Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) (5 page)

HIGH SCHOOL BUILDINGS are a labyrinth. It's never simply straight hallways because that wouldn't be economical for how much money land costs. That's all the school administration cares about—saving money. And maybe a couple of their top students. The rest are a bunch of lazy teenagers that don't know the difference between a history book and their asses.

Speaking of top students, Lexi Seoh, walks up to my locker as I shove my pre-calculus book in it.

"Deacon Cochrane," she says, leaning on the locker next to mine. "You look slightly happier than your usual, indifferent self."

"I had a good night," I tell her. For the first time in forever, my smile is genuine.

"What happened last night?" she asks. Lexi, to put it generously, is pretty. She has straight jet-black hair with two green streaks in the front to frame her face. Still, other than her dyed hair and the physical characteristics that her Asian genealogy gave her, she's plain. She's not a girl that you ever notice in a crowd or even in a group of three.

"I got lucky," I say, closing my locker door. Lucky that there wasn't surveillance cameras in the tire room. Lucky that there were no witnesses. Lucky that there's one more worker at an automotive repair business dead, and every other worker will begin running for their lives away from Murray.

Lexi blushes as if I told her a whole sex scene.

"I didn't know you were seeing anyone." She walks behind me as I walk toward Senior English class. She manages to keep up with me, even through the labyrinth and hordes of people.

"I'm not," I say. She perks up again.

"Guess what I'm doing for my filmmaking class?" she asks me. I keep walking without answering. I've never had much time for movies. She continues talking anyway because what teenager ever understands the signal to
shut up
? "I'm doing a horror film. I was thinking it would be based on this killer who reenacts supernatural killings. Like he would stab one guy with a stake and then kill a woman with a silver bullet. Maybe he sets someone on fire and makes it look like they're a witch."

I turn around to face her once I reach Room 112—Senior English.

"What makes you so interested in doing horror?" I ask. She grins, apparently pleased by the thought that I had been listening to her this whole time.

"Oh, I don't know. It's just interesting, right? It's fun to scare people," she says. "Plus as a filmmaker, the idea of using fake blood and the whole imagery of the murders—it will be awesome."

"It is fun to scare people," I agree. "I'll see you later."

"Definitely!"

I slip into the room and sit down at my usual desk in the front. Lexi was babbling about her horror film, talking about made-up killers and she doesn't even know that she is talking to one. What a laugh. Last night and today could be the best days of my life.

Then, she walks in.

The light brown hair, the semi-formal clothing, the long legs. She wasn't supposed to be here.

"Hello, class," she says. "My name is Grace Ellery. You can call me Ms. Ellery."

She nearly trips over my legs that are sticking out under my desk. I quickly pull them back.

"Cool boots," she says, gesturing toward my leather Timberland work boots. I flush and don't answer her. As she begins her lesson, I keep my head down and pretend to jot down notes. She can't be here.

She noticed my boots.

I realized after I left the place where I shot the Muslim couple that it had rained the day before…which means that I likely left boot prints somewhere along the path. I need to get rid of these boots. I glance up at Grace as she asks another student a question.

