"You didn't need to follow me. You could have taken my car and left. I would have just called someone to pick me up later."
"This guy tried to kill me," she says. "I'm a bit invested. What's your excuse for chasing after a murderer?"
"He killed two people in my town. I knew both of them. Azlan and Aisha Khouri. Mr. Khouri had a heart attack about four months ago, so I've been seeing him since then."
The sound of the crinkling leaves stops. I turn around to see Grace standing still, her flats soaked by the saturated ground.
"You're a doctor?" she asks.
"Yeah. I'm a cardiologist. Is that surprising?" I continue to walk and I hear her footsteps behind me.
"You're just…not what I picture when I think of doctors."
"How do you picture doctors?"
"Old. White hair. Glasses with a look of condescension."
"That would be my father," I say.
"Is your father a cardiologist, too?"
I shake my head, trying to hold back a scowl. She doesn't know. It's not her fault for being ignorant about my personal history. "He's a dentist."
I stop. The leaves and the mud are trampled behind two rocks. I kneel behind the disturbed area. I pretend to hold a gun. The intersection of the rocks would be a perfect place to level a rifle or a shotgun.
~~~~~
Two policemen hover around the bodies of Azlan and Aisha Khouri. A third man in khakis and a white button-up shirt—possibly a detective—kneels next to the bodies with a medical examiner.
"It looks like the killer used a large caliber gun," the detective mumbles.
An old Volkswagen Beetle slows down. The window lowers and John Seoh sticks his head out.
"What the hell happened?" he asks. His daughter works for me as a receptionist on weekends, and he's a general practitioner who has recommended half of my patients to me. He's the closest thing I have to a friend.
"Two people were killed," I mutter. It's hard to use words to explain what happened. Killed is such a short word. I want to say that their lives were cut short, but even that fails to explain what truly happened.
The police wave him forward and he keeps driving. The policemen have blocked off the area with tape and blocked the bodies with their cars. I'm glad. Nobody needs to see this.
"So, was the woman or man shot first?" the policeman asks.
"I drove by before the first shot went off," Grace says. They both look over at me.
I shake my head, trying to get the image of the deceased couple out of my mind. "The man was shot first."
"Then what happened?" the policeman asks.
"I saw Miss—Grace—get out of her car at the same time the woman was shot. I…I was afraid that she was going to get shot. I mean, if everyone else in the area was getting shot, it seemed likely that she would, too. So, I bolted out of my car and…pulled her down to the ground."
"That's when the killer started shooting my truck," Grace says. "We waited until the shooting stopped."
The policeman turns to me. "And then you went to check the woods for evidence, Dr. Meadows?"
I nod. "If the culprit was still there or if there was any evidence there…I wanted to make sure no one would get hurt by him again."
"Dr. Meadows," the police officer says. "We respect you around here, but it's not advisable that you chase after murderers."
"I understand," I lie. It may not be sane to chase after murderers, but it certainly seems like the right decision. Who lets a murderer escape?
"Miss…Ellery. We will need to impound your truck as evidence," he says. "I'd suggest you take your purse or anything else you need. Both of you should know that we may need to question you later."
"Of course," she says.
I nod. She takes her purse—which looks more like a small, red messenger bag—out of the truck. She and I watch as the truck is towed away.
"Are you okay?" I ask her. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the doctor?"
She shakes her head, looking toward the woods.
"Why do you think the killer chose that couple?" she asks. "Do you think it was simply because they were there? Prejudice?"
"I don't know," I say. "They were both good people who didn't deserve to die. That's all I know."
She winces.
"Are you sure—"
"No, it's not my head," she says. "It's my phone. It died this morning, so I plugged it into the charger in my truck. It's still in there."
I unclip my phone and offer it to her. "You've already used it once." "No, thank you, though," she says. "I just really need to get to the high school."
"You're…not a student." I feel my face heat. "I'm not saying you're old…"
She flashes me a smile. "I understand. I'm a substitute teacher. It's my first day, too, at Waycroft High School. I imagine that they won't be too happy if I'm late."
"Well, why don't I drive you there? It's really the only option if you don't want to be late."
She glances over at the police who are still eyeing the Muslim couple with a mixture of grief and uneasiness.
"Sure. I'd appreciate that."
Her eyes are a celadon shade of green. They are eyes that catch you off guard, and then take you in like a prisoner. I don't mind being captivated.
~~~~~
Sam, 2014
I FIDDLE WITH the temperature knob in the car. I hadn't expected Grace to accept my offer. It was one of those polite things that you say—a knee-jerk reaction—like saying I'm good. How are you? How many people actually care to hear the answer of how a person is doing? How many people say what they are actually feeling?
Grace hugs her bag against her abdomen. I can't decide if she is taking this tragedy well or not. On one hand, she is not flipping out and going into hysterics. On the other hand, she seems on edge. I'm fairly certain that if a balloon popped or a pedestrian ran in front of the car, she would burst into tears.
Or maybe that's how I feel and I'm confusing our reactions.
"Are you okay?" I ask. "I'm sure the school would understand if you took a day off."
