.
“We’ve been here before. That’s what you said in . . . October, I think.” She adjusted her glasses, then typed on her keyboard and studied the computer screen. “Oh, wait. I’m mistaken. It was the first week in November. And then again in February. And now, here we are. Again. Three strikes.”
He didn’t know what to say, but she filled in the awkward gap. “As you have probably heard, the school district is retrofitting those old wings of the school with cameras, and it just hasn’t happened yet because of budget problems and getting the right technician and all kinds of red tape.”
So what, he wondered but was smart enough not to say it.
“I hear you’re good at that kind of thing. Mr. Tallarico says you’ve got a natural talent for computers and cameras and all things technical.”
“Yeah?” he said slowly. Where was this going?
“So I was thinking . . . maybe you could help us out.”
His mind was racing. Was she offering him an out? “So, you wouldn’t call my mom, then?” How lucky was this?
“Oh, no. I’m calling her. Of course.” Again she offered him her trademark humorless smile. “This is, after all, your third offense.” She leaned back in her chair. “So, what do you say?”
“Uh . . . sure. I guess.” He kept expecting some trap, something more than a call to his mom, but it didn’t happen.
“Good.” Walsh gave a quick nod, as if agreeing with herself. “You can start on Monday. Come and see me after school.” She stood then and the grilling was over as she said, “I’m trusting you’ll head straight to Mrs. Marsden’s class. You won’t pass ‘go,’ you won’t ‘collect two hundred dollars,’ and you’ll avoid Mr. Schmidt and Mr. Parker as best you can.”
His mouth almost fell open. She knew? Without cameras, how . . . ? He didn’t wait around and ask, but nearly knocked the chair over as he scrambled to get out of the tight, airless office. His mother was going to go through the roof, he decided, but for the moment, he’d avoided a serious beating from Schmidt.
Right, and what are you going to do about him?
Dylan didn’t know, but he told himself as he hurried to English class, he’d figure out a way to get Schmidt what he needed. Then, maybe he’d be free. The school year was almost over and Schmidt was heading to college. Hopefully, he’d be smarter in the future and stop stepping into jams like this.
Really?
Cuz everyone knows.
You’ve become the supplier, and face it, you like the money.
Once Schmidt leaves, there will be another bully. And then another one for the whole time you’re in this sucky high school.
How the hell are you gonna get out?
“Crap,” he muttered under his breath as he reached the door to room 107. He’d find a way.
Somehow.
He’d have to.
CHAPTER 8
Rachel picked up the kids at school, and if they noticed her bad mood, they didn’t say a word on the way home. Harper was deep into her phone, texting while seated next to Reno in the backseat. Dylan, ever-present earbuds in place, looked out the passenger window and kept to himself. The only indication that he wasn’t in his usual fantasy world was the fact that his head, deep in the hood of his sweatshirt, wasn’t bobbing to the music only he could hear.
Maybe his confrontation with the school administration had made an impact.
Rachel hoped so.
Her own day had gone from bad to worse with the pall of Violet’s death hanging over her. Her front tire had gone flat on her way back from the cemetery, then her aging workhorse of a printer had finally given up the ghost in the middle of printing notes for the damned meeting tonight, and finally, to top things off, the school had called to report that Dylan had been caught cutting class.