She Lies Alone: An utterly compelling psychological suspense novel, page 25
Nick continued babbling into the microphone, but Amy didn’t register most of it. The police presence consumed her full attention. Detective Danthorpe and two of his counterparts positioned themselves next to the principal. They wore plain clothes, but they were easily identifiable by their stiff, coiled stances, like bobcats ready to pounce. The two extras were focused on Nick, taking mental notes or, more likely, recording the whole thing on some sort of invisible microphone. Amy was even more thankful for Christina’s advice to Phoebe.
Danthorpe’s eyes scanned the crowd, and Amy tried to place herself in his shoes, to guess who or what he was looking for. It seemed he was ignoring her suggestion to pursue The Silver Slasher. She followed his eyes toward Jane Bryson, Phoebe’s AP Chemistry teacher, her mousy, chin-length hair whipped back by the wind. Jane dabbed a tissue against her raw and red nose. Dark hollows sunk in half-moons below her eyes. A lit candle balanced in her other hand, the flickering flame fighting against the wind. A pale, lanky man Amy took to be Jane’s husband wrapped his scarecrow-like arm around Jane’s sturdy torso and gave her a squeeze.
Amy’s arm shivered. She glanced away from Jane. As usual, Scott and Cece hadn’t even bothered to show up. She bit her lip, refocusing on Jane and the skinny arm of her loving husband. Why was the detective studying the chemistry teacher? Jane and Elena had been unlikely friends, but friends just the same. Elena’s soothing voice and smooth edges had clashed with Jane’s snarky humor and sharp angles. Still, Amy couldn’t recall entering the teachers’ lounge when the two teachers hadn’t been eating lunch together or grading at adjoining tables. Jane and Nick had been friends before Elena came into the picture. Had one of these friendships gone south? Maybe Detective Danthorpe knew something she didn’t.
The detective’s scrutinizing gaze traveled from Jane across a few warm bodies, stopping at the young ceramics teacher, Annie Babcock. Phoebe had never taken ceramics, but the woman with the fiery eyes and impossibly thin waist had checked in late to the office enough times for Amy to know who she was. Annie’s puffy jacket was overkill for the unseasonably warm night, but she hugged her arms around herself as if she were freezing. Her lips were stained dark red and pinched together as she listened to Nick drone on about Elena’s ability to make everyone feel included. Lydia had told Amy that Nick and Annie had dated the year before. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. No one could blame the detective for keeping an eye on Annie.
“We’ll always miss you, Elena.” Nick’s voice crackled through the microphone. “The world was a better place because you were here.” He slunk away to weak applause, as a ninth grader with sad eyes and a smattering of freckles approached the microphone and announced she would recite a couple of Elena’s favorite poems. She started with “Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou.
Now Detective Danthorpe’s eyes skimmed across the crowd, hovering for several seconds on two men in jeans and hoodies across the way. They lingered just beyond the last row of the large group. One had swarthy skin, and the other was pale but unshaven. They were in their late twenties or early thirties—too old to be students, but too young to be parents of high school kids. People whispered that Elena had been in an abusive relationship before she ended it and moved here to start her new teaching position. Could one of those men be her ex? Or maybe the detective suspected one of them was The Silver Slasher.
The detective’s gaze traveled forward to a group of four English teachers huddled together with long faces. The department chair, Jefferson Sebold, shifted his weight from foot to foot, fingers picking at his cuticles. He wore a tweed blazer over a turtleneck, giving him the stereotypical look of a college literature professor. His twitchy eyes stared off into the distance. Elena had made that man’s life a living hell. Amy had witnessed Jefferson’s frantic comings and goings into Principal Albright’s office on almost a daily basis, every crisis caused by Elena Mayfield. She wondered if Detective Danthorpe knew the extent of Jefferson’s conflicts with the murdered teacher. If only she could hear the thoughts running through Danthorpe’s head.