"I'm fine," she says. See? No one says that they are doing terrible. "It's not like I'm the one who died."
"You were shot at."
"The police said that the shooter was probably just trying to scare me," she says.
I nod. An awkward silence falls between us. She peers out the window.
"So…you're new here?" I ask.
She glances over at me. "How did you know that?"
"Well, as the local cardiologist…I pretty much know everyone around here. It's a sad fact of life that the number one cause of death in the United States is heart disease. And you mentioned it was your first day substituting for a teacher here."
"Oh. Yeah, I'm new. I'm originally from Ohio."
"Birthplace of aviation," I say.
"Yep." She chews on her lip as she turns to look out the window again.
Let me be honest—I suck at private conversations. I can do the whole public charade of conversation—How are you? How are the kids? How's your job? Brr…it's cold out there. But as soon as I'm alone with someone in a situation, which demands more intimacy than a normal, passing conversation, words abandon me. I have no idea what to say.
"Uhh…so what made you want to move to Murray, Virginia?" I ask.
"My brother, Connor, used to live here. He told me that school districts were building schools here, and they were desperate for good teachers, so, I moved into his house. He forgot to mention that a family of four was also renting the house…but that's Connor. He has a good heart, but he's absentminded."
"So, where's your brother now?"
"He's an airman in the Air Force. He's stationed at Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, Japan. He thought he'd be spending the rest of his military career in Northern Virginia. He took advantage of a military discount to purchase a new home in Murray Farm, moved in, and invited his friend Benjamin Schneider to room in his house. Six months after he moved in, Connor wa
s offered a grade promotion, one that came with another three years of obligation and an assignment to Japan. He's on track to retire next year."
"Wow. That's…good for him and not so good for you."
She shrugs. "Beggars can't be choosers."
"What did you do in Ohio?" I ask.
"I taught."
There's a note in her voice that makes it clear that there is more to the story, but she doesn't want to expand, so I let it drop. We drive in silence until I park in front of Waycroft High.
"Are you going to need a ride back home?"
She shakes her head. "I'll…find some way home. You guys have to have taxis here, right? If not, I guess I could embarrass myself by riding the bus."
I grab my prescription pad out of my glove compartment. I jot down my cell phone number and hand it to her.
"I know you don't have a phone right now, but this school is old enough to have pay phones," I tell her. "If you do need a ride or anything, just call."
"Thanks," she says, though doubt lingers in her voice. She opens the passenger door and glances over at me. "Really. Thank you. You didn't need to do all this. You already saved my life."
"It's all good." I smile at her. "Just, uh, you know, tell everyone that Dr. Meadows saves lives and hearts."
She smirks. "Sure. No problem."
She steps out and closes the door. I watch her walk into the school. As soon as she disappears behind the door, I drive away from the school. I don't have time for relationships. There's no need to bring another person in my life when my life is just a facade of someone who has figured everything out.
~~~~~
Sam, 1987 (27 Years Ago)
I HEAR MY NAME. The voice calling to me is gruff, but barely audible. It's hard to open my heavy eyelids until I remember—it's Christmas.
I may be eight years old and know Santa Claus doesn't exist, but that doesn't stop the excitement of presents and both my parents being home for the morning. I jump out of my bed, whipping the blankets off me, and nearly run straight into my dad. In the dark, I can see his white smile.
"Hey, buddy. I didn't want to wake you too early, but I have something I want to give you before everyone else wakes up."
I grin back at him. My dad is the greatest. Some of my friends say he isn't a real doctor because he's a dentist, but I still think he's awesome. I follow him out of my room. We tromp down the stairs.
When we reach the living room, I revel in front of the Christmas tree, decorated by white lights, red glass ball ornaments, a white praying angel at the top, and an array of presents surrounding the bottom. My father picks out a thin box with red wrapping paper and a small bow.
"You always loved your plastic one, so I thought you might want a real one." He hands me the present.
I hold it like it's more precious than gold—because it is to me. Being the youngest child means I always get hand-me-downs and all of my accomplishments are diminished by the fact that my brother has already done them. For once, I'm the special kid. For once, I'm not "the second Meadow's kid," but I am truly my father's son.
I slide my finger under a crease in the wrapping paper and pull it up. I unwrap the gift slowly, savoring the moment. Underneath all of it is a thin, rectangular box. I glance up at my dad. He nods, encouraging me to open it. I lift the top. Snuggled in tissue paper is a real stethoscope.
I stare at it, my fingertips brushing against the cold steel.
"I called a few general practitioners and they all said this was the best brand." He takes it out of the box, places the rubber earpieces into my ears, and the whole world seems to go quiet. He sets the metal diaphragm against my chest.
There is no description for hearing your heart for the first time—it's calming and comforting, but at the same time there is the realization that this sound is connected to the one thing that's keeping me alive.
I glance up at my Dad. He looks at me and the emotion in his eyes reminds me that his love keeps me alive, too.
~~~~~
Deke, 2014
BEHIND THE SCHOOL, I find the oak tree that has a honeysuckle bush beside it. I pull off my hoodie. I slide the shotgun and the hoodie under the bush. I don't think my hoodie has any evidence on it, but it's soaked in sweat and I don't want to have to explain that to anybody.
