Under a Spell uda-5 Page 7

  I gave Heddy a moment, then licked my lips. “I wasn’t implying anything, Heddy.”

  She gave me an over-the-shoulder harrumph and walked away, her sensible heels clicking down the pristine hall.

  I went into my classroom, first flipping on the lights and doing my precursory “what wants to kill me?” scan, then dumping my things on my desk.

  I was still feeling wounded from my early morning phone call with Alex. I let my fingertips ramble over the Ziploc bag of clothing that I hadn’t had the courage to drop off on my way to work, then felt a hint of smugness.

  I didn’t need Will to babysit me and I didn’t need Alex’s help. I’d put the puzzle pieces together—alone—and I would find Alyssa—alive.

  I sat at my desk, my back ramrod straight, hands clasped in front of me. I had each of the girls’ files spread out on my desk, the girls forever locked in open-mouthed joy. I revisited everything I knew about both of the girls—both abductions—in an attempt to force some kind of structure.

  There were no witnesses to either of the girls’ abductions. The words “vanished” and “thin air” punctuated the reports, and each time I reread the words, my stomach, and my hope for finding Alyssa alive in the diminishing timeline, plummeted.

  I sighed, resting my face in my hands, my index fingers rubbing small circles on each of my temples. I looked up and scanned the files as if something would have changed.

  It didn’t.

  I was biting my thumbnail and drawing little circles in my sparkly unicorn notebook when Janitor Bud pushed open my door.

  “Oh,” he said when he saw me. “I didn’t know anyone was in here. Heddy said to bring these in.” The old man pulled a cart weighted down with yearbooks into the room. “Where do you want them?”

  I stood up and Bud paused, then took a step back. “You’re not one of the regular teachers, are you?”

  “No, no, I’m just substituting.”

  He had a kindly smile on his face. “You look awfully familiar.”

  I felt myself blush. “I was a student here myself. It was nearly fifteen years ago, but maybe—”

  Bud wagged his head. “No, that’s not it.” His eyes cut from studying my face to the case files open on my desk. His smile dropped, his caterpillar eyebrows weaving together under his lined forehead. “Terrible thing about those girls, isn’t it?”

  I hopped up on my desk in an awkward attempt to cover up the files. “Did you know the girls?”

  Bud paused as if thinking. “I know all the girls here. Well, not by name.” He smiled again, one of those soft smiles that pushed up his cheeks into little fleshy balls. “Least I know them by sight. I know they were both good girls, though.”

  I leaned forward. “Good girls? What do you mean by that?”

  “Didn’t get in trouble much. Sometimes the girls come to me for punishment.”

  Something shot through me. I looked at this man and had an instant image of his grin, terrifying and maniacal as hellfires shot up behind him in his basement quarters while he did unspeakable things to innocent girls. I was about to launch myself from my desk and into his chest for a severe pummeling when he continued.

  “They get sent to me for cleaning supplies and they have to come back and clean up any graffiti or muck in the halls and classrooms.”

  My heart flopped back to a normal beat. “Oh. That’s how they’re punished?”

  Janitor Bud shrugged. “These girls aren’t like us, hon. Some of ’em have never seen a broom. They don’t like to see themselves as lowly folk like us. Put a mop in their hand and put them on display. Some of those girls will do anything to avoid ending up on my spray gang.” He pulled a spray bottle filled with blue liquid from his belt and pretended to shoot me. I could hear his laugh as he disappeared into the hallway.

  I slid back into my desk chair and pulled my notebook closer to me, writing Suspects at the top of a blank sheet, with the name Janitor Bud right underneath. I chewed the top of my pen and wrote, Spray Gang. I felt quite accomplished and sleuthlike until I realized I had absolutely no idea how Windex and Janitor Bud fit into a ritualistic murder.

