She Can Scream (8 page)

If this criminal found her, he found her children as well.

“I’d like to check your windows and doors while you’re at school. Is that all right with you?”

Brooke shrugged. “Sure. Go ahead, but I check them regularly. The locks should all be in working order.”

“Can’t be too careful.”

The kids pounded down the stairs. They stopped at the sight of Luke in the kitchen. He slid two plates of eggs and toast onto the table. With confused, half-asleep expressions, Haley and Chris sat. Luke poured orange juice.

Chris bumped Brooke’s arm with an elbow. “What’s he doing here?”

“Uncle Wade asked him to look out for us.”

“Oh.” Chris shrugged and started forking eggs into his mouth.

Haley frowned at her plate. She tasted an egg with the suspicion of the king’s poison taster. Her brows lifted, she ate a few bites, and then moved on to the toast.

They never ate breakfast when Brooke prepared it for them. Were they being polite to Luke? Probably. Good kids.

Chris scraped his plate clean. “If we don’t get moving, we’re all going to be late.”

After a quick scramble for briefcase, backpacks, and shoes, everyone followed Luke to the door.

“Uh-oh.” Looking through the prism glass of the sidelight, Luke stopped them with an outstretched arm.

Brooke peered out. A news van was parked on the street. “I really wish I had an attached garage.”

“Do you want to wait?” he asked.

Brooke reached past him and unlocked the door. “For what? I doubt they’re going anywhere.” She opened the door and pushed Haley and Chris behind her. Luke stepped in front of them all, shielding her and the kids as much as he could with his body.

The skinny blond newswoman jumped out of the van and sprinted on her toes across the frost-covered lawn. Juggling his equipment, a cameraman jogged in her wake. “Ms. Davenport!”

They scrambled into the car. Luke locked the doors and pulled away, leaving a frustrated reporter behind.

Would they follow her to work?

“Maybe I should just give them an interview.” She lowered the window an inch. The scents of wood smoke and wet earth rushed in. She’d lived in this house, on this property, for most of her life. Even her parents had moved on, while she was mired in the past. But Karen’s murder had left an indelible mark on Brooke’s life, a permanent stamp she would never allow to fade.

Luke steered through a bend in the road. “This is not a good time for your face to be on TV.”

Unfortunately, the cameraman would have to be the worst in the industry to have missed a shot of Brooke. She pressed a hand to her belly, where paranoia had disturbed her breakfast. She’d always felt safe in her hometown. Always. But last night’s attack pointed out that evil was everywhere—even here.

Carrying her briefcase and lunch, Brooke limped through the door Chris held open. Inside, the high school was a chaotic moving mass of bodies. The metallic slam of lockers echoed in the
cinder block and linoleum hallway. “We’ll meet right here after school. Please wait inside.”

“OK.” Haley split off to the right, her bobbing ponytail disappearing as she was swallowed up by the throng.

Brooke ducked into the main office to pick up her mail. When she exited, Chris was waiting in the hall. A bright flash burst in Brooke’s face. She held up a hand, colored dots swirling in her vision. Her briefcase fell off her shoulder and dropped to the ground. While Chris stooped to pick it up, Brooke blinked and focused on the man with the camera. He was average size, fortyish, with a head he shaved as a concession to a rapidly receding hairline. “Owen, what’s the deal?”

“Sorry, you’re big news today.” Owen Zimmerman, local photographer, lifted an unconcerned hand. “The
Coopersfield Daily
wants your picture.” In addition to shooting school portraits, Owen freelanced.

“What if I don’t want them to have it?”

“The public has a right to know.” Owen shrugged. “I’m not giving it back.”

“I’ll have your contract with the school cancelled,” Brooke threatened. The school was in the middle of picture week. Guaranteed income every year.

He blanched. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, yes I would.” Brooke used her school teacher voice.

Owen turned his camera around. The LCD screen showed Brooke’s picture. It wasn’t flattering, with her swollen lip, tired eyes, and surprised expression. She should have worn more makeup. Owen pushed the trash can button. “Happy?” But a nasty glint in his eyes said he wasn’t.

