Paranoid

by Lisa Jackson

  “No, I’ve got this,” she said firmly as she stood. “You need to get to work.”

  “Forget work.” He paused, knowing she wanted to handle things herself; it was her thing. “I’ve got time coming. I have no problem calling in.”

  “No. I’ll be fine.” She flashed him one of her rare smiles and her gold eyes gleamed for a second. “Remember: I’ve got Reno.”

  “Guard dog less than extraordinaire.”

  “Exactly.”

  He didn’t like it but saw she couldn’t be moved. “Okay. Fine. But I’ll be by to make sure the security system is online.”

  “Really, Cade, you don’t need to do this.”

  “Yeah, I think I do,” he said and decided to be brutally honest. “My kids live here with my ex-wife, and contrary to what she may believe, I care about her, want her safe.”

  Rachel drew in a long breath. “Oh . . . I don’t think that . . .”

  “I don’t care what you think, Rach, it’s the truth.” She looked about to argue again, so he started for the door. “In the meantime, keep the dog on alert and the doors and windows locked.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Dylan was sweating bullets.

  His knee was twitching and he kept glancing at the clock, ticking off the seconds of the school day, maybe of his life.

  His mom was on to him.

  He saw her poking around his room this morning, finding his stash.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  Ten minutes left in class. Then he’d have to avoid that moron Schmidt and his goons, then deal with the smug assistant principal.

  He felt as if the walls were closing in on him, that he had nowhere to turn, no one to confide in.

  “Dylan?” Tori Suzuki’s voice brought him back to the present, at his terminal in the library media room, where he and the rest of the class were supposed to be finishing their English essays.

  He looked up and caught her smiling at him from the next computer terminal. “Sorry to bother you, but . . .”

  Dylan’s heart jolted. When Tori smiled at him, with her dark eyes and pretty face framed by shiny black hair, he could barely concentrate. She had a boyfriend, so he didn’t think she was actually flirting with him, but she always sat next to Dylan if they were in the media room during second period, and he was good with that.

  “What?” he asked, keeping his voice low so the library monitor wouldn’t pounce on them. Exams were proctored, but since it was harder to cheat on an essay, no one watched too closely.

  “I was wondering if you could show me that trick you know to make your essay look a little bit longer? Without changing the margins.”

  He got it. If the essay wasn’t five pages, you couldn’t get an A. And it was easy enough to put all the punctuation in thirteen-point type for starters. He had a few other tricks as well.

  “Sure.”

  She leaned in, so close he could smell her perfume. He tried not to notice; he couldn’t get distracted by anything, not even Tori.

  He swallowed hard.

  “You think you could set it up for me?” she whispered.

  “Sure,” he said again. As if it were the only word he knew. Girls like Tori made him nervous, even nice girls who already had a boyfriend. He shot a glance over his shoulder to see if anyone was paying attention. Nah. Holding his breath, he leaned over to her keyboard and opened the systems file. A few changes, probably less than sixty seconds, and he was done. “Try it that way.”

  She opened her file, scrolled through it, and flashed him a bright smile. “Wow! Perfect! It’s five pages now. That’s amazing.”

  Dylan nodded.

  “Thank you so much! You’re so good at that.” She paused for a second, then whispered, “Hey, is it true? What they’re saying about your mom?”

  “My mom?” Where was this going?

  “You know, what was in the paper? That she . . . that she was arrested for murder.” Her almond eyes rounded a bit and he felt cold inside. “And it’s online.”

  He knew. He’d already read it himself, but the article was pretty straightforward; just gave the facts on a homicide that was as old as dirt.

  So Tori was suddenly interested in him so that he could help her do her homework and because his mother was some kind of psycho or something, possibly a killer? Suddenly he looked like some kind of bad boy? Edgy? Really?

  “She didn’t kill anybody,” he said under his breath and felt heat crawling up the back of his neck.

  “I know, I know, but wow. Arrested for murder. Can you imagine?”

