Monday, November 27, 6:45 a.m
Daddy!"
The shout, accompanied by the banging on his bedroom door sent the tie tack in Reed's hand skittering to the floor and under his dresser. He sighed. "Come in, Beth."
The door exploded, admitting both fourteen-year-old Beth and her three-month-old sheepdog, who took a running leap, landing in the middle of Reed's bed. The dog shook, sending muddy water everywhere.
"Biggies, no." Beth yanked on his collar, pulling him across the sheets to the floor where he sat, puppy tongue sticking out just far enough to make him too cute to punish.
Hands on his hips, Reed stared in dismay at the muddy streaks the puppy left behind. "I just changed my sheets, Beth. I told you to wipe his paws and dry him off before you brought him back in the house. The backyard is a mud bath."
Beth's lips twitched. "Well, his paws are clean now. I'll wash the sheets again. But first I need lunch money, Dad. The bus is coming soon."
Reed pulled his wallet from his back pocket. "Didn't I just give you lunch money a few days ago?"
Beth shrugged, her hand out. "You want me to go hungry, or what?"
He shot her an overly patient look. "I want you to help me find my tie tack. It rolled under the dresser."
Beth dropped to her knees and felt under the dresser. "Here it is." She dropped it in his palm and he handed her a twenty.
"Try to make it last for at least two weeks, okay?"
She wrinkled her nose and in that moment looked so much like her mother that his heart squeezed. Beth folded the bill and slid it down into the pockets of jeans that hadn't seemed that tight before. "Two weeks? You've gotta be kidding."
"Do I look like I'm kidding?" He looked her up and down. "Your jeans are too tight, Bethie," he said and she got that look on her face. Damn, he hated that look. It seemed to have appeared about the same time as the pimples and the mood swings. Reed's sister Lauren had informed him in a dark whisper that his baby was no longer a baby. God. PMS. He wasn't ready for this. But it didn't seem to matter. His baby was a teenager. She'd be going off to college any day now.
His mind flitted to the victim they'd found in the rubble of the Dougherty house. If she was the college house sitter, she wasn't much older than Beth, and Reed still didn't know her name. He still hadn't heard from Joe Dougherty Junior. He had been able to trace the burned-out Chevy in the garage to a Roger Burnette, but when he and Ben had stopped by the Burnette address, no one had been home. He'd try again this morning after he stopped by the morgue and the lab.
Beth narrowed her eyes, her acidic tone piercing his thoughts. "Are you saying these jeans make me look fat?"
Reed sucked in his cheek. There was no good answer to this question. "Not even close. You're not fat. You're healthy. You're perfect. You do not need to lose weight."
Eyes rolling, her tone became long-suffering. "I'm not going anorexic, Dad."
"Good." He let out the breath he'd been holding. "I'm just saying we need to go shopping for bigger jeans." He smiled weakly. "You're growing too fast, baby. Don't you like the idea of new clothes?" The tie tack rolled in his clumsy fingers, no longer as dexterous as they once had been. "I thought all girls loved shopping."
Quickly Beth took over the task, fixing the tie tack and smoothing his tie with a practiced hand. The look he hated disappeared, replaced by a wicked grin that made her dark eyes sparkle. "I love shopping. I bet we could spend six hours in Marshall Field's alone. Sweaters and jeans and skirts. And shoes! Just think of it."
Reed shuddered, the picture abundantly clear. "Now you're just being mean."
She laughed. "Revenge for the fat comment. So you want to go shopping, Daddy?"
He shuddered again. "Frankly, a root canal without Novo-cain seems less painful. Can Aunt Lauren take you?"
"I'll ask her." Beth leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Thanks for the lunch money. Daddy. Gotta go."
Reed watched her dart away, the sloppy pup at her heels. The front door slammed as Beth headed out, the sheets on his bed still muddy from the dog she'd begged him to buy for her birthday. He knew if he wanted to sleep on clean sheets tonight, he'd best change them himself. But the smell of coffee tickled his nose. She'd remembered to flip the switch on the coffee machine, so he'd cut her slack on the puppy prints. Despite her sometimes volatile mood swings, she was a good kid.
