“And the location’s perfect,” Becky said.
“Tell me. Just tell me. What’s the downside?” Jerry frowned.
My head ached. Why did I have to explain my decision to him? Why did I have to put it into words?
“Okay, Elle. Do me a favor. Don’t rule it out. Think about it. We’ll talk next week.”
Becky agreed. “Good idea.”
Fine. I said I’d think about it. Anything to get out of there.
“Look at that gorgeous view across the park.” Jerry pointed out the window. “The trees are starting to turn. In a week, it’ll be spectacular.”
I glanced out the window again. Seth was still alone near his mother. He’d taken a seat, cross-legged, under a tree.
That same day, I got an offer on my house. Not asking price, but close. Too close to turn down. But how could I accept it without having a place to move into?
I spent the rest of the weekend trying to convince myself to take the place near the park. In time, the shock of the murders would fade. The location and view would become less threatening. Jerry called every three seconds, asking if I’d decided yet, reminding me that we had limited time to respond to the buyer’s offer. I wandered the house, imagined leaving it. Thought of Charlie, our time there. I closed my eyes, conjured memories of his touch, his voice.
Charlie was everywhere in the house. The study was his. And every room held moments where we’d made love and plans, where we’d fought and made up, where we’d celebrated and separated. Where I’d found his lifeless body. Where I’d mourned his death.
It was time to let go. To say good-bye to Charlie. To move on.
By Monday, I’d decided to accept the offer and sell the house. On the way to school, I called Jerry, told him. He was exuberant, said we had to make an occasion out of it. Have champagne and dinner.
I said that class was starting and I had to go. He was still talking when I ended the call.
The decision to sell shook me. I moved through the day feeling detached and dazed. Had to force myself to focus on the children. But the day passed. And by the end of it, I’d accepted that I was actually going to make the change, that it was time to leave the home I’d shared with Charlie. I began to look ahead, to feel free.
Monday passed. Jerry texted me twice during the school day to ask me to dinner or at least to go look at more properties. Detective Stiles left a message for me to call him. He had more questions. Shane left a message repeating his offer of free circus classes.
In class, my students worked on subtraction and reading. We collected leaves for collages. Seth did all right, but he seemed to have trouble moving. He said he’d fallen out of a tree over the weekend, scraping and bruising his arms and knees. Several times, I saw him mumbling to himself. Or rather, to his dead father.
Katie and her friends picked him up after school. While Maggie and Trish waited in the hall, I took Katie aside, mentioned that Seth was hurting.
Katie’s brows furrowed. “I know. He got pretty banged up when he fell off his bike.”
His bike? Hadn’t he said he’d fallen out of a tree? Why didn’t their stories match?
“How are things at home, Katie?” I asked.
She looked away. “Why do you ask?”
I’d asked because I suspected she and Seth were hiding something. Just as Ty had years ago. “How’s your mom doing?”
“Rose?” Katie rolled her eyes. “She’s awful. Why do you ask?”
“You call your mother by her first name?”
“I don’t think of Rose as my mother.” Katie glanced at Seth, made sure he was busy in his cubby, out of earshot. “Or as his. I’m Seth’s mother more than Rose is. I do the cooking and the cleaning. I get him up in the morning and take him to and from school.” Katie’s nostrils flared. “Rose is a stinkin’ drunk. And I mean stinking. I can’t remember the last time she had a shower. She never does anything. Since my father … since Ty killed Dad, she never even goes outside.”
Really? “Not even to the park?” The question popped out on its own.
Katie tilted her head. “The park?”
“I saw her there the other day.”
“You did? Well, I don’t know. Maybe to get away from Ty. Rose is a mess, especially now that Ty’s home.” She stopped, looked at Maggie and Trish, watching her from the doorway. Seth came out of the cubbies with his lunchbox, eyes aimed at the floor.
“Katie, you ready?” Trish asked.
“Sure.”
They said good-bye, paraded out. But at the last second, I stopped Katie, held her back. “What were you about to say? About Ty?”