A boot print won't incriminate me when there are a handful of people around here who wear them. But a boot print and a witness will damn me to prison for life. I need to kill her and I need to do it
today
.

~~~~~

I watch Grace unlock her bicycle from the bike rack. It's lily pad green with a small saddlebag latched onto the back of the seat. I imagine running her over with Albert's F-150 truck, but that would leave too much evidence. All I need is one clean shot to the head and all of my problems fall away.

After she has ridden away, I run over to my bike. As I'm unlocking it, I notice Lexi talking to a couple of her friends in the parking lot. I push my bike over toward her.

"So, the killer uses a stake to kill the guy and puts some fake teeth into his mouth. When the police—" She notices me and her eyes brighten. "Deke! What's up?"

"Hey, this is really awkward," I say, shifting my backpack on my shoulder. Her friends all look in different directions, disconcerted by me. At least they have a sense of what kind of person I am. At least they have an idea of what I could do to them. "But one of the Schneiders…Zach, he, uh, used my book for physics and I kind of need it back for homework. Do you know where they live?"

"Yeah, Kit and I have been friends since…forever." She pulls out a piece of paper and begins jotting down an address. "I could drive you there if you want."

"Oh, no," I tell her. "I'm not going there right away. I have some stuff I need to do for my grandpa and then I'll get it later."

She hands me the address.

"Thanks, Lexi." Our hands brush against each other as I take it. She smiles as if it's some kind of secret flirtation. I glance at the address.

5078 Cedar Street (white house with a tire swing in the front).

Don't all upper middle class families have tire swings? Which is strange because they could afford an actual swing.

I fold the note and slip it into my pocket. As soon as I walk away, Lexi and her friends are back to talking and giggling. Teenagers today are so spoiled and self-absorbed. I grew up better. I had three soldiers who raised me—Albert, a Vietnam veteran, my father and my brother, Tom, who were both U.S. Army soldiers and who died in Afghanistan. I was raised with honor and the concept of loyalty. I want to become a soldier like them, but I can't leave until I know Albert's business is safe. I have to make sure that when I leave, his company won't go under because of big companies that destroy smaller companies for the pure fun of it.

Just in case anyone is watching me, I ride my bike on the street for a mile before crossing into the woods. Sweat clings to my back as I ride over the rocks and roots. I find the oak tree that has a honeysuckle bush beside it. I pull my shotgun out from under the bush. I'll have to burn my hoodie later. I can't risk there being gunpowder or any evidence on it.

I pull the strap of the shotgun over my shoulder and get back on my bike. I pedal through the woods, knowing that Cedar Street is south from the school.

By the time I reach the edge of the woods and the houses of Cedar Street are within my view, my breathing is labored and I have to lean against an eastern hemlock tree. I close my eyes and I can smell the earthy life of the woods. Since everyone began moving into Murray, the scent of nature has been replaced by the stench of gas and dumpsters. With so much wildlife killed, a seed of hatred is planted in me and nobody wants to see what happens when the hate blooms.

I leave my bike against the tree. I pass by a house that has a mailbox in front of it with the numbers
5072
nailed onto its post. I count three more houses until I see the white house with a tire swing hanging from an oak tree. The house has the exact same mailbox except the numbers are
5078
.

I find a place under some Virginia pine trees. The pine needles scratch against my cheeks and the ground scrapes against my arms. I point the shotgun in between the house and the mailbox. She has to come out at some point.

Everyone has to die at some point. I'm just speeding up the process.

~~~~~

IN THE BASEMENT, noise is amplified. I put headphones on, so I don't have to listen to water in the pipes or the sounds of the Schneiders yelling at each other. I form the ball of clay in my hands into wings, then I form a beak and a small tail. When I'm finished, I roll it back into a ball. I never used to be the kind of girl who cared about arts and crafts, but after the attack, I had a therapist for three months and she advised me to take up some kind of hobby that involved self-expression. I chose sculpting as a joke to myself, but the action of creating and the soft texture of clay seems to help.

I push the clay into a more oval shape and make soft lines in the clay. I form an aorta and left ventricle. When I'm finished, the heart lies in my hand. I pretend that it's beating in my palm.

I crush it.

I'm not stable enough to be in a relationship, much less with Mr. Cardiologist. I should stay a nun for the rest of my life. I don't even have my own place. I am, in all aspects of my life, a wreck.

After being attacked, I wanted to get out of interventional education. Unfortunately, that didn't leave me many options. Teachers taught and left pretty quickly in interventional education, but everywhere else, they had the same teachers for thirty or more years.

For the first few months, I was unemployed and then I worked as a waitress for nine months. My presence in my childhood house placed additional financial strain on my mother, who has been struggling to keep the family dairy farm running since my father passed away five years ago from a stroke.

While I worked as a waitress, Connor began to constantly badger me to move to Virginia because Northern Virginia school districts were building several schools and the districts were desperate for good teachers. A mixture of no longer wanting to be a burden for my mother, no longer wanting to be in the same house I was attacked in, and no longer wanting to be the thirty-three-year-old who still lived with her mother that made me move to Murray.

Then, I discovered that Connor had not only rented a bedroom to his buddy Benjamin, but the five-bedroom place was rented to Benjamin's wife and two kids as well. Connor apologized to me, saying he thought that the family was moving out soon, but Benjamin was bouncing from contract job to contract job. Connor didn't want to be the jerk who booted the family out, so I'm stuck squatting in the basement bedroom with all of my possessions crowded around me, being treated like
I'm
the renter.