Reed would sell his soul to make sure she stayed that way. He glanced over at the picture on his nightstand. Christine serenely stared back as she had for eleven years. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he picked up the picture and dusted the frame with the cuff of his shirt. Christine would have enjoyed Beth's coming of age, the shopping trips, the "talk." He doubted even the "look" would have phased her. Once he would have damned the world that his wife hadn't had the chance to find out. Today… he set the picture back on the nightstand so that it once again covered the dust-free strip of wood. After eleven years, the rage had become sad acceptance. What was, was. Shrugging into his suit coat, he shook himself. If he didn't hit the road soon, traffic would make him late. Coffee, Solliday, then get moving.
He was pulling out of his garage when his cell phone rang. "Solliday."
"Lieutenant Solliday?" The voice was frantic. "This is Joseph Dougherty. I just got back from a charter fishing trip and my dad said you called."
Joe Junior at last. He put the car in park and pulled out his notepad. "Mr. Dougherty. I'm sorry to have to contact you this way."
There was a heavy sigh. "Then it's true? My house is gone?"
"I'm afraid it's true. Mr. Dougherty, we found a body in the kitchen."
There was a beat of silence. "What?"
Reed wished he could have spoken to the man in person, but his shock sounded sincere. "Yes, sir. The neighbors said you had somebody watching your house."
"Y-yes. Her name is Burnette. Caitlin Burnette. She's supposed to be very responsible." Panic had taken the man's voice a little higher. "She's dead?"
Reed thought of the charred body and swallowed his sigh. Yes, she's very dead. "We're assuming the body we found was your house sitter, but we'll have to investigate before we're certain. We'd appreciate you leaving any notification of the family to us."
"Of…" He cleared his throat. "Of course."
"When will you be back in town, Mr. Dougherty?"
"We weren't supposed to come back until Friday, but we'll try to get home today. When I know our flight times, I'll call you back."
Reed tossed his phone to the passenger seat, only to have it ring again. Caller ID this time was the morgue. "Solliday."
"Reed, it's Sam Barrington." The new medical examiner. Barrington had taken over when the old ME went out on maternity leave. The old ME had been efficient, astute, and personable. Barrington… well, he was efficient and astute.
"Hey, Sam. I'm on my way into the office. What do you have?"
"Victim's a woman, early twenties. Best I can tell she was five-two, five-three."
Sam wasn't one to call with such basic information. There had to be more. "And?"
"Well, before I started to cut I did an initial X-ray of the body. I expected to see the skull in fractured fragments."
Which was the general way of things. Bodies subjected to that kind of heat… the skulls sometimes just exploded from the pressure. "But you didn't."
"No, because the bullet hole in her skull vented all the pressure."
Reed wasn't surprised. Still, now he had to share. He got the arson, the cops got the body. Too many damn cooks in the kitchen. He winced. So to speak. "Any evidence of smoke inhalation?"
"Haven't gotten that far yet," Sam said briskly. "I'm going to start the autopsy right away, so you can come by anytime this morning."
"Thanks. I will." He pulled onto his quiet tree-lined street, flipping on his wipers against the rain. It had been a while since he'd worked with Homicide, but he thought Marc Spinnelli was still the lieutenant there. Marc was a straight shooter. Reed only hoped the detective Spinnelli assigned wouldn't be a know-it-all hotshot.
Monday, November 27, 8:30 a.m.
Mia Mitchell's feet were cold. Which was really stupid, because they could be warm and toasty, propped up on her desk as she sipped her third cup of coffee. But they're not, because here I am, she thought bitterly. Standing on the sidewalk, cold rain dripping from the brim of the battered hat she wore. Staring at her own reflection in the glass doors like an idiot. She'd passed through these doors hundreds of times before but today was different. Today she was alone.
Because I froze like a damn rookie. And her partner had paid the price. Two weeks later, the moment was still enough to make her frozen. She stared at the sidewalk. Two weeks later she could still hear the crack of gunfire, see Abe crumble and fall, the bloodstain on his white shirt spreading as she stood, slack-jawed and helpless.