Brooke stepped back. “Yes, thank you.” Juggling her lunch and mail, she turned to take her briefcase from her son.

Chris held on to it. “I’ll carry it to your classroom.”

“You’ll be late for class.”

“So write me a pass.” Her son shot Owen a squinty glare. Chris had noticed Owen’s hostility and wasn’t leaving her alone. Her son’s protectiveness warmed Brooke’s heart, but she wasn’t ready to switch roles with him just yet.

Tony Grassi emerged from the office. “I can help your mom, Chris.” Tall and thin, Tony’s salt-and-pepper hair stood a head over the young crowd. Matching salt-and-pepper brows dipped into a concerned
V
. “I’m headed that way.”

Tony looked precisely as a history teacher should in a tweed blazer over outdated trousers, an oxford shirt, and a dark red bow tie. His classroom wasn’t anywhere near Brooke’s, but she didn’t point that out.

Chris gave her a questioning look. Brooke nodded. “Thanks, Chris. You go on.”

“OK. See ya later.” Chris handed Tony the briefcase and threaded his way through the crowd.

Tony moved slightly ahead of Brooke to clear the way. An endless surge of teens swept around them in the homeroom-bell rush. A fast-moving backpack jostled Brooke. Her balance didn’t suffer, but Tony grabbed her arm anyway. Hmmm. His touch didn’t make her skin heat the way Luke’s had. In fact, she found Tony’s grip irritating enough to twist her arm out of his grasp.

Her classroom was near the back of the school. A line of students had formed near the door. She put her key in the lock. “Sorry I’m late, everyone.”

The kids filed in. Tony placed Brooke’s briefcase on her desk. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, sincere gray eyes settled on her. “Are you truly all right?”

“I’m fine.”

He glanced around. The kids were murmuring to each other, not paying them any attention. Tony lowered his voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t call last night. I didn’t hear about what happened until this morning. I was reading a new account of the Siege of Bastogne. I got caught up and missed the news.”

“I said I’m fine, Tony.” Brooke plastered a faux smile across her face. Her sore lip protested, but she ignored it.

“Let me bring you lunch. It’ll save you the walk to the cafeteria.”

“I already have my lunch, but thanks.” Brooke held up the brown bag.

“We could still eat together.” A hopeful lilt colored his voice.

Brooke searched her brain for an excuse. She couldn’t handle an entire lunch hour discussing the key battles of World War II.

“We’re still on for lunch, right?” Fellow math teacher Abby Foster poked her blond head though the door. Abby’s classroom was across the hall. God bless best friends.

“Right.” Brooke smiled at Tony again. “Sorry. I promised Abby.”

“I’ll put that in the fridge for you.” Abby walked in and took Brooke’s bag.

“Thanks,” Brooke said.

Abby flashed a conspiratorial smile.

Tony sniffed and straightened his tie. “Well, call me if you need anything.”

Brooke nodded sincerely. “Of course. Thank you.”

But as he turned to leave, an angry scowl passed across his face. Brooke sank into her chair. Enough with the paranoia. Tony was harmless. He hadn’t been at the school as long as
Brooke, but they’d worked together for several years. He wore a bow tie, for heaven’s sake.

The homeroom bell peeled, and Tony withdrew. Brooke turned her attention to taking roll and reading the morning announcements. The morning passed quickly. At the beginning of sixth period, she limped to the end of the hall, where the math teachers shared a combination lounge and office. Supplies occupied the metal shelves lining one wall. Cabinets were topped with a coffee maker and a copy machine. Brooke slid into a chair at the tiny table in the middle of the cramped space. Abby zoomed in a minute later, her slim figure dwarfed by a loose-fitting sweater and shapeless slacks, her clothes too frumpy for a pretty, single thirty-year-old. She grabbed their lunches from the fridge and sat down.

Abby’s brown eyes were doe-wide. “You’re so brave. I wouldn’t have been able to react.”

“You should take one of my courses,” Brooke suggested. “Last night’s attack proves that there’s no escaping violence against women, not even in the boonies.”

The color in Abby’s fair skin faded. “I know I should. I’ve been really busy.”