I set the ball of clay onto my nightstand and take off my headphones. The chaotic sounds of the Schneider family echo throughout the basement. I can't deal with this right now. I need to get out.

I put on my fleece jacket and rush up the stairs. I open the basement door and nearly run straight into Lori Schneider—Zach and Kit's mother. She glowers at me.

"What are you doing?" she asks. Lori has always treated me as if I'm the stranger in her house. I always have to restrain myself from reminding her that this is my brother's house and her family happens to be renting it, but I don't want to start a war with a family of four.

"I'm just going out to get some fresh air," I say.

She sniffs. "I hope you're not going to smoke. I've smelt that terrible odor on your clothes. I don't want you negatively influencing my children."

I know for a fact Zach buys cigarettes from one of the only eighteen-year-old kids at Waycroft High.

"Of course not," I say. "I wouldn't smoke in front of your children and it doesn't matter because I quit smoking."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm sure."

I walk around her to get to the front door and walk out. I pull my jacket tighter around me and take a deep breath.

The first bullet hits the side of the porch. Part of the white wood explodes and splinters scatter onto the grass. The second bullet hits the dirt right in front of my feet.

I run up onto the porch and jerk on the door handle. It doesn't budge. The door is locked. Lori must have locked it.
Bitch!
I pound on the door.

"LORI! Let me in! The shooter! Lori!"

Another bullet streaks by my ear, the sound high-pitched and grating.

Lori is refusing to let me in. I still don't have my cell phone. I have two options—hide or run.

I push off the balls of my feet as hard as I can and dash away from the house. As I'm about to turn onto the driveway of the next house, I feel the lead of the bullet on the outside of my thigh. I stumble, but adrenaline helps me push myself back up. I run up to my neighbor's house and knock on the door so hard that pains racks through my fingers.

The door jerks open, and I push my way into the house. The man with a receding hairline and beer belly looks at me, bewilderment in his eyes.

"Call the police," I gasp. I slam the door shut behind me and lock it. I collapse in the entrance of his house. The man rushes into his kitchen and I hear him talking to the police. As I catch my breath, I notice blood on my fingertips. I look down to see I have a small gash on my right thigh.

I rest my head on my knees. I never should have moved here.

~~~~~

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Miss Ellery,

You may not remember me…I know it has been awhile, but my name is Francis Tate. You taught American History at Bishop High School and I was one of your students. I just wanted you to know that you left a huge impression on me. No other teacher has taken the time to help me and care about all of the issues in my personal life like you did. I'm currently getting my bachelor's degree in computer science in order to become a software developer and if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have gotten this far. So, I found your e-mail with a quick search of the Internet because I wanted to thank you. I hope that's not too weird. I just felt like I should give credit where credit is due. So, thank you. I owe you a big part of who I am now.

Francis

◄►

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Francis,

I am so glad that you're doing well. I do remember you. You were always incredibly intelligent, and I knew you would be able to put that mind to good use. I am so proud of you, and I'm so happy that you credit me for some of your success. I'm sure that you would have succeeded no matter what, but thank you for your appreciation. Students like you are the reason I teach. Thank you so much for taking the time to message me. I hope that you continue to find happiness and pursue the impossible.

All my best,

Grace Ellery

◄►

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Grace,

You're the best. I hope we get to see each other again soon. You're my biggest influence, and I can't wait to show you what I've accomplished. Do you want to meet sometime? My cell phone number is 614-245-7783. Please call me.

Francis

◄►

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Grace,

Did you get my last e-mail? Maybe it got lost with the rest of your e-mail. I'm sure that you get a lot. I'm sure that you're really busy, too, but I'd appreciate if you'd take five minutes to call me. My cell phone number is 614-245-7783. Call me so that we can catch up. I've been struggling a bit in college since my first e-mail and I'm hoping that you can help me a bit.

Francis

[This e-mail address does not exist. Please check to see if the address you typed is correct.]

◄►

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

My brother is dead. Dropped out of college. I thought you could help me, but apparently you're too busy with your new students. I guess students are like tissues to you, huh? You blow your bullshit into them and then throw them out, right?

I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated. Please call me. The number is still 614-245-7783.

Francis

[This e-mail address does not exist. Please check to see if the address you typed is correct.]

~~~~~