She pursed her lips. “I shouldn’t have said anything, Mrs. H.”
“Don’t worry. It’s okay.”
She looked up at me with startling bright eyes. “It’s just Rose,” she breathed. “Rose is petrified of him.”
Of Ty?
She glanced out at her friends. Seth faced us, waiting. Katie turned her back to him and lowered her voice. “He’s why she drinks so much. Seriously, Mrs. H, after what he did to my dad? And his temper? Now that he’s back, Rose is convinced Ty’s going to come after her. She thinks she’s going to be next.”
Before I could respond, she turned away and hurried off to meet the others. Halfway down the hall, she looked back. Made sure I was still watching.
I was. I watched until they went out the door.
Then I picked up my lesson plans, got ready to leave, thinking about what she’d said. And about Seth. He had an alcoholic mother, a brother who’d killed his father. Thank God for Katie. If not for her, no one would be looking after him. And even with her help, Seth was talking to his dead father and drawing violent blood-colored pictures. What could I do for him, other than recommend that he meet with the school psychologist? Was that enough?
Years ago, I hadn’t done enough for his brother, had left him to fight his battles all alone. But now, I had a chance to help Seth. I didn’t know exactly how, but this time, I was determined to do better. I headed home, ignoring the ringtone of my cell and the screen announcing yet another call from Jerry.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The new second-grade teacher began on Tuesday. Her name was Kim Lawless, and she was dark-eyed, petite, perky, peppy, and about half my age. Mr. Royal brought her by before the first bell rang, asking if I’d help her get oriented, and left us to get acquainted.
I welcomed her. Told her I was glad that she’d stepped in, that Joyce’s students had been shaken by her loss and needed a permanent teacher.
Kim smiled brightly, eyes twinkling. “It’s kind of daunting, trying to take her place. The students must miss her.”
I told her that the kids hadn’t had a chance to become attached to Joyce. She’d been killed right at the beginning of the school year.
“Good.” She seemed relieved. “So, in that case, it’ll be okay to make some changes.”
Changes?
“I’d really like to make the room my own. For starters, I want to change the decorations. No offense to Mrs. Huff—I guess you two were friends, right? But honestly, her taste is kind of, well, bland. I want to add some life to the place.”
I imagined Joyce sputtering, couldn’t help but smile.
Kim looked around my classroom. “Actually, I’d like to make it more like this. Colorful and alive. Your room is so much fun.”
Somewhere in eternity, Joyce let out an indignant snort. I could hear her ranting about the emotional and intellectual needs of seven-year-olds, the dangers of overstimulating them with neons and noise.
“Would you?” Kim had asked.
I’d missed the question. “Sorry?”
“I mean if it’s not too much trouble. I know you have your own class to worry about.”
I figured that she’d asked me to help her. But I had no idea how. Planning curricula? Decorating? I didn’t know, but agreed to come by during recess.
And at recess, I crossed the hall to Kim Lawless’ classroom. She was in the
back, stapling colored paper to a bulletin board.
“What can I do?” I asked. I eyed the monochrome decorations. “Want help taking down these posters?”
“Fabulous, yes,” she said. “You’re an angel.” She put down the stapler, stepped over to the desk. “But first, I have another favor to ask. Can you maybe take a look at this?” She opened up Joyce’s lesson planner. “Taking the job so suddenly, I had zero time to prepare. So I hoped I could start out using her lesson plans, just, you know, until I have a chance to make my own. But her planner makes totally negative sense. It’s gibberish.”
Strange. “If you’re stuck, you can borrow mine,” I offered. “Copy it.”
She looked at me, wide-eyed, and smiled sweetly. “Thanks. I don’t want to put you out. If you can somehow make sense of this one, that’ll be fine.”
She turned the pages of the planner, found the current date. Pointed at the entries. “See?”
Indeed, the symbols weren’t English. They looked like shorthand. Or Greek. Maybe Cuneiform.