"Excuse me."
Mia jerked her chin upward, then up again, her fist clenching against the reflex to draw her weapon, her eyes narrowing beneath the brim of her hat to focus on the reflection behind her. It was a man, at least six feet tall. His black trench coat was the same color as the neatly trimmed goatee that framed his mouth. After a beat she lifted her chin another notch to his eyes. He was staring at her from under an umbrella, dark brows furrowed.
"Are you all right, miss?" he asked, his voice that even, soft tone that she herself used to calm skittish suspects and witnesses. Her lips quirked up mirthlessly as his intent became clear. He thought she was some nutcase off the street. Maybe she looked that way. Either way, he'd gotten the drop on her and that was unacceptable. Pay attention for God's sake. She searched her mind for an adequate response.
"I'm fine, thanks. I'm… waiting for someone." It sounded lame, even to her own ears, but he nodded and stepped around her, pulling the door open as he closed his umbrella. Background noise filtered through the open door, and she thought that would be the end of it and him. But he didn't move. He stood, studying her face as if memorizing each detail. She considered identifying herself, but… didn't. Instead she met his scrutiny with her own, the cop part of her brain now back on full.
He was a good-looking man, darkly handsome, older than his reflection had appeared. It was his eyes, she thought.
Hard and dark. And his mouth. He looked like he never smiled. His eyes dropped to her bare hands, then lifted, his expression softer. It was compassion, she realized, and the notion had her swallowing hard.
"Well, if you need a place to warm up, there's room at the shelter on Grand. They might be able to get you some gloves. Be careful. It's cold outside." He hesitated, then held out his umbrella. "Stay dry."
Too stunned to speak, she took it. Her mouth opened to set him straight, but he was gone, hurrying across the lobby. He stopped at the desk sergeant's station and pointed at her. The desk sergeant blinked once, then nodded soberly.
Hell, Tommy Polanski was at the desk this morning. He'd known her since she was a snot-nosed kid tagging behind her dad at the firing range, begging for a turn. But Tommy didn't say a word, just let the man walk away thinking she was some street person. Rolling her eyes, she followed the path the man had taken, scowling when a broad grin took over Tommy's face.
"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. If it isn't Detective Mia Mitchell, finally come back to do an honest day's work."
She took off her hat, shook it dry. "Got tired of the soaps. How's it going, Tommy?"
He shrugged. "Same old, same old." But his eyes twinkled.
He was going to make her ask, the old bastard. "So who was that guy?"
Tommy laughed. "He's a fire marshal. He was worried you were planning to storm the place. I told him you were a regular"-his grin went wicked-"and harmless overall."
Mia rolled her eyes again. "Gee, thanks, Tommy," she said dryly.
"Anything for Bobby's girl." His grin faded, his eyes giving her a head to toe once-over. "How's the shoulder, kid?"
She flexed it inside her leather jacket. "Just a graze. Doc says I'm good as new." Actually it hadn't been a graze and the doctor had said she needed another week on disability, but at her growl he'd shrugged and signed her release form.
"And Abe?"
"Getting better." So the night nurse said, every night when Mia called anonymously at three a.m.
Tommy's jaw stiffened. "We'll catch the punk that did this, Mia. Don't worry."
Two weeks later and the little punk bastard that shot her partner was still on the streets, no doubt boasting how he took down a cop twice his size. A wave of rage hit her hard, but she bit it back. "I know. Thanks."
"Tell Abe I said hi."
"I will," she lied smoothly. "I need to go. I don't want to be late my first day back."
"Mia." Tommy hesitated. "I'm sorry about your father. He was a good cop."
A good cop. Mia bit the inside of her cheek. Too bad Bobby Mitchell hadn't been a better man. "Thanks, Tommy. My mom appreciated the basket." Fruit baskets filled the kitchen table of her mother's small house, tokens of respect for her father's long, long career. Three weeks after her father stroked out, the fruit in the baskets was going rotten. A fitting end, many would say. No, many wouldn't. Because many didn't know.
