I put Callum on speaker.

  “Bailey?” he asks, offering no greeting. I imagine him staring at his phone, waiting for my call.

  “Ace detective work,” I tease. “Very good guess.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Better than expected. Martin’s all right.”

  “Did Kurt offer any kind of explanation?”

  “Not that I heard. He looked scared of something.”

  “Did your body language trick tell you that?”

  “Fidgety, sweaty, eyes darting back and forth. Body language says it all.”

  “Yeah, I just heard from the officer who drove around. She said everything was calm.”

  “Maybe Martin will want to talk about it tomorrow. I did suggest speaking with the school counselor.”

  “He’ll probably vent with his friends,” he says. “No kid wants to talk to the counselor.”

  I take a left turn toward Downtown. “Are Mark and Carrie all right? That must’ve freaked them out.”

  “Yeah, they’re OK. They had a lot of questions, and I did my best to explain them.” I hear a noise on his end, like radio static. He pauses, no doubt listening, before he continues. “Cathy and Mike split when they were still really young, so they don’t really remember much of what happened.”

  “Are you busy? I can call you later.”

  “The precinct is active, that’s all. I’m glad you called.” Another bit of radio static. “I told Cathy, just so she’d be ready if they wanted to talk to her about it, or if she wanted to talk to them.”

  “That was a good idea.”

  I drive past my apartment complex, on the outskirts of Downtown Golden Shore, and keep going. There’s a park nearby, and I’m eager to sit in the quiet.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” he says. “Let me know if anything else comes up.”

  “Sure thing. Thanks, Callum.”

  I roll my window down, driving slowly through a residential area on my way to the park. I take a deep breath, smelling someone’s blooming jasmine.

  I park close to the park’s small lake and get out of the car. A family of ducks are swimming and diving in the water. I lean against the hood and watch the water glisten in the sunlight.

  Poor Martin. Poor Ashley, too. The worry on her face was enough to burn my insides to ice.

  And Kurt, sweating, his hands never stopping. What’s going on with him?

  My cell rings. The screen lights up with KELLY CAVANAUGH and a hilarious picture of my best friend and roommate. “Hey, Kell.”

  “Hey, you home yet?”

  “Not yet. It has been a day.” And to feel that way after one incident at the very end of it, as if the rest of my very calm, very normal day was a house of cards blown down by someone’s sneeze.

  “Tell me about it when we get home. I’m ordering Chinese. Kung-pow chicken?”

  “Please. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”

  “Same. See you soon.”

  As if reminded that food is a requirement for energy and sustenance, my stomach grumbles as I imagine breathing in that delectable scent of kung-pow chicken.

  All right, all right, I’m going as fast as I can.

  I climb up to the second floor and go inside. Kelly’s already home with plastic bags and foam takeout containers on the kitchen counter.

  “Earth killers.” I point my car keys toward the foam containers.

  “I wonder if they’d let us pack everything in plastic containers?” She pulls out the paper boxes by their metal handles. “That would save money for them, too, when you think about it.” She opens the box to check it before passing it to me—my precious kung-pow chicken. “What happened today?”

  I explain everything, complete with my own fears and worries.

  “Oh, my God,” she says. “What a nightmare, for you and Ashley both.”

  I pour the contents out onto a plate. “Thank God it turned out OK.”

  She opens the white rice and scoops some out before passing it to me. “I wonder why. He’s never done something like this before, I’m assuming.”

  “Not once. Something’s going on—Callum thinks so, too.”

  “Callum, huh?” She wiggles her eyebrows as she mixes her noodles, rice, and soy sauce.

  “Yes, and his sister is hosting a sandwich tasting for her new food truck. We’re invited.”

  “Free food?” She walks from the counter to the living room sofa, and I follow. “I’m so there.”

  “Thought you might be interested.” I pass her the remote. “What are we watching?”

  “Let’s see.”

  My cell rings as Kelly is scanning through the channel guide. It’s Mom. “Hey, Mama.”

  “Hey, honey. I know that we have the game planned for this Saturday, and I was thinking about takeout for lunch. Is there any place that Kelly, Link, and Callum don’t like?”

  I lower the phone from my mouth and ask Kelly.

  “I don’t like the pizza from Walt’s,” she says, “and I prefer the Chinese from Temple Buffet.”

  “Got it,” Mom says without me telling her. “What about Link and Callum?”

  “Link’ll eat anything. Callum, too.”

  “All right. Did you have a good day?”

  “Yeah, up until there was a parent pick-up snafu after our club meeting.” And I tell the story again.

  “That wasn’t your fault, Bailey.”

  “It’s still scary, Mom.”

  “Of course, it is, but what could you have done?”

  “I always feel like I can do more. Maybe I should’ve known better? Like there is something I should’ve seen?”

  “You can’t do everything, Bailey. You’re just like your father, in that respect. He always felt that he could do more.”

  “And he did a lot. Published in journals, asked to speak at colleges.”

  “He was a very accomplished man, but I told him this, and I’m going to tell you too: You’re more than your accomplishments. Life is more than pushing yourself to achieve and achieve. With each goal met, there’s another on the horizon, and before you know it, life has passed you by.”

