Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1)
Read Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) Online
Authors: Charlotte Raine
Teacher Beware
A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1
Charlotte Raine
Teacher Beware
A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1
Charlotte Raine
Copyright 2014 Charlotte Raine
Arrabella Publishing
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond the copying permitted by US Copyright Law, Section 107, "fair use" in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts), without written permission from the author.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This ebook may not be resold or given away.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Discover Other Titles by Charlotte Raine
A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 2
~~~
A Grant & Daniels Romantic Suspense Trilogy Book
1
~~~
Devil’s Dawn
A Grant & Daniels Romantic Suspense Trilogy Book 2
~~~
A Detroit Police Procedural Romance
FRANCIS TATE INCHES CLOSER, his eyes trained on me as if he were a wolf and I were a small rabbit. I take a step back, the counter jabbing against my spine. I can only stare at Francis now—his cheeks flushed red, the muscles in his arms tense, his teeth bared. I'm forced into a corner and there's a monster in front of me.
I scan the room in search of an object to throw and see my mother's knife block. It's made of walnut wood and has fifteen different kinds of knives slid into it. The moment my gaze shifts from him, Francis lunges. I seize the four-inch stainless steel paring knife, but before I can plunge it into him—or even threaten him—he grasps my wrist. He slams my hand against the counter, causing me to drop the knife. He takes the knife, and within a heart's beat, he thrusts it into me.
~~~~~
The chorus of "Staying Alive" jolts me from my sleep. My hand searches for my cell phone. I finally find it under my pillow and consider pressing the snooze button, but the thought of returning to my dreams is less than ideal. I click
Off,
and the screen switches to my background of bubbles.
I don't remember why I had wanted the Bee Gees for the alarm—irony? Motivation? A way to torture myself? Regardless, it makes me wake up faster because I would do anything to turn off that song. I would change it, but I lack the ambition it takes to find a new alarm sound.
I roll onto my back. I don't know if I'm ready for this. The dream feels like a forewarning. Every muscle in my body tells me to stay in bed. I just want to close my eyes and sink into the mattress. My cell phone beeps a final warning as the battery dies, but I'm already slipping into unconsciousness, into the sweet arms of dreamless sleep.
I jerk awake again as I hear the pounding water of the shower and a girl's voice singing off-key. The only people left in the house should be Kit and Zach. If they are awake, I should be leaving. I can't be late on my first day.
I stumble to my feet. I should have charged my cell phone. It burns through the battery in the basement since the Schneiders won't give me the password to the wireless router. I grab the black slacks and sky blue blouse from the garage sale dresser I had bought. I had set the outfit out last night, so I wouldn't be in a rush getting dressed, and now I was staggering into my outfit. The stale, musty scent of the basement lingers in my clothes. I spray my store-brand perfume—a mixture of gardenia and lemon fragrance. When I look in the mirror, which sits atop the dresser, I see a woman who is clinging to her last hope.
I run my fingers through my hair and slide on my white flats. I grab my bag and run up the basement stairs. Thankfully, Kit and Zach aren't around. They must still be upstairs, getting dressed. I get into my Ram pickup and back out of the driveway. The Bee Gees still echoes in my head.
I tune the radio to the alternative rock station. As soon as I turn off Wollstone Street, every car seems to drive out of suburbia and right in front of me. Of course, fate wouldn't be kind to me.
While stopped at an intersection, I notice a young Muslim couple—the woman wears a white hijab and the man wears a white taqiyah— walking single-file along the side of the road. At first, I think the woman is stuck walking behind the man because of a repressive custom, but then I notice that they're holding hands and chatting, the man's eyes are fixed on the woman with complete adoration. It's now clear to me they're only walking this way to stay on the narrow shoulder of the road. Through all the chaos, this one moment of love makes me smile.
Everyone else is in such a rush, while a man and woman walk hand in hand, too absorbed in each other to notice that they are standing on an edge.
~~~~~
THE MUSIC FROM MY EARPHONES blasts so loudly that I can't hear traffic, but I can still hear my heart pounding within my chest as I run. It's as if the sound waves are pumping from my chest to my head. The sound of my rushing blood reminds me of ocean waves.
Once I reach my Dodge Charger, I pull out my earphones. The noise of traffic infiltrates the quiet and calm I've been enjoying for the last three miles. Murray used to be quaint—someone might even say rural—but business boomed after a developer started building the first phase of Murray Farm, a multi-section subdivision. Murray Farm has sprawled out around the old town, providing housing, commercial services, and entertainment for a growing population.
I check my phone and find a missed call from John. Not only has John been referring patients to me for years, but he's also the closest friend I've ever had—which isn't saying much. I don't get close to people. I don't even know
how
to get close to people. I press the voicemail button and listen.
"Hey, Sam," John says. "I haven't heard from you in a while. We should have a beer together soon. I know you're not big on socializing, but you have to see more than patients at some point. I'll see you later."
A notification appears on my phone.
Fifteen minutes until appointment with Mr. Ramon.
John is right. I have to see more than patients, but nothing in life excites me anymore. I need something different. I need something new.
When I get into my car, I hear my heartbeat again, but it's beating faster than it had been when I was running. I can't tell if it's anticipation or dread. It's as if my heart knows something that I don't. I start my car and prepare myself for another day of work.