But Mia knew. A hard knot filled her throat and she shoved her hat back on her head. "I gotta go." She passed the elevator and took the stairs two at a time, which unfortunately brought her toward the very place she'd been avoiding all the faster.
Monday, November 27, 8:40 a.m.
He worked in brisk silence, sliding the razor blade down the straight edge of the ruler, trimming the ragged edges from the article he'd pulled from the Trib. fire destroys home, kills one. It was a small article, with no photograph, but it did mention the home belonged to the Doughertys so it would be a good addition to his scrapbook. He sat back and looked at the account of Saturday night's fire and his mouth curved.
He'd achieved the effect he'd wanted. There was fear in the words of the neighbors the reporter had interviewed. Why? they'd asked. Who could do such a thing?
Me. That was the answer, all the answer he needed. I could. I would. I did.
The reporter had interviewed old lady Richter. She'd been one of the worst of the geezers, always dropping in on old lady Dougherty for tea, gossiping for hours. She was always looking down her nose at them. "I don't know what you're thinking about, Laura," she'd say with a sniff. "Taking in those kind of boys. It's a wonder you haven't been murdered in your sleep by now." Old lady Dougherty would tell her that she was making a difference in her boys' lives. She'd made a difference, all right. Her difference had sent them straight to hell. Her difference had killed Shane.
Shane had trusted her. And she'd turned on him. She was as guilty of his death as if she'd stabbed him in the back herself. He looked down at his hand. It was fisted, the X-Acto blade clutched like a knife. He carefully put it down, reined in the emotion.
Stick to the facts, the plan. He needed to find old lady Dougherty. He should have waited for her to return. To go ahead without her had been foolish. He'd been too eager to use the means. He'd forgotten about the end.
When would she return? How the hell would he find her now? His eyes settled on the article once more. Old lady Richter had been a gossip then. Some things didn't change. When the Doughertys came back, she'd know. He smiled, a plan starting to form. He was clever enough to get the information without Richter suspecting a thing.
He studied the article, pride bubbling deep within him. The fire investigators had ruled it arson. Duh. But they had no leads, no suspects. They didn't even know the identity of the girl yet. They claimed they were withholding her identity pending notification of her family, but they couldn't know who she was. She'd been burned to a crisp. He'd seen to that. No body could have survived that fire.
His hands went still. He'd said those same words the day Shane died. Nobody could have survived. And Shane had not. That the girl had not was… fair.
He gave a hard nod to the newspaper clipping he held in his hands. Nice, straight edges. Suitable for framing. Instead, he slid it between the pages of the book on his desk along with the article he'd cut just as carefully from the Springdale, Indiana, Gazette, thanksgiving night fire leaves two dead. As they should be. Again, it was fair. More than fair. Again, no suspects. No leads. As it should be.
Later, he'd put both articles with the souvenir he'd taken, Caitlin's blue denim purse. Well, it had been blue. Now it was red, splattered with her blood.
He'd been splattered, too. Luckily he'd been able to shower and change before anyone saw the blood on his clothes. Next time, he'd have to take better precautions. Next time he'd need to cover his own clothes before drawing blood.
He stood up. Because he would draw blood again, very soon. He knew exactly where to find Miss. Penny Hill. People thought their addresses were secret because their telephone number was unlisted. Not so. If a person knew how, they could find out anything about anybody. Of course the person searching had to be smart.
And I am. He was already starting to feel the excitement of the next kill. Penny Hill would not die easily. He would not be so merciful this time. Time. Damn. He'd lost track of time. He gathered his things. If he didn't hurry, he'd be late. He needed to make it through the day, then tonight… He'd walked through his plan last night, made sure it was foolproof. Tonight… he smiled.
She would suffer. And she'd know why. Then she'd count to ten, one for each miserable year of his brother's life. Then he'd send her to hell where she belonged.
Monday, November 27, 8:50 a.m.
Mia rounded the corner to the Homicide bullpen. It looked the same-pairs of desks back to back, piled with papers and coffee cups. Except for two. Hers and Abe's. She frowned. Their desks were clean, their folders in neat stacks. Everything else was arranged with an eerie symmetry-coffee cups, telephones, staplers, even their pens were placed in identical mirror-image locations.