  “No.” He felt suddenly defensive.

  “It’s kind of . . .”

  Don’t say “cool.”

  “. . . interesting.” She flashed him another smile. He’d known about the article and had wondered if it might be a big deal here at Edgewater High, but Tori was the first to bring it up to him. If anyone had read it or cared, he hadn’t heard about it.

  Until now.

  “If you say so.”

  “At least you can say your mom’s not boring.” Tori picked up her things. “My mom’s an actuary. Ugh.” She rolled those incredible eyes, then pulled her phone from her pocket, studied the screen, and didn’t look back at him as the tone sounded, signifying the end of class and the end of the day.

  He grabbed his backpack, keeping with the mob of students. It was too bad that he couldn’t even think that she might like him just a little if only for the wrong reasons.

  Slipping into the hallway and losing himself in the throng of teenagers walking, shouting, laughing, and banging lockers, he felt a little niggle of pride. She was right, though. He might not be good at a lot of things, but he understood computers, inside and out. He had mad skills, but word was getting around. She wasn’t the first kid to ask for his help, and that wasn’t good. He had to keep a low profile. Not show off. Now more than ever since Walsh was on his case. He was scheduled to meet with her right after school.

  In the hallway, he skirted the area near his locker and kept up with a group of kids heading toward the main doors near the admin offices. He kept looking over his shoulder for Schmidt, but he was nowhere to be seen. Good. As long as Dylan kept with large groups, he should be safe.

  Maybe.

  The secretary waved him into Mrs. Walsh’s office. “She’ll be right back. She told me to let you go on in.”

  He stepped into the small room and wondered how long she’d be gone. If he had time to—

  With a quick look over his shoulder he saw the receptionist was busy at the counter. Before he could talk himself out of it, he shoved the door so that it was barely open, just a crack, then moved around the desk. Not bothering to sit, he pushed back the chair, leaned over the keyboard, and checked Walsh’s computer terminal.

  Of course it wouldn’t open. He needed a password.

  The screen saver, a picture of the front of the high school, stayed in place, mocking him. Softly, hardly daring to breathe, he pulled open her drawer, searching for a card or something where she might have jotted a note. On first sweep, nothing. He swept his gaze across the flat surface of the desk, even picked up a picture and checked the back, anywhere she might keep her password. No hint in the drawers. Nothing on her neat desk.

  He was really sweating now.

  He didn’t have much time.

  If he could figure it out . . .

  Come on, come on.

  The picture of her daughter . . . God, what was that girl’s name? Beth? Bethany? Brittany? She was a few years older than Harper, had graduated the year before he’d become a freshman. So she was like nineteen, maybe? He tried a combination of each of the names, backward and forward, with each of the two years when the daughter might have been born.

  Nothing.

  He bit his lip.

  Thought hard.

  Felt the sweat bead on his forehead.

  Come on, Ryder, think. You can do this.

  Glancing up, he saw the girl at the counter gathering her things. Crap. The receptionis
t was about to return to her desk, and might peek inside and catch him.

  His heart was racing.

  Calm down!

  Only a few more seconds.

  If he knew more about Marlene Walsh, like her husband’s name or if they had a pet, or the year Walsh herself had been born or graduated from high school or college . . . He needed more information to get in.

  Not that it was that big a deal. He knew he could hack into the school’s system; it wasn’t that tough, but it would be so great to be able to log on as if he were the friggin’ vice principal. That would give him a sense of satisfaction, kind of a behind-her-back-but-also-in-her-face move. Major bragging rights and . . .

  Footsteps clicked outside the door.

  His heart nearly stopped.

  Crap!

  He looked up.

  The receptionist was turning back to her desk.

  He scrambled back to the chair behind the door just as it swept open, yanked his phone from his back pocket, and pretended to be texting.

  “Dylan.” Marlene Walsh smiled that same plastic grin she used when addressing the student body in one of her stupid “Rah-rah Edgewater Eagles” speeches that made him groan. So phony. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No prob.” He actually stood. Something his dad had taught him a long time ago.