  Feeling defeated, I pulled Bud’s cart of yearbooks closer and grabbed the one on top, paging slowly. I was looking at six smiling girls in a makeshift pyramid when a thought hit me. In a CSI-fueled stupor I remembered reading that in cases like this one, leads often come up well after the fact. Details that weren’t really anything—a slight memory of a car that looked out of place, a couple of kids rifling through a backpack they found shoved in the trash, a rivalry, a crush.

  I went back to the file, shaking it now, willing something to fall out—a name, a location—anything that would rev me up, start me off, point me in any discernible direction. There was nothing. No screams. No strangers. Had Cathy known her attacker? Did Alyssa know her kidnapper? Trust him? It made my skin crawl just to consider the thought.

  “Brought you a cuppa.”

  Will’s cheery entry practically emptied my bladder and sent me to the ceiling. I clutched at my chest and tried to breathe.

  “Holy crap, Will, you scared the crap out of me.”

  Will stood there, holding two steaming paper cups, his brow furrowed, eyes sympathetic. I wanted to run to him and throw my arms around his neck, telling him it was okay.

  I wanted something to be okay.

  “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “You sure you’re not going to go all meerkat on me again?”

  I smiled and sighed, reaching out for the coffee. “Scout’s honor.”

  Will cocked a brow, his sympathetic eyes going immediately sultry. “Scouts, huh? Still have that uniform?”

  “You’re disgusting. And I was just going over Alyssa’s and Cathy’s files.”

  “That’s what you needed to do so early this morning? Love, you know we’re partners, right? This isn’t a competition. We’re supposed to share information.”

  I took a big swig of coffee and held up my hand, stop-sign style. “Don’t worry. If this were a competition, we’d both be losing. Big, fat losers.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Hey, what are you doing after work school today?”

  Will grinned. “I think I’m about to get an invite to the ice cream store.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No. You’re getting an invite to go to Alyssa’s house with me. And to Cathy’s.”

  “Haven’t the police already done that?”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. “Yeah, but maybe there is something we can see that they didn’t. You know, maybe take an Underworld kind of look at some overworld kind of evidence.”

  It sounded good and supernaturally detective-like when I said it out loud, even though I really had no idea what Will and I could possibly find that the entire SFPD couldn’t—magically veiled or otherwise.

  I just knew we had to do more.

  Will looked over my shoulder and poked Cathy’s picture. “Isn’t that like the pin that we found?”

  I pulled the photo closer to me. There was a little lock-shaped pin—key and all—attached to Cathy’s collar. “Lock and Key pin.”

  Will sipped his coffee. “Coincidence?”

  “Probably. It’s a big club. Everyone wants to be in it.” I brushed my fingertips over the photo of the pin. “All the popular girls already are.”

  “So, our two girls were in the same club. Maybe we should figure out who else is in the club.”

  I closed Cathy’s file and sighed. “Why bother? It’s an academic club. People aren’t killing to get in. And we already know the girls knew each other—they went to school together and it’s a small school. Everyone knows everyone. I just think we might be wasting our time.”

  “You don’t think it’s worth our time?”

  I stomped my foot, getting frustrated. “I feel like we’re not doing enough to help Alyssa. Actually, we’re not doing anything! At least the police are out there actually looking for her. I’m teaching a bunch of ov
er-privileged stuffed bras about things they’ll never care about.”

  “Seriously, love. Move on. High school is over. And how do you know what the police are doing? Talk to Alex?”

  It was nearly imperceptible, but something flashed in Will’s eyes when he said Alex’s name. Something that clearly indicated how much he loathed him.

  “No. Sampson told me.” I didn’t want to tell Will about Alex and my last conversation. About the fact that I had speed-dialed Alex twice since and twice gotten his voice mail. I was thrilled to see he called me back while I was in the shower, then crushed to hear his sterile, “I’ll come out and pick up the uniform if you can’t drop it by.” No hello, no good-bye, just a click at the end of the message.

  “And he said someone is coming by today to pick up the clothes we found in the Dumpster.”

  Will picked up the plastic bag, giving the uniform a cursory look before he laid it on my desk just as the first morning bell rang. He stepped into the hallway and I heard the first chirps of adoring greetings from the girls.