I ride my bike back around the school—adrenaline still pumping through me—and park it inside the bike rack. I lock it and run inside the school. It's between first and second period classes. What's next? English?
Then, I see her. The woman from the truck. She's heading toward the administrative office. She passes right by me and a gust of cold air hits me.
"On the first day, man, that is so awesome," Zach Schneider whispers to his sister, Kit. The Schneiders are new here—at least in the sense that they have been here for about a year and a half. Most of the kids here grew up together, but Zach and Kit slid their way pretty easily into the social network of high school. They're two blond kids who wear too much brand clothing and never know when to shut up, so of course they would fit in.
"Think she'll get fired? I'm thinking she will," Kit mutters.
I walk over toward them, pretending to get a drink from the water fountain. When I press the button, the water almost sprays straight up into my nose.
"They might tolerate a teacher being late on the first day, but a substitute? No way."
"Yeah, and she can take her stupid ass back to nowhere Ohio and we can have our basement back," Zach says. "How the fuck are we supposed to smoke if we can't do it downstairs? It's literally the only place we had that Mom and Dad wouldn't check on us every five minutes."
"Do you guys know her?" I ask, standing up straight. Kit nods, blushing from getting some male attention. Women. I'll never understand them and I don't care enough to try.
"She's living in our basement," she says.
"Like a rodent," Zach mutters. "It's only because Dad knows her brother, who's fighting the good fight overseas."
The mention of the military, a soldier, makes me stand up straighter and my heart beat faster.
"God bless America," I say. Zach shrugs. He and his sister walk away. It's easy for kids like him to not care about all of these outsiders invading into Murray. Their mother is a nurse, which isn't the kind of job these bottom-feeders are looking for.
I smile. At least I won't have to worry about that woman. The Schneiders are likely right. The school won't tolerate a woman who's late on the first day. She'll go back to Ohio and I won't have to worry about her talking about anything she saw when I killed those Muslims. Dr. Meadows won't be a problem either. Albert just had his checkup for his heart disease and Dr. Meadows, has only ever seen me in the waiting room. Albert doesn't need to get his heart checked for another six months. By then, everyone would have long forgotten about the Muslims. By then, I will have made everything right.
~~~~~
Grace, 2014
THE SECRETARY AT WAYCROFT HIGH has enough wrinkles on her face that I imagine she has too much skin when her face is smooth. She doesn't look up from the piece of paper she's jotting notes on when I walk up to her desk.
"Um, excuse me," I say. She raises her index finger in the one moment gesture. Behind her is a poster of the Virginia state flag. The seal of the flag shows a woman with her foot on a man's chest. It is meant to symbolize peace overcoming tyranny, but I always found it strange that it would be peace with her foot on tyranny instead of something more durable. Underneath this image are the words sic semper tyrannis—"thus always to tyrants." But what happens when the tyrant is in your own head?
The secretary sets down her pen and looks up. "How may I help you?"
"I'm Grace Ellery. I'm supposed to—"
"Miss Ellery." The secretary raises her chin. "You were supposed to be here at seven forty-five. It is now nearly nine o'clock."
"Yes, I know, but something happened on the way—"
"Miss Ellery," the secretary repeats. "This is a high school. I don't kno
w how they ran high schools in Ohio, but here we believe in efficiency. Since you did not show up for work on time, the next person in the substitute rotation was called. There is no work for you here today."
"You don't understand…I was on my way here and—"
"You should go home, Miss Ellery. We will call you if we decide that you are still worth contacting, but I wouldn't hold my breath."
"A couple was murdered," I blurt. "And then my truck was shot up. I've been talking to the police for the last hour."
The secretary frowns. "Miss Ellery, this is Murray, Virginia. I don't know what insane place you came from in Ohio, but people don't get murdered here. Vehicles do not get shot up. That story may work in other places, but not here."
"It's the truth," I insist. "They were a Muslim couple. It was on the corner of Howard Street and Riversdale Road."
"Miss Ellery…" The secretary shakes her head. A student walks into the office with a piece of paper in her hands. "Miss Ellery, you should leave. I have work to do here."
"No, you need to listen to me. Call the cops. They will tell you that there was a murder on the corner of Howard Street and Riversdale Road."
"Oh, I'll call the cops," she says. "But it will be to come down here and remove you from this office."
I cross my arms over my chest and sit down in the chair across from her. She grits her teeth. I may be acting childish, but after this morning, my stress level is too high to deal with a secretary who refuses to believe me.
The secretary stands up, walks over to a door that says Principal Pattinson, and knocks. After a few seconds, the door opens.
"Mr. Pattinson. The new substitute, Miss Ellery—the one who didn't show up for her first period class—she's making a scene and won't leave the office."
A man steps into view. He's handsome—dark hair, olive skin, tall—and he has a gentle smile. "Miss Ellery. Can I ask what the problem is?"
His kindness makes me almost want to cry, but I take a deep breath.
Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) Page 2