  “Sit, sit.” Waving him back to his chair, she swept around the desk and stopped on the far side to eye her chair.

  Jesus, he’d forgotten to push it back under the desk.

  Her neatly plucked brows puckered as she sat, scooting it closer to the computer monitor.

  She knows! She can feel you were there.

  He tried to keep cool as she adjusted her reading glasses onto her nose and typed quickly onto her keyboard. Beth2018Anne. At least that’s what it looked like.

  That was her daughter’s name. Beth Anne! Now he remembered. And if the school required her to change the password every so often, he bet she just put in a different year or something and kept the letters the same . . . 2018, the year after Beth Anne had graduated? Who knew? And really, who cared?

  She pressed her palms to the desktop. “How long have you been waiting?”

  He lifted a shoulder, attempting to appear bored. “I dunno. Maybe a minute or so.”

  “Hmm.” She didn’t believe him. But she kept typing. And now he could feel his shirt sticking to his back. “Okay, let’s see . . . I’ve been going over your records.” She glanced at him. “Not attendance, we’ve been through that, but performance.”

  He felt a little tingle of dread raise the hairs on the back of his neck. What was this all about?

  She eyed the screen, as if studying it for the first time, but Dylan figured this might be for show, that she already knew what she was going to say. “Since you started at Edgewater High last year, your grades have slowly declined.”

  So what else was new?

  “But your test scores? Not at all. They’re above grade level, especially in math and computer science.” Her eyebrows knit over her glasses and her mouth turned down. Another practiced look. “In fact, your schoolwork doesn’t come anywhere close to where your tests indicate you should be.”

  She looked at him and he lifted a shoulder again. He got it; she was saying he was a slacker.

  Turning away from the monitor, she leaned across the desk. “You know, Dylan, you have tremendous potential.”

  Yeah, yeah, he’d heard it all before.

  “In fact, Mr. Tallarico has requested you to be his TA in computer science next year. That’s a spot usually reserved for a senior.” She paused, waiting for a reaction, but he just slouched in his chair. “So why the disparity?” she asked, though he thought it was a rhetorical question. She really didn’t expect him to answer and he didn’t. Leaning back she asked, “How’re things going here, at school?”

  “Okay.”

  “No problem with friends, other than with Mr. Schmidt?”

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  “What about at home?”

  “What?”

  “You live with your mother.” Not a question.

  So here it was. The big D word. His parents were divorced. Which wasn’t a big deal; lots of his friends’ parents had split up.

  “Most of the time, yeah.” He looked up and held her gaze.

  “But you see your dad.” Another too-kind smile.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She frowned a little. “Everything okay at home?”

  “Yeah.” He said it with a little more enthusiasm. What was she getting at? He added, “We’re good. Real good.”

  She waited a few seconds, then pushed herself to standing. “Okay, then, but just so you know, you can always talk to me or Miss Lindley.”

  The school psychologist? Oh, geez. “Don’t need to,” he said, feeling his back muscles tighten.

  “Fine. Just as long as you know. Now, maybe you can help us sort out the mess with the security cameras. As I understand it, the problem lies in storage of the data on the computer. Mr. Tallarico has already started looking at it.”

  Oh. So he wasn’t on his own. No surprise. But too bad. He would love to have some time alone with the school security system.

  As Mrs. Walsh rounded the corner of her desk he noticed for the first time the newspaper folded neatly near her in-basket. Suddenly he understood.

  She’d read the article about his uncle being murdered, about his mom being charged. Just like Tori Suzuki. Great. Of course, the vice principal would think it messed him up. That’s why she brought up the school psychologist.

  As if that was ever going to happen.

  No friggin’ way.

  Patient: “I lied. I lied to everyone.”

  Therapist: “That night?”

  Patient: “Yes. And now. I’m lying to them now. To my friends. To Luke.”

  Therapist: “Tell me.”