"The Stepford wives cleaned my desk," Mia muttered and heard a chuckle behind her. Todd Murphy leaned against the wall, coffee cup in his hand, a smile bending his mouth. With his rumpled suit and loosened tie, he was a most welcome sight.
"Stacy,"' he said quietly, indicating their office clerk. "She went through what you'd been working on when Spinnelli reassigned your cases. Stacy got a little carried away."
"He reassigned all of them?" Mia hadn't expected their lieutenant to allow their cases to go untouched for two weeks, but hearing that he'd reassigned them all left her a little rocked. It was as if Spinnelli hadn't expected her back for a long while. Well, I am back. She had work to do. First and foremost was catching the sorry piece of shit who'd shot Abe. "Who took Abe's case?"
"Howard and Brooks. They worked it hard the first week, but the trail was ice cold."
"So Melvin Getts shoots a cop and gets away with it," she said bitterly.
"They haven't given up," Murphy said softly. "Everybody wants to see Getts pay."
The thought of Getts calmly lifting his gun and shooting her partner twisted her gut and she felt herself freezing up as she had outside. Fighting it, she strode to her desk with a belligerence she had to fake. "I bet Stacy even washed my cup."
Murphy followed her and slumped in his chair two desks down. "It was really gross, Mitchell. Your cup was growing… things." He shuddered. "Vile, unspeakable things."
Mia set the umbrella against her desk and shrugged out of her wet jacket, biting her lip against the twinge in her shoulder as she adjusted the holster under her blazer. "Good old-fashioned mold. Never hurt anybody." She pulled the worn fedora from her head and winced. No wonder the guy downstairs thought she was a street person. Both the coat and the hat looked like they'd been pulled from a Salvation Army bin. On the other hand, what did she care what he thought? You have to stop caring what people think. She sighed quietly. And she'd stop breathing while she was at it.
She turned her frustration to her perfect desk. "Hell, I can't work like this." Deliberately she toppled the stack of folders and rearranged the contents of her desk haphazardly. "There. If Stacy touched the Pop-Tarts in my drawer, she's dead meat." But her emergency stash was intact. "She can live."
"I'm sure she's been quaking in her boots," Murphy said dryly. He eyed the umbrella. "Since when did you start carrying one of those?"
"It's not mine. I'm going to have to find the owner and give it back." Mia eased herself into her chair, her eyes flitting across the unoccupied desk that butted against Murphy's. "Where's your partner?" she asked. Murphy's partner was Abe's brother Aidan. Mia wasn't looking forward to the censure she knew she'd see in his eyes.
"At the morgue. We pulled a double homicide last night. He won the toss, so I'm calling next of kin." Murphy's eyes abruptly narrowed. "You have company."
Mia turned, a groan catching in her throat when her shoulder burned. Then she forgot all about her shoulder. Striding across the bullpen with a look that would terrify most serial killers was the assistant state's attorney. Abe's wife. Guilt had Mia avoiding Abe's family for two weeks. Now it was time to face the music. Unsteadily she rose and prepared to take what she had coming. "Kristen."
Kristen Reagan raised her brows, her lips tightly pursed. "So you live after all."
The woman had every right to her anger. Kristen could have been a widow had the bullet hit Abe's gut just an inch lower. Mia braced herself. "Just say it."
Kristen said nothing, instead studying her in a way that made Mia want to squirm, bringing back memories of frowning nuns and stinging palms. Finally Kristen sighed. "You dumb ass," she murmured. "What did you think I was going to say?"
Mia's spine straightened at the soft tone. She would have preferred the harsh words she deserved. "I wasn't paying attention. Abe paid the price."
"He said you were ambushed. He didn't see them at first, either."
"My angle was different. I should have seen them. I was…" Preoccupied. "I wasn't paying attention," she repeated stiffly. "I'm sorry."
Kristen's eyes flashed. "You think he blames you? That / blame you?"
"You should. I would." She lifted a shoulder. "I do."