As if on cue, the detective flipped around. His unflinching eyes grabbed hold of Amy, who threw her gaze into the ground. Her grip tightened around the base of the candle, pulse accelerating. She wondered why he was looking at her like that. She breathed in and out, inching her feet wider to maintain her composure. He’d probably sensed her watching him. Of course, as a detective, he would have been trained in that sort of thing. She forced herself to look back at him, only more casually this time, as if she just happened to catch his glance.
He gave her a nod and Amy offered a discreet nod in return, before clutching her candle with both hands and training her eyes on the freckle-faced girl at the top of the steps. For several seconds, she focused on the girl and the poems, not wanting the detective to catch her staring again. She clapped after the reading finished, or at least she tried. It was difficult with a burning candle in one hand. Members of the committee of students who’d organized the event huddled together and discussed who would go next as a quiet murmur spread through the crowd.
Assuming the role of a spy, Amy glanced sideways at the detective. Thankfully, he was no longer watching her, having moved his examination on to someone closer to him—Principal Albright. A gust of wind blew Albright’s tie over his shoulder as he checked his watch in dramatic fashion. His tailored suit did little to disguise the gut overhanging his belt. The man’s pallor had grown to an even pastier shade than his normal complexion as he edged his thick frame toward a gap in the bystanders. Detective Danthorpe’s eyes tracked the principal, observing him elbow his way through the crowd. Principal Albright, out of breath and sweat reflecting from his forehead, finally reached the student organizers, leaning into them to tell them something he obviously considered to be of dire importance. The students nodded, and the principal climbed the remaining steps and straightened his tie.
“I’d like to thank the students who organized this beautiful and thoughtful memorial. Ms. Mayfield touched so many of us in different ways, and I’m glad we had the opportunity to honor her memory here tonight.” The relief at being back in control of the gathering seemed to loosen Principal Albright’s features.
A pang of empathy shot through Amy. The poor man was doing the best he could, given the difficult circumstances.
The principal continued talking. “As you may know, dealing with such a sudden loss can affect people in different ways. We will continue to have grief counselors at the school for one more week for anyone who needs them. Now, let’s all remember to lift one another up and show that Red Hawk spirit. That’s what Ms. Mayfield would have wanted. At the end of the day, we’re all on the same team.”
A few weak claps dissolved into silence. A row in front of Amy, Jane turned toward her husband and rolled her eyes.
Principal Albright coughed. “This concludes the memorial. You may blow out your candles and dispose of them in the garbage cans near the sidewalk. Everyone get home safely.”
Swirls of smoke billowed upward as people blew out the remaining candles and the crowd dispersed. Phoebe made her way down the steps, and Amy wove through the people, striding toward her daughter.
“Phoebe! I’m over here,” she said, anxious to separate Phoebe from Rowan.
Phoebe raised her chin and glared before hurrying in the opposite direction, shoulder-to-shoulder with Rowan.
Amy jogged a few steps behind, her jaw tightening. “Phoebe. I’ll drive you home!”
A mom and her son walking near Amy turned and stared, maybe hearing the desperation in her voice.
Phoebe peered back again, a satisfied look settling across her face as she reached for the boy’s hand. “I already have a ride.”
Amy’s feet halted as if locked in place. Phoebe and Rowan strolled away. Cold dread leeched through Amy’s body. Even after all the sacrifices she’d made, after she’d done everything in the world to ensure Phoebe’s happiness, her daughter was intent on defying her.
A minute later, Amy surfaced from her despondent thoughts, finding herself standing in the same spot on the sidewalk and suddenly aware of the cars traveling past her and people talking in the distance. She smoothed out her windbreaker and turned toward the side lot where she’d parked her car.
A figure loomed in the corner of her eye. She knew who it was before she even looked over. Detective Danthorpe towered from the edge of the parking lot, arms crossed, eyes flickering. He had witnessed the entire exchange.