  “Yes, Mama.” I’d heard this from her before, but this time, the words hit a little deeper. Especially when related to Dad.

  “Your drive is admirable. I’m not saying that it isn’t. But you beat yourself up because you haven’t done enough.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have done enough, Bailey. You have to trust that.”

  “Thanks, Mama.” And I know she’s right, but the gnawing feeling in my gut is still there.

  Kelly had settled on a channel that shows classic reruns. “What did she say?”

  “Helping me feel better about what happened.”

  “Good.” She spins some noodles with her chopsticks and puts them on my plate. “Whatever she said, she’s right.”

  Yes, but putting that mindset into practice is the hardest part, isn’t it? It’s so much easier to keep pushing myself rather than to resign to anything less.

  But I shouldn’t dwell. It’s over, and all’s well. Continuing to wallow in the “What ifs” would only knot my stomach up even tighter.

  I settle back to enjoy a night full of good food, beloved reruns, and great friendship. But it takes me a while to fall asleep, my mind still running a hundred miles per hour. Morning comes all too soon.

  3

  I rise with my alarm almost like a body out of a casket, only my semi-conscious self is bleary-eyed with short hair sticking out in all directions.

  Kelly wakes up soon after I make coffee and turns on the TV. As a reporter for our local paper, the first thing she does is watch the news...quick prep for the mood in the newsroom.

  “Bailey.” She doesn’t say anything else, and her tone is urgent.

  On the local news is the apartment complex from last night, red and blue flashing lights from nearby police cars lighting up the tall building.

  A tall building that looks familiar.

  “That’s Kurt’s apartment.” Then I read the headline:

  Local banker found dead.

  The news anchor poises her microphone in front of her mouth. “Police haven’t released the cause of death for local banker, Kurt O’Neal. The family has been notified, and the investigation is ongoing.”

  “Oh, no.”

  My cell phone rings from my bedroom. I hurry to make it in time, seeing Callum’s name on the screen.

  “Hey, Cal.”

  “Have you seen the news?”

  “I’m watching it now.”

  “Did anything last night give you a weird feeling? Any red flags?”

  “No.” I close my eyes to visualize everything from last night—the apartment, Kurt’s body language, Martin’s facial expressions. Nothing stands out. “They were all upset, but that’s to be expected, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “The news report said that cause of death wasn’t released. Can you tell me anything? Murder or suicide?”

  “I don’t know anything, myself. I wasn’t called to the scene. I’m sure we’ll get a briefing this morning. But even then, I can’t give you too much information. Be prepared to get called in for questioning.”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “I’m finished at two o’clock today. I can come after school.”

  “That would be great. I’ll tell the chief.”

  I put my hand on my stomach, the tightness returning. “Poor Martin.”

  “That kid’s had it rough. Let me know if there’s anything we can do.”

  “Sure. I’ll see you after school.”

  “See you.”

  I relay as much to Kelly, the report still active on the television.

  “Called in for questioning.” One eyebrow rises. “If could you glean any information…”

  “Find your center, Kelly. You know they won’t give anything away to a school teacher whose best friend is a reporter.”

  “Well, I could always visit Uncle Dave.” She taps the remote control with a fingernail, thinking. “He would probably want to tell me himself, knowing that the paper’s going to come by and ask questions.”

  “Better you than me. Give the captain my best.”

  “I should probably make those cinnamon rolls. That might help give me advantage on my persuasion check.”

  I look dubiously at the refrigerator. “Why not stop by the bakery? Something homemade rather than from a can?” That, and that particular can has been in our fridge for almost six months.

  She snaps her fingers. “Even better.”

  Next come clothes, hair, and makeup, but I hurry. A student’s parent has been killed. The sooner I could get to school, the better.

  Which is the same idea that the other faculty and staff had in mind, too. The faculty parking lot is already nearly full when I pull in, and even some parents are walking their students into the school, no doubt to speak with the principal.

  “Miss Knight,” one parent calls—it’s Cathy. Mark and Carrie are on either side of her. “We just heard this morning on the news.”

  “Me too,” I say. “I’m really sorry. Did you guys know the family?”

  Mark and Carrie nod. “Just through Martin,” Mark says. “We’re in the same grade.”

  “Practically grew up in school together,” Cathy says. “I haven’t spoken with Ashley yet. I don’t want to impose, but I want to be there for them.”

  “A phone call can’t hurt. The worst that can happen is she lets it go to voicemail.”

  Cathy agrees. “Yeah. I’ll call her.”

  She hugs her children before turning back to the car.

  “Does this mean Mr. Fletcher is going to cancel his test today?” Mark asks. When Carrie slaps his shoulder, he pushes her back. “I’m just asking!”

  I walk down the hall toward my classroom as Link steps out of his. “You all right?”

  I nod with a shrug as he and I step into my classroom. “Freaked out, of course. You?”

  “Yeah, same. Do you know anything?”

  Several students step inside, taking their seats. Link and I whisper, even though they all have headphones in or on their ears.

  “Just as much as you do. Have they released cause of death yet?”