"Then you're an idiot," Kristen snapped. "We were worried, Mia. You disappeared after they sewed you up. We looked everywhere, but we couldn't find you. We thought you'd been hurt, or killed. Abe's been out of his mind worrying about you. And all this time you've been off somewhere sulking, feeling sorry for yourself?"
Mia blinked. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" She shut her eyes. "Shit."
"You didn't mean for us to worry." Kristen's voice was flat. "Well, we did. Even Spinnelli didn't know where you were until you called last week to say you'd be back this morning. I went by your apartment six times."
Mia opened her eyes, remembering three of those times. "I know."
Kristen's eyes widened. "You know? You were there?"
"Kind of. Yeah." Sitting in the dark sulking. Feeling sorry for herself.
Kristen's brows furrowed. '"Kind of? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The room had quieted and everyone watched them. "Can you keep your voice down?"
"No. I can't. I've sat by Abe's side for two weeks while he waited for you to call. In between morphine drips and surgery, he worried that you'd gone after Getts yourself and were dead in an alley somewhere. So if I'm a little short on patience or sympathy or discretion, then so be it." She stood, her cheeks flushed. "You better show up at his hospital room after your shift. Explain to him what 'kind of means. You owe him that much." She took two steps, then stopped. Slowly she turned, her eyes no longer flashing, but filled with sorrow. "Dammit, Mia. You hurt him. When he found out you were okay and that you just hadn't come to see him, he was so hurt."
Mia swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."
Kristen cocked her jaw. "You should be. He cares about you."
Mia dropped her gaze to her desk. "I'll be there after my shift."
"See that you do." She paused, then cleared her throat. "Mia, look at me, please."
Mia raised her eyes. The anger was gone, concern taking its place. "What?"
Kristen lowered her voice to a mere whisper. "You've had a hard time the last few weeks, what with your dad and all.
Mistakes happen. You're human. And you're still the partner I want watching my husband's back."
Mia watched until Kristen was gone, then sank down into her chair. They thought she was upset about her father's death. If only it were that easy. "Shit."
Murphy's voice was mild. "You're white as a sheet. You should have taken a few more days."
"Looks like I should have done a lot of things," she shot back, then closed her eyes. "Have you seen him?"
"Yeah. He was a mess for the first week or so. Aidan says they're letting him out tomorrow or the next day, so unless you want him to hold it over your head that you didn't visit him, you'd better go tonight. What the hell were you thinking, Mia?"
Mia stared into her very clean coffee cup. "That I fucked up and nearly got my partner killed. Again." Murphy said nothing and Mia looked up, sardonic. "You're not going to tell me it wasn't my fault? This time or last time?"
Murphy pulled a carrot stick from a plastic bag on his desk. "Would it do any good?"
Mia eyed the stack of perfectly cut carrots as Murphy slipped one between his lips. "You're trying to quit again, aren't you?"
He held her eyes for a long moment, not fooled. "Two weeks. Not that I'm counting."
"Good for you." She stood, her legs steady again. "I need to tell Spinnelli I'm back."
"He's in with somebody. But he said he wants to see you right away and you should just come in."
Mia frowned. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I just did." She'd made it to the door to Spinnelli's office when Murphy called her name. "Mia. It wasn't your fault. Abe or Ray. Shit happens. You know this."
Abe, who'd escaped by the skin of his teeth no thanks to her. Ray, the partner before who hadn't been so lucky. The cops sent Ray's wife fruit baskets, too. "Yeah." Drawing a breath, she knocked on her lieutenant's door.
"Come," Spinnelli ordered. He was sitting behind his desk, a frown bunching his bushy salt-and-pepper mustache, but his eyes softened at the sight of her. "Mia. Glad you're here. Come in. Sit down. How are you?"
Mia closed the door behind her. "Cleared for duty." Her eyes widened as the occupant of Spinnelli's guest chair turned. Hell. Then the guy in the trench coat from downstairs was lurching to his feet and he didn't look any happier than she felt.
For a second she could only stare. "You're Detective Mitchell?" he said accusingly.