Twenty-Eight
Jane
My body crumpled backward onto the bed, Moose bounding up next to me a half-second later. He spun in a circle and flopped down, tucking his nose between his paws and instantly falling asleep. I didn’t have the strength, or the heart, to push him onto the floor. The TV droned from the next room where Craig watched a football game. He wouldn’t get any arguments from me. He’d put in more than enough time doting on me over the last week, including helping me through Elena’s memorial tonight. It was his turn to do whatever the heck he wanted.
Leanne was right about the memorial. It had been a meaningful way to remember Elena, even if the event had sucked out the last of my emotions and drained me of all energy, leaving me incapable of giving my dog even the most basic training.
The earnest words from Nick’s speech echoed in my ears, a puff of pride filling my chest. He’d done right by Elena, pouring his heart out there for everyone to hear. Albright looked like he’d been crapping his pants during Nick’s speech, confirming that the only thing Albright feared more than a teacher murdered on school grounds was any teacher making him look bad.
I rolled onto my side. A book of poetry Elena had lent me a couple of weeks earlier lay in a stack at the bottom of my nightstand, white lettering popping out from the black cover. My hand stretched downward, fingers closing around the smooth paperback and pulling it toward me. Propping two pillows behind me, I slid my back toward the wall and opened the book. Admittedly, I’d never been one to lounge around reading poetry, but some sense of loyalty to Elena compelled me to concentrate and dig in.
My finger caught on an uneven edge. I flipped backward from the first page, finding a yellow sticky note hanging from the top of the inside cover. Elena’s loopy writing covered the note in neat rows of blue ink. The top line read, Grant money for poetry program. On the second line, she’d written, projected proceeds=$23,000. Beneath it were several lines of expenses for Geeks and Goblins, band scholarships, and new computers. The last line read $7,200 left over.
The note must have been about the poetry program Elena was discussing with Rowan the morning I’d seen them at the coffee shop. It was probably the reason Rowan had been so upset the day he’d shown up here screaming and ruining our chances of adopting a baby. He’d thought I’d reported them and ended Elena’s shot at getting the grant. Only it hadn’t been me who’d made the call.
My stomach heaved at the realization. What if the person who’d reported Elena at the coffee shop was the same person who’d murdered her? Maybe someone had it out for her all along. Phoebe had been outside the library that morning. I’d seen her strolling past, acting like she’d been on her way to one of the other stores in the strip mall, but I remembered the look on her face as she stared through the window of the coffee shop at Rowan and Elena, like she’d eaten a bad piece of fish or been tasered with a stun gun. She’d been jealous.
I pinched the cover between my fingers, remembering how Albright had told Elena it had been a parent who’d called in the indiscretion. But he wouldn’t have told her if it had been one of her students, would he? And if it had been a student pretending to be a parent, he wouldn’t have known that, either.
My eyes traveled back to the sticky note, wondering how far along Elena’s grant request had gotten. She’d never told me how much money would have been required, but $7,200 seemed like more than enough to start a poetry program.
The next morning, I arrived at school half an hour early, fueled with caffeine and blinking against the unforgiving lights of the main office. Lydia leaned back in a chair behind the counter, a hideous flower-print muumuu hanging from her shoulders. Something about her manner unnerved me. It wasn’t so much her appearance, although she obviously cared even less about her presentation than me. Her untamed hair and makeup-free face seemed to be her own way of telling the world to fuck off. She spoke loudly into the receiver, detailing the dates of the remaining early release days to someone on the other end, then hung up with a loud huff and raised her unwieldy eyebrows at me.
“Good morning, Jane. To what do we owe this honor?” As usual, sarcasm laced Lydia’s gravelly smoker’s voice.
I smiled, but my eyes darted back toward the hallway. Unlike some of the other teachers, I wasn’t a frequent visitor to the office, having made it my personal mission to stay inside the bubble of my classroom and the teachers’ lounge, unless required to venture elsewhere.
My elbow rested on the counter and I leaned my weight into it. “I was hoping to talk to Principal Albright for a minute.”
