perfect crime. One of the most powerful men in town, partnered with the only other person who could expose his crime. He swept away the idea. But the thought had left him with a startling realization. If somehow