Mia nodded, feeling her cheeks heat. The man had caught her practically asleep on her feet right outside the station house. He'd thought she was a mental case. Any chance at a good first impression was shot straight to hell. Still, she gathered her composure and met his dark eyes squarely. "I am. And you are?"
Spinnelli stood up behind his desk. "This is Lieutenant Reed Solliday from OFI."
Mia nodded. "Office of Fire Investigation. The arson guys. Okay. And?"
Spinnelli's mouth quirked. "And he's your new partner."
Monday, November 27, 9:00 A.M.
Brooke Adler sat on the corner of her desk, aware that half a dozen sets of eyes would be permanently glued to her cleavage for the next fifty minutes. If she was lucky maybe one of the boys in her class would be paying attention to the lesson she'd so carefully prepared. She didn't hold out much hope. Then again, neither did the boys.
The only hope in this place was on the sign on the front door, hope center for boys. Sitting before her were thieves and runaways and juvenile sex offenders. She would have preferred lions and tigers and bears. Oh my.
"So how was Thanksgiving?" she asked brightly. Most of the boys had spent Thanksgiving here, in the dorms of the residential school.
"Turkey was dry," Mike complained from the back row. There really wasn't a back row, Mike just created one every morning. The end chair on the first row was empty.
She searched the faces of her students. "Where is Thad today?"
Jeff slouched, outwardly cool. But there was always a tension, a coldness in his eyes, that kept Brooke on edge. "Faggeus stole the leftover pie from the fridge."
Brooke frowned. "Jeff," she said sharply, "you know that name isn't tolerated. "So where is Thad today?" she repeated more soberly.
Jeff's smile made a shiver raced down Brooke's spine. Jeff's smiles were mean. Jeff was mean. "He got a stomachache," Jeff said blandly. "He's at the clinic."
Thaddeus Lewin was a quiet kid, rarely spoke. Brooke wasn't sure who'd nicknamed him Faggeus. She was positive she didn't want to know why. She picked up her copy of Lord ofthe Flies with a sigh. "I asked you to read chapter two. What did you think?"
Linking Lord of the Flies to the Survivor TV show had produced a flicker of interest the week before. Now their faces were blank. No one had completed the reading. Then to her surprise a hand went up. "Manny?" Manny Rodriguez never volunteered.
Manny leaned back in his chair. "The fire was cool," he said smoothly.
Jeff's brows went up. "They got fire in this book?"
Manny nodded. "These kids get stranded on this island, so they start a signal fire to get rescued, but it gets out of control." His eyes gleamed. "Burns the whole side of a mountain and takes out one of the kids. Then later they catch the whole island on fire."
He sounded almost awed and Brooke's skin prickled. "The signal fire is a symbol-"
"How did they make the fire?" Jeff asked, ignoring her.
"They used the fat ass's glasses like a magnifying glass," Manny answered. "The fat kid gets it in the end." He grinned. "Boulder smashes his head open. Brains everywhere." He looked over at Brooke with a leer. "I read ahead, Teacher."
"I used a magnifying glass to kill a bug once," Mike offered. "I didn't think it would work, but it really does."
Jeff's smile flashed, wolfish. "They say that sticking a hamster in the microwave is a myth, but they're wrong. Cats are even better, but you need a really big microwave."
"That's enough," Brooke snapped. "Manny, Jeff, Mike, stop it."
Jeff slid back down in his chair, smirking as his eyes slid back to her breasts, slowly so that she would know he stared. "Teacher likes pussy… cats," he murmured just loud enough for her to hear. Brooke decided it was best to ignore him.
Manny just shrugged. "You asked," he said. "The fire was cool."
"The fire is a symbol," she said firmly. "Of common sense and morality." She frowned at the class. "And stay away from the microwave. Now let's talk about the symbolism of the signal fire. You have a quiz on Wednesday."
Every set of eyes dropped to her breasts and Brooke knew she'd be talking to herself. Three months ago she'd arrived at Hope Center, the ink barely dry on her diploma, fresh-faced and eager to teach. Now she just prayed she'd get through the day. And that somehow, someway she'd get through to these kids. Please. Just one.