~~~~~
THE REMINGTON SHOTGUN feels like an extension of me. It's a pump-action shotgun, which means I only need to slide the forestock to chamber a new round. I can almost feel the exact place that my father had put his fingers…I can almost feel my fingerprints match the ridges of his fingerprints as I raise the gun to eye level.
The manager of the new QuickFix franchise is in my view for less than a second before another car passes by. He has stopped on the sidewalk and talks to his wife, as he gestures toward a gas station. His wife pulls her hijab farther over her head as a gust of wind tries to cast it off. I aim for the man again, but another car interrupts my concentration. Every time I try to take a shot, traffic, pedestrians, or cyclists get in my way. I grip the shotgun tighter.
This is ridiculous. The only time I could get this asshole is when he takes his morning walks with his wife, and this is the only place where I can use the woods for cover. It's amazing how the woods and suburbia collide right here as if the two environments were battling each other and they were at a standstill. The woods would eventually lose, and all these newcomers are to blame. The city is the devil and so are all of these people who have come to fill it.
I take aim at the Muslim man again. A line of cars passes by. I bite my lip to stop the expletives from erupting from my mouth. I have to keep calm. I have to shoot in between my heartbeats. That's what my father said they teach you when you are training to be a sniper.
If I miss school again today, while waiting for the perfect window in which to shoot the devil, it'll be my third day out, and I'll need a doctor's note. Money at home is too tight for me to get a doctor's exam when I'm not even sick.
This is my one chance. I can't afford to fail.
I take aim again—then pull the trigger.
~~~~~
AS I PASS BY the Muslim couple, a sound like a firecracker breaks through the morning noise. I feel my truck lurch. As I slam on my brakes, unsure if I had hit something or if something had happened to my truck, I hear two more explosions rip through the noise. Someone screams, but the scream is cut short.
I park the truck and grab my door handle. I need to check my car and see if someone needs help. I step out and glance back to make sure I'm not blocking anyone from driving by me. That's when I notice the Muslim couple—their bodies crumpled on the sidewalk. Blood trails down from the man's temple, and the front of the woman's hijab is flooded with blood. As I take a step toward the couple, my breathing shallow from shock, someone tackles me.
Any breath left in my lungs is quickly expelled. The man's arms cushion me as I hit against the road. Before I can struggle, more explosions—unmistakably gunshots—penetrate through my need for self-preservation. The glass from my car windows shatter and rain down on the man and me. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to block out the sounds, but I still hear four shots in all before they stop.
When I open my eyes, I see someone with a bulky, burgundy sweater moving deeper into the woods, but the branches and brush are too thick to make out anything definitive.
A few silent seconds pass by. I can feel the man's chest rise and fall against me. He has short brown hair, which reminds me of dusk in Murray—when it's dark enough to see some stars and planets, but not dark enough to feel alone. His irises are slightly darker—twilight, when the world seems to go still until morning.
Our eyes meet, but he glances away quickly. He jumps onto his feet and scans the woods. Now that he's standing, I can see he's also quite tall and rather toned. I look behind the man to the Muslim couple who are both clearly dead. I stand up and notice the man has his cell phone clipped to his waistband.
I instinctively grab for it. He jerks back as our eyes meet, but I keep my grip on his waistband until I've unclipped the phone. I dial 9-1-1. He relaxes as he realizes what I'm doing.
"Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?"
"Two people were just shot," I say. "They…they're gone. I mean…they're not alive anymore."
The word
dead
seems too disrespectful and too short of a word to explain what happened.
"Can I ask where you are, ma'am?" the operator asks.
"I'm on the corner of Howard Street and Riversdale Road."
"Is anyone else hurt?"
"No." I glance over at the man. He's still scanning the woods and I can tell he wants to walk over there to check out the area. Sweat shines from his body, and the contours of his muscles shift with every slight movement.
"And you're there right now?" she asks. "When did this shooting happen?"
"A few minutes ago, but I think the shooter is gone."
"Ma'am, please find a nearby house," the operator says. "Go in the opposite direction of the shooter. It is best that you're not out in the open."
"Okay." I don't move, but instead I notice my truck for the first time. Both the front side windows are shattered.
"What's your name?"
"Grace," I say. "Grace Ellery."
"What number are you calling from right now?"
"Um, this guy's cell phone." I turn to the man. "What's your number?"
"540-342-7729," he says.
"The number is 540-342-7729."
"There's someone else there with you?"
"Yeah."
"You both need to find a safe place to go until the police have ensured that the area is safe," she says.
"Okay," I repeat, still not moving.
"I need you to just stay on the line now," the operator says. "Please don't hang up until emergency services arrive."
With the stranger's cell phone held up to my ear, I walk over to the deceased couple. I kneel down next to them. I wish I knew a prayer—any prayer, really—to send them off to the next life or to hope that they had felt minimal pain before they died, but all I can do is tremble.
The man who saved me sits down next to me.
"How's your head?" he asks. "I didn't mean to tackle you so hard."
"It'll be fine after some ibuprofen," I tell him. He leans back to examine my head.
"Still," he says. "You might want to check that you didn't hit your head too hard."
"I grew up on a farm," I say. "What you did was nothing compared to what some of the animals have done to me."
I stick my hand out because I have no idea what the protocol is for when you're shot at and someone saves your life. "I'm Grace."
"Sam," he says. We shake.
~~~~~