She rolled her chair over to her computer and clicked on something. “Well, it must be your lucky day. His morning meeting just got canceled.”
I straightened up, eager to learn more about the status of the poetry grant.
Lydia motioned her flabby arm toward the principal’s office behind her. “Go on in.”
The door of the private office sat slightly ajar. I stepped toward it and gave it a few soft knocks before poking my head inside.
Albright stood behind his desk with fingers laced in front of him. He stared out the window.
“Hello?” I said.
His eyes zipped toward me, arms falling to his sides. He clapped his hands together, a false smile forming. “Jane. Good morning!”
“Good morning.”
He motioned toward two fabric chairs with fluffy cushions. I sank into the closest one as Albright sat behind his sprawling desk. Framed photos of his wife and two college-aged sons rested on shelves. Diplomas and various awards for outstanding achievement adorned the wall next to him.
“It’s been a real shame about Elena. I’ve been meaning to pull you aside and have a chat, but things have been so hectic with the police here and all the parents calling, not to mention the media. I apologize for not sitting down with you sooner.”
“It’s okay.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Fine.” My throat tightened, but I pressed my heels into the floor and took a deep breath, just like Leanne had taught me.
Albright lowered his eyes at me. “Elena was one of the good ones, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.” I balled my hands, wondering about the authenticity of his words. Elena had caused nothing but trouble for him since she’d started teaching here. When she’d been caught meeting with students in public outside of school hours and teaching stories from unapproved books, it was a wonder Albright’s giant head hadn’t spontaneously combusted.
“Any more problems from Rowan?” Albright leaned toward me. “He was taken in for another round of police questioning after the fight the other day.”
“No. Rowan’s fine.” I shifted in my seat, not at all certain whether Rowan was “fine” or a troubled murderer. I raised my chin. “Actually, I was wondering about the grant for the poetry program. Did that get approved?”
Albright cocked his rectangular head at me. “Poetry program?”
“Yeah. Elena was trying to get approval for a new intensive poetry program. She was hoping to use some of the money raised from Geeks and Goblins.”
“I was aware of her poetry club.” He let out a stifled laugh. “There was no grant needed for that.”
“No. This was something different. A permanent program she wanted to work into the curriculum for students interested in poetry.”
“I’m sorry, Jane.” Albright shook his head. “I’m afraid I never heard anything about that.”
“Okay.” My spine pressed against the plush cushion. Elena must have put her grant efforts on hold when she’d been forced to take a leave-of-absence.
“Is that all?”
I began to raise myself off the chair, but stopped. “I did have one other question.”
“Okay.”
“Who called in the complaint about Elena and Rowan at the coffee shop?”
Albright tucked his chin into his neck, a worry line forming on his forehead. “I don’t think you need to concern yourself with that.”
“Was it a parent or a student?”
“Jane. I don’t even know who it was. Let the police do their job. They’re in the middle of an extremely thorough investigation.”
The shrill ring of the first bell cut across the air. Albright stood, waiting for me to leave.
Lydia’s voice crackled through a speaker on Albright’s desk. “Sir, you have a call from Ms. Luddington on line one.”
I stood but didn’t turn away from him. “All I want to know is if it was a parent or a student who called in the complaint.”
Albright tipped his face toward the ceiling and sighed. “I was told it was a parent. She didn’t leave her name. Now, please. Get to your classroom and let the police handle this.”
I nodded and hurried out the door.
Four hours later, I crunched my last pretzel and gulped down some water. After my outburst at the unsuspecting substitute a few days before, it was safer to skip the teachers’ lounge and eat at my desk. Things had been uneventful with my students today. Rowan and Phoebe had kept to themselves, and Austin had finally learned to keep his mouth shut.
My eyes found the clock. Fifteen minutes until my next class started. I pushed away from my desk and headed toward the door for a quick trip to the ladies’ room. When I exited into the hallway a few minutes later, a blur of students rushed past in all directions.