  Patient, worried: “I’ve never told anyone. I’ve tried, but I couldn’t. I can’t. I still can’t.”

  Therapist: “Let’s go back. To that night in the processing plant.”

  Patient: “I don’t want to.”

  Therapist: “It’s your decision.”

  Patient, voice tremulous: “Okay. I will.” A pause. The patient visibly shudders. “I’m here, now. In the cannery. It’s dark; so . . . dark. I think I smell fish . . . no, just the river. Wet. Dank.” The patient concentrates, eyebrows knitting. “People are here but I can’t see them, just hear them. Lots of them. Guns going off. And firecrackers. Someone’s laughing. But I’m scared. Luke! I need to find Luke. Before it’s too late.”

  Therapist: “Too late for what?”

  Patient: “Before someone else finds out!”

  Therapist: “Finds out what?”

  Patient, frustrated, voice cracking: “About my lies. To him. To my parents. To my friends. To everyone. But mainly . . . mainly to him.”

  Therapist: “Where are you, in the building?”

  Patient: “I’m walking, my gun in my hand, but it’s dark. So dark. I can’t see. People are running. People are laughing. I hear someone climbing the ladder, the rungs ringing, and then . . . and then . . . I shoot.”

  Therapist: “And then what?”

  Patient, agitated, eyes wide, nearly frantic: “And then Luke falls! He’s been hit! There’s blood everywhere. Oh my God! He can’t die. He can’t! I need to talk to him, I need to explain . . . I have to save him!”

  Therapist: “And can you?”

  Patient, in a panic: “No! There’s too much blood. Luke! Luke!”

  Therapist: “Let’s come back now.”

  Patient, determined: “No! I can’t leave him. I won’t!”

  Therapist: “It’s time. You’re returning.”

  Patient: “No, Luke, please, please.”

  Therapist, taking control: “You’re surfacing.”

  Patient: “Luke, oh, God, Luke. Forgive me!”

  Therapist, more firmly: “You are leaving the cannery and Luke. For now.” The
therapist hides frustration and keeps a steady voice. “On my count.”

  Patient, taking short breaths, nearly hyperventilating: “But—”

  Therapist, rock steady: “Three. And you’re leaving the building, going away from the riverfront and Luke, and leaving the past behind.”

  Patient, still frantic: “I don’t know. I could save him—”

  Therapist, in control: “Two. And you’re nearly awake.”

  Patient: “There’s so much to tell him.” The patient’s still worried, but coming around.

  Therapist: “One.”

  The patient’s eyes open and blink, adjusting to the soft lighting and soothing music in the tiny room. A bit of incense tinges the air with oleander as the patient stirs and focuses on the therapist.

  Therapist, smiling with relief, voice soft and steady: “And you’re back.”

  Patient, breathless, still worried: “I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t get the chance.”

  Therapist: “You will. Maybe in the next session.”

  Patient, sighing: “Maybe. But I’ve been living with this for so long.”

  Therapist: “It takes time.”

  Patient, wryly: “And time wounds all heels, isn’t that what they say? Well, this wound, this pain has been around too long. It needs to go away.”

  Therapist, taking a peek at the clock on the antique desk: “It will.”

  The leather of the recliner creaks as the patient adjusts the chair to a sitting position. “I hope so.” The patient stands. “God, I hope so.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Over the years Rachel had learned that she had to pick her moments, so she waited until both of the kids were home from school Monday evening. Dinner was in the oven, lasagna; the security system had been reconnected; and they were settling in for homework.

  Dylan hadn’t said much about his extra time at the school doing Mrs. Walsh’s bidding, just that it was “okay.” And Harper had spent a couple of hours working on some project at a friend’s house, supposedly studying.

  Neither kid had asked Rachel how her day had gone, though if they had, she wouldn’t have told them about the front door. The new coat of black paint had dried, and she figured that threat could wait for another day.

  Now, though, it was time for the truth about what her son had been up to.