  “Good morning Mr. Sherman.”

  “Hi, Mr. Sherman.”

  “Oh my God, is that a Mercy uniform?”

  My eyes widened as Fallon appeared in the doorway, then made a beeline for my desk, snatching up the bags.

  “It’s all burnt. Where—oh my God—is this what was on fire in the Dumpster? Is it Alyssa’s?”

  I leaned a hip against the desk, crossed my arms in front of my chest. “What would make you think this belongs to Alyssa?”

  Fallon suddenly seemed to realize that it was me, the repugnant substitute teacher, in her presence. She looked up, narrowed her eyes, and held her lips in something akin to a smile—or a sneer.

  “Because Alyssa always wrote on her shoes.” She held the bagged sneaker out toward me; I snatched it out of her hand.

  “Were you good friends with Alyssa?”

  Fallon matched my stance, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She kicked out a hip. “Am I a suspect or something?”

  I shrugged, trying desperately to maintain my cool. “It was just a question.”

  Fallon shrugged back. “We knew each other.”

  “Is there a reason you’re sitting in Alyssa’s desk all of the sudden?”

  Fallon seemed taken aback for a short second. Then she blinked, iceberg coolness floating over her once again. “I just sat down in an empty seat.”

  The second bell rang and Fallon cocked her head, listening until it ended. “This was fun. I’ll see you in sixth.” She gave me a little finger wave and flipped on her heel, her skirt and her thick black ponytail swaying behind her.

  When the lunch bell rang, my last class practically toppled over each other trying to put distance between me and their Mercy skirts. I tried not to take it personally and tucked my head into Will’s classroom, where every desk was still filled, each girl in rapt, awed attention. Not a single mascaraed eyelash blinked. Not a single pair of pursed, newly lipsticked lips parted. The silent air was thick with baby animal magnetism. I saw Will pacing in front of the chalkboard and groaned, then yipped when my cell phone vibrated wildly against my hip.

  “Uh, Sophie Lawson,” I whispered into it.

  “Sophie, it’s Officer Romero. You have some evidence for the Alyssa Rand case?”

  My previous uselessness broke into a wave of validation and I actually smiled. I slipped into the ladies’ room, doing a quick check for feet under the stalls as any good detective who was consulted by a major police force would. “Yeah. Did Alex tell you about the theory? I think I might actually have a little more to add if you want me to come by—”

  Romero coughed lightly. “I’m here at Mercy to pick up some bagged evidence. Al—Detective Grace—sent me to pick it up. Do you have it?”

  I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. “What?”

  “I’m in the front of the building by the main doors.”

  I blinked, still struggling to catch my breath. I knew Romero. Romero knew me. Romero even know about me—well, as much as he could know without his life being threatened. I believe I was listed on his Rolodex as Sophie Lawson, Call When Weird/Unexplainable Things Happen. And now he was acting like he didn’t know me. Like we hadn’t stood shoulder to shoulder on a crime scene just a few months ago. He was suddenly all business.

  Just like Alex had been.

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah. Let me just go back to the classroom and I’ll meet you. Right out front.”

  Romero was in full uniform, pacing the steps outside the main door. He gave me a curt nod when he saw me and held out his arm. I held the uniform against my chest.

  “Alex sent you?” I asked him.

  “Yes.” He gave me one more curt nod and avoided my eyes.

  I put a hand on his arm and finally, he looked at me, discomfort all over his face.

  “Is everything okay, Romero? You know, it’s actually lunch hour here if you want to grab a sandwich across the street or something. We could talk.” I tried a cheerful smile. “My treat.”

  “Actually, Ms. Law—”

  “Sophie.”

  He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Detective Grace asked me to get the evidence and come right back to the station.”

  I hung back and popped out a hip. “Did you guys come up on a big lead or something?”

  “Look, Sophie, you know I can’t talk about an active case with a civilian.”

  “That never stopped you before. And we both know I’m not just a civilian. I work with Alex.”