I leaned over the desk and studied the first page. In the nine o’clock box was a plus sign with some numbers; at nine thirty, the stick figure of a man. A musical note was drawn in at ten o’clock. An “x” at ten thirty. A rectangle at eleven. Each time slot was filled in with a letter, symbol, or combination of both. I turned the page, found the same sorts of symbols next to the same times.
“Anything?” Kim looked over my shoulder.
Well, the musical note was clear enough, especially since I knew both second grades had music on Tuesday mornings. And the “x” was drawn in at recess time, so it must indicate a break for Joyce. Maybe the stick figure meant gym class? Or health? Or art?
“I think I’m getting some of it.” I picked up the planner to show Kim what I was thinking. A slip of paper fell to the floor.
We both knelt to pick it up, but Kim got it, held it up. “Oh, and this is another mystery. Any idea what this is?”
I took it and read a list of names.
“Maybe it’s a committee?”
I didn’t answer. I read the names again. And again.
“Elle?”
I stared at the names. What exactly was I looking at? What was it doing in Joyce’s planner? And why had I turned so icy cold?
There were seven names. I recognized all but three. All were female. Two of them belonged to murder victims. And two belonged to Becky and me.
I reasoned with myself. The fact that two of the people on the list had been murdered didn’t mean anything. The list didn’t necessarily belong to the killer. The seven women on it weren’t necessarily his intended victims. I stared at our names. Becky’s. Mine.
“What is it?” Kim asked. “I saw it before and stuffed it back into the planner in case it was important.”
Actually, if it was a list of intended victims, it was vitally important. It would give the police a chance to warn, even protect, everyone on it. But beyond that, the list might provide a critical clue. The seven women named must have some connections to the killer. If those connections were found, they’d likely lead to the killer. Who would he be? Ty or Duncan? Stan?
Again, I read the seven names. Four of the women were teachers at Logan, connected to both Stan and Duncan. Ty might not have known Joyce personally, but he’d known of her through Katie. So all three men had connections to at least four of the women.
“Elle?” Kim’s head was tilted at an odd angle. She squinted at me. “Are you okay?”
I clutched the piece of paper. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
“It’s that list, isn’t it? What is it?”
I didn’t know anything for sure. And I didn’t want to alarm her. Kim was new and fresh. Untainted by the murders. Unaware that she might have entered a kill zone.
“Oh my,” I dodged. “Recess is almost over. How about I come back at lunchtime?” I made a hasty exit, leaving Kim trying to decipher Joyce’s planner. Across the hall in my room, I studied the list more closely.
It was written in pencil, hand printed in heavy letters. The paper was lined, possibly torn off a legal pad, possibly out of a notebook. I looked at my name, at Becky’s. At Joyce’s. The letters were not graceful, the strokes not gentle. Masculine? I wasn’t sure.
I should call the police. Give the list to Detective Stiles.
But maybe I was overreacting. Objectively, the list was just some names on a piece of paper. There was no reason to believe that it had anything to do with the murders. After all, it had been in Joyce’s planner, and why would Joyce have a list related to her own murder?
I reread the names.
Mrs. Marshall. Joyce Huff. Stephanie Cross.
Who was Stephanie Cross? The name was unfamiliar. Maybe the woman hit by the Range Rover? No, no—that was Penny—not Penny. Patsy. Patsy O’ something. I ought to remember. The woman had been killed right next to me. Might have been killed instead of me.
Oh God.
Patsy Olsen. That was it. Definitely.
Had the killer been aiming for me the day she died, trying to check another name off his list? I read on. My name was fourth, right after Stephanie Cross. Becky’s was fifth. Then came Akeesha Moses and Cherie Gallo. Two more unknowns.
My hands were unsteady, so the paper rattled as I held it. Stop it, I scolded myself. I had no reason to be shaking. It was probably just a coincidence that both murder victims were on the list. And the accident that killed Patsy Olsen was unrelated both to me and to the list. In fact, Becky and I and the others might have been listed for a perfectly benign reason. Maybe we’d all had items in the lost and found. Or we were all being asked to sponsor some PTA event or volunteer for a charity. Or attend a luncheon. Maybe it was a guest list. Who knew? It could be a list of nominees for Woman of the Year. There were endless possibilities, no reason to assume the names compiled a hit list.