Brooke lifted an eyebrow. Other than helping Brooke coach the track team, Abby didn’t exactly have a thriving social life. Brooke touched her friend’s arm.

“Honey, you’ve been saying that for two years,” Brooke said gently.

Abby’s gaze darted away like the prey animal she so often resembled.

Brooke packed up her frustration and emptied her bag. Her friend never talked about her past. With a smile, Brooke changed
the topic. Someday Abby might be ready to talk to her, and Brooke would be there when her friend was ready. “Thanks for saving me this morning.”

Composed again, Abby opened her lunch. “You’re welcome. It’s weird the way he fixates on someone. Margery Collins said it took her months to shake him off after they went for a cup of coffee. There wasn’t even food involved.”

Why
had
Brooke said yes to Tony’s invitation to grab a sandwich after last month’s PTA meeting, when all the other teachers had bolted for the nearest exit? The meal had been as stimulating as proctoring the SATs. She pictured his face as he left her classroom. “I always thought he was harmless and lonely. But I have to admit, his behavior does feel a little obsessive. But I might just be paranoid after last night.”

“You can’t be too careful.” Abby examined her sandwich as though she’d never seen it before. Brooke knew why she was suspicious of everyone today, but what was Abby’s reason? Oh, well. Brooke should understand more than anyone how hard it is to open up to other people. She’d never told anyone the whole story of Karen’s murder.

“True.” Brooke’s leg throbbed from her ankle to her tailbone. She hoisted her foot up on the chair next to her. “Can you run track practice solo today?”

“Sure. You should go home and put that up.”

“That’s the plan.” Brooke dug in her purse for ibuprofen and swallowed two tablets.

Fellow math teacher Greg Fines strode into the room. “Hey, Brooke. Abby.” His gaze lingered on Abby a fraction of a second too long. She flushed. Attraction or discomfort? She leaned a few centimeters closer to Brooke. Anxiety, definitely.

Greg blinked back to Brooke. “Hey, I heard about last night. Are you OK?”

“Fine, thanks for asking.” Brooke twisted the cap off of her water bottle and drank. She stopped swallowing at Greg’s glare. Uh-oh. An avid environmentalist, Greg ran the Green Club and the school’s annual Earth Day celebration.

“Bottled water is a drain on our environment,” Greg lectured as he dumped his insulated lunch bag on the table and withdrew his stainless-steel water bottle. He set it on the laminate table with an angry
thunk
. “Transporting bottled water uses forty-seven million gallons of oil a year—”

“I know.” Brooke cut him off before he really got rolling.

Greg sneered down at her paper bag.

Brooke played her pity card. “My brother packed my lunch last night while I was at the hospital. I guess he couldn’t find my lunch bag. It won’t happen again. He’s been sent to Afghanistan.”

“Oh.” Greg smoothed out his expression. “You
are
usually good about keeping Green. I’m sorry I got excited.”

“That’s all right.” Brooke smiled. “Your intentions are good.”

Abby covered a short laugh with a cough.

Mollified, Greg dropped into a plastic chair. “So, Brooke. What the hell happened last night?”

Brooke didn’t take his abruptness personally. That was just Greg. She shrugged off his less-than-tactful question. “Not much to tell that the media hasn’t already covered.”

Which was true. The attack had been a breaking news story all night long. So far, her name hadn’t been put out there, but it was only a matter of time. They’d stated that she was teaching at the community center before the attack. Her identity was only a few mouse clicks away. Brooke didn’t hide her background. For
the first time in sixteen years, she wondered if she’d made a mistake keeping Karen’s story alive. She could have used a story without a personal connection to illustrate her points, one that didn’t chisel away at her heart every time she told it.

A story that wouldn’t come back to haunt her.

Luke carried the last bag of hats, coats, and gloves from his grandmother’s trunk to an empty room in the Methodist church. “Here you go, Gran.”

“Thank you, Lucas.” Gran took the bag and dumped it on a long folding table. The three older women helping sort winter clothes smiled at him. Gran beamed in an I’m-proud-of-my-grandson way.