  Romero looked at me then, a flash of hopefulness going through his eyes. “So you’re back?”

  “Back from where? I didn’t go anywhere.”

  His cheeks went red.

  “Romero, tell me what’s going on.”

  He held up his hand. “Look, I don’t want to get involved. I’m just doing my job. Alex sent me here to get the evidence from you and come back to the station. He said I’m not supposed to talk to any civilians about the case—”

  I opened my mouth, but Romero rushed on.

  “Especially Sophie Lawson. He said you two weren’t working together anymore.”

  Relief flooded over me and I batted at the air. “Oh! On this case. He meant we’re not working together on this case. But it’s not like we’re not friends—er, colleagues. We’re just working different angles.”

  “All he said was he needed to disconnect from you. I’ve really got to get back to the station.” Romero put out his hand again, and this time I didn’t hesitate handing over the burnt uniform. He may have said good-bye to me, but I didn’t remember. Suddenly everything was in a fog and my ears were full of cotton or rushing blood or whispers—just full of something that wouldn’t let me process anything like a normal human being.

  Alex wanted to disconnect from me?

  Everything inside me ached. I slipped into an alcove and dialed his number. There was no answer—I expected as much—so I dialed the station and asked to be patched through. The dispatcher didn’t ask my name.

  “Grace.”

  “Romero was just here.”

  I could hear Alex suck in a slow breath. “Did you give him the evidence?”

  “What do you mean, you want to disconnect from me, Alex? What is this all about? Is it just this case? Are you jealous because I’m working with Will?”

  “Lawson, this isn’t the time—”

  “Then when is the time, Alex? When I try and call you again and you ignore my calls? When someone else drops dead?”

  “Lawson, you don’t understand. Things are—”

  “Things are what?”

  “They’re complicated.”

  I didn’t try to hold back my splitting laughter. “Really? Really? That’s your excuse. Things are complicated. When have they not been complicated? I’m the freaking Vessel of Souls. You’re a fallen angel. Your whole job is to kill me.”

  Alex didn’t say anything, and suddenly every inch of me wa
s on fire. My heart was thundering through my rib cage.

  “You want to kill me now?”

  “No. Of course not. That’s not it. I just can’t talk about this here.”

  “Were you not with me six months ago? Were you not the one who slapped the Somebunny loves you hat on my head?”

  “Lawson, it was just a hat.”

  “This isn’t about the headwear,” I spewed, tears breaking over my cheeks. “I picked you, Alex. I pick you. I’m not with Will. I thought you knew that. You. I want to be with you.” My voice was choked with big, body-wracking sobs. “I pick you.”

  “Yeah.” Alex’s voice was soft but edged with something distant, something cold that I didn’t recognize. “Do us both a favor, okay? Don’t.”

  The sound of his receiver clicking into the holder reverberated in my head over and over again.

  I slipped into one of the upstairs bathrooms and locked myself in the handicapped stall in the back corner, crying until my chest hurt. After blowing my nose through an entire roll of toilet paper, I had mostly gotten a hold of myself and was about to put my feet down—I had braced myself against the stall—when I heard the ladies’ room door open and snap shut. Someone was panting like they were out of breath—or like they were about to cry.

  I held my breath and glanced under the stall long enough to see a pair of white socks slouching into a pair of well-used sneakers. Their owner let out a half-scream, half-grunt before breaking into a torrent of huffing tears—not unlike my own. I was about to open the stall door and offer some help when the crying abruptly stopped. The sneakers turned and headed directly toward me.

  My mind raced. I couldn’t spring out on the girl now that I had witnessed her obviously private moment. I thought about coughing or flushing the toilet when the sneakers veered left. There were a few short grunts and pants, then the sound of something hitting toilet water. I cringed. The toilet flushed. The sneakers went tearing out of the bathroom, the door snapping shut and leaving me with the sound of rushing toilet water. I quickly gathered my things, splashed some water onto my face, and hightailed it back to my room while I speed dialed Sampson.