But they might.
I needed to give it to Detective Stiles, let him decide.
The bell rang. Kids came charging into the classroom, red-faced from exertion. I stood to greet them, clasped my hands to stop the trembling, told them to take out their Think and Solve workbooks. For the moment, I shoved the list into my pants pocket. I’d call Detective Stiles after school.
But I didn’t call Stiles.
I might have, except that, soon after I got home, Becky called and told me to turn on the news.
The reporter was at the scene of a murder, in the middle of his report. He was standing outside Pete’s Deli, recounting how the body had been discovered behind the building by a woman walking her dogs.
“Can you believe it?” Becky asked. “It was behind Pete’s. Right near the school.”
I tried to listen to the reporter. He said the victim had just turned twenty-one, was a senior at Community College, studying art.
I was confused. People got killed in Philadelphia every day. Why was Becky so upset about this one? It didn’t seem connected to either Mrs. Marshall or Joyce.
“Didn’t you hear what they said about her?”
“No. Why, what did they say?” My heart did a two-step in anticipation.
Ty’s face came onto the screen. What? Why?
“Elle. She’s Ty’s old girlfriend.”
My mouth opened but would make no sound.
The reporter was reviewing Ty’s history. The screen showed a younger Ty with his now dead father, and then as a young teen with his arm around a girl, presumably the murder victim. A voice explained that Ty had been convicted of killing his father and that he’d been released only weeks ago, just before Stephanie’s murder. It wasn’t yet known if Ty had been in touch with Stephanie, but police were looking into it. A clip of the dead girl’s mother began.
“Stephanie was a joy. A beautiful joy.” Her hair was uncombed, her eyes dazed. She talked on.
“So what do you think, Elle?”
I thought my blood had stopped circulating.
Becky had theories. “Maybe he called her and she wanted nothing to
do with him. What if he’d been obsessing about her the whole time he was away, and then he found out she’d moved on? That might have made him mad enough—”
“So you think Ty’s going around killing anyone he’s mad at?”
“Well, who else could it be? It’s a pretty big coincidence that this girl got killed right after he got out. Just like Mrs. Marshall.”
Gooseflesh rippled up my arms. Becky was right. I turned off the television, didn’t want to watch a reporter exploit a mother’s grief. Was Ty really the killer? I recalled him slurping up an ice cream float, savoring trees and fresh air. Was that guy—a kid with bad skin and dimples—really a savage murderer?
“Think about it,” Becky said. “So far, there are three dead women. All of them had their throats slit, and all of them had connections to Ty. Mrs. Marshall was his childhood nemesis. Joyce taught his sister, Katie—”
“That’s no reason for him to want to kill her. Joyce adored Katie.”
“Still, it’s a connection.” Becky was on a roll, didn’t stop to think. “And now, his old girlfriend Stephanie Cross. What are the chances?”
“Wait, who?” The gooseflesh spread from my arms onto my neck and back. “What did you say her name was?” I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket. Reread the list. Before Becky repeated it, I found the name. It was right before mine: Stephanie Cross.
That night, Susan met us at London Grill on Fairmount. We sat at a quiet table in the back. The waiter brought us glasses and a bottle of Pinot.
“This is it.” I gave her the list, picked up the bottle and poured. Didn’t stop to taste it, just filled the glasses.
Susan looked it over. “This was in Joyce’s planner?”
I nodded. Took a sip.
“And you kept it? Why didn’t you give it to the police?”
I explained that I hadn’t been sure it was significant until after Stephanie Cross had been killed.
Susan leaned forward. “Damn, Elle. Do you have any idea what this is? Or who wrote it?”
No, not a clue.
“I mean you must realize how significant this list might be. Your names are on it along with the names of two murder victims—and you found it in the possession of one of those victims. Stiles needs to see this.” She shoved her hair behind her ear as she turned to Becky. “You knew about this, too?”
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