  He shakes his head. “They’re pretty tight-lipped about it.”

  “It’s going to come out eventually. I can’t imagine what Ashley and Martin are going through.” I bite my bottom lip. They would know, wouldn’t they? The police would inform them of their initial findings, whether it was murder or suicide.

  The confusion, sadness, and powerlessness they must be feeling.

  The bell for first period is about to ring, and a large portion of my class crosses the threshold.

  “Do you have Martin in any of your classes?” I ask.

  Link nods. “Seventh period. I need to get his work together.”

  The bell rings, and the last of my students rush in.

  “See you later.”

  “Thanks, Link.” I turn to the class, taking attendance by sight before logging it on the computer. “Good morning, everyone.”

  A student raises his hand. “Miss Knight?”

  A question this soon. It’s gotta to be about Kurt O’Neal. I take a fortifying breath. “Yes?”

  “What happened last night with Martin’s dad?”

  “I don’t know. The police are investigating.”

  “But you were there.”

  I beg your pardon? My eyebrows nearly reach my hairline. “And how do you know that?”

  “Martin.”

  “Yeah, it was on his SnapChat,” another student says.

  Great. Of course, he posted about this.

  “He was pretty upset last night,” someone adds.

  “I was there,” I say, “but everything was fine.”

  “I’m worried about him. He hasn’t posted anything since his story last night.”

  “Yeah, it’s almost been eight hours of complete radio silence.”

  “Guys,” I say. “He just lost his dad. Give the kid some space.”

  “But he always posts.”

  “Yeah, it’s like clockwork.”

  While I’m upset at how eager they are, their curiosity is understandable. “He’s grieving over his father. He’s with his family now. You can all try to get in contact with him later, but I would give him some space.”

  “Yeah, guys,” another student pipes up. “Chill. Let him breathe.”

  The class quiets down, and just as I’m about to begin the lesson, a student raises his hand and asks, “If we raised money for charity, like a thousand dollars or something, do you think Mr. Fletcher would cut his hair?”

  The class laughs, and a few students cheer the idea on. I’m grateful for the change in subject.

  I smirk. “I dare you to ask him.”

  The student sinks in his seat a bit, but he’s still grinning.

  Trying to get them to focus on biology is like herding cats, and it’s like that with every successive class. Questions about Martin, about Kurt, and each student believes that I know more than I’m saying.

  Cathy said that she wanted to call to see if Ashley needed anything. Even though Ashley and Kurt divorced, loss and grief can take many forms—especially if his death is in any way traumatic. She might appreciate a meal, if she hasn’t been bombarded with phone calls and offerings yet.

  During my planning period, I pull her cell phone number from Martin’s emergency card and give her a call. Surprisingly, she picks up.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounds deeper than normal. Congestion from crying, no doubt.

  “Ashley?”

  She sniffs. “This is she.”

  “It’s Bailey Knight, from Martin’s school.”

  “Oh, hi.”

  “I don’t mean to bother you, but I wanted to say how sorry I am about what happened.”

  “Thanks. We’re still in shock.”

  “I can imagine. Do you need anything? Food for dinner?”

  “People are already starting to bring stuff,” she says. “It doesn’t take long for the cavalry to assemble in Golden Shore. Covered dishes, casseroles, the works.”

  “What about comfort food? I can stop by after school, if that’s all right.”

  “Some cookie dough ice cream would be great. It’s Martin’s favorite.”

  “On it. I have your address from your emergency card.”

  “Should we collect Martin’s homework?” she asks. “I know he missed a history test today.”

  “I don’t think there’s a rush on that, but I’d be happy to circulate around to his teachers.”

  “Oh, Miss Knight, that would be great.”

  “You are more than welcome to call me Bailey. I’m happy to help.”

  “Martin’s probably going to be out until about Wednesday of next week,” she says. “We’ve scheduled Kurt’s funeral for Monday afternoon. Well, it’s more of a ceremony. Sprinkling his ashes. Only immediate family. The Memorial is Sunday.”

  Again, just like before when Martin was with Kurt, she tells me too much information. This must be a nervous tick when she’s upset. “I’ll bring you what I can, and have his teachers email him the rest.”

  “Great. Thanks, Bailey.”

  “See you this afternoon.”

  I hang up and go to the guidance counselor’s office. Mr. Sanders, a man past middle age, already has Martin’s class schedule out. At my entrance, Mr. Sanders raises his reading glasses to his forehead, the nose pieces touching his receding hairline.

  “I was just about to visit his teachers,” he says.

  “I’d be happy to take his work to his house. I’m stopping by there tonight.”

  “Oh, great.” He picks up the printout of Martins’ classes. “I should be done in about thirty minutes, give or take.”

  I check my watch. “I have class coming up. After school?”

  “After school.”

  The last class of the day is always the craziest. The clock derides every student by ticking so slowly. It derides the teachers, too, but we try not to let on.

  When the bell finally rings and the students leap out of their seats, I leap out of mine too. My things are already packed up—a bad example to set for the students, sure, but I still have to stop by the police station before going to see Martin and Ashley. I beeline for Mr. Sander’s office, the folder of work ready to go.

 

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