Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page A

her car’s rear window.
    C’est la vie, so to speak. That’s life.
    And patience was a virtue.
    But his lamb-kneed Bailey could have turned off any side street by now, he knew! So get the bejesus out of my way, you blue-haired old crone!
    Well, he was sorry for thinking that, and he didn’t mean to think negatively or call some sweet elderly lady, who reminded him of his own grandma, years dead now, an old crone.
    Fortunately, from the top of the railroad overpass, he saw that Bailey was stopped at the traffic light where Clark Street intersected 3rd Avenue. She had her right blinker on, waiting for the red to turn green.
    Stuart cruised down the hill behind granny and cats, and as they approached the intersection, the light flipped to go.
    Bailey’s faded hatchback didn’t move.
    Even as granny and he eased up behind, Bailey’s car stayed put. Her vehicle was stalled, Stuart realized.
    He put his window down and heard the ratcheting sound of her trying to crank the engine over.
    When it finally started, she dropped the transmission quickly, stepped on the gas, and waffled right onto 3rd Avenue, puffing more grey smoke until the engine caught it’s stride.
    Now he honked at the white Caprice and Mrs. Kitty lurched forward through the intersection as the traffic light turned yellow.
    Stuart turned right, keeping a safe distance from Bailey’s rear view mirror, and followed her past MacArthur park on the left, then turned left on MacArthur, then left again on Wilton.
    Bailey lived on Wilton, apparently.
    Stuart stopped at the corner, half a block away, as Bailey turned into her driveway.
    Interesting scenario, he thought upon realizing how close she lived to MacArthur park. In fact, the entire row of houses on her side of Wilton backed up against the park. From where he sat, he could see the rotating slide, the swing set, the merry go round, and a small pavilion with a picnic table and a charcoal grill.
    He hadn’t barbecued in years.
    *     *     *
    A white shirt with a red collar and yellow sleeves looks nothing like a clucking rooster. Bailey Howard hated to be seen in her Chicken Shack uniform. They were ugly, and she’d told her boss that, too. He didn’t care.
    But the absolute most humiliating part of her job as a Chicken Shack waitress was the absurd birthday song that her boss had written to the tune of “Rubber Ducky.”
    Clucky, Clucky, You’re The One.
    You Make Birthdays Lots Of Fun.
    Clucky, Clucky, You’re The Only One For Me.
    It was so ridiculously simple that people just loved it. They loved singing it, and they loved doing the cheesy dance, which had also been the product of her boss’s genius mind.
    One elbow cocked like a tail.
    One elbow cocked like a beak.
    Peck around in a circle while singing the birthday song.
    If another restaurant opened within a mile or so from home, she’d quit the Chicken Shack in a heartbeat.
    The only good thing about the job was how close it was to home. Two blocks. So she could walk to work if necessary. Which might be the case today, considering her piece of chicken crap car. She had no idea why it kept dying at stop lights lately.
    The check engine light was on, if that mattered.
    She had to work at four-fifteen, so back out the door she hustled, hoping the car would start.
    She had a bad feeling.
    Which proved right.
    The car refused to start, no matter how positively she sweet-talked it, and finally the battery sagged a reluctant death groan and quit.
    “Thanks for nothing, you lazy turd,” she said aloud.
    The current time, according to her phone, was ten past four. She grabbed her purse, exited the car, and started walking. If she punched in late to work, her boss would round her start time to the next 15 minutes. If that was legal, she was a clucking chicken! But two blocks could be made in five minutes as long as she walked fast, which she’d proven many times before.
    On the way, she sent her dad a text.
    “Turd won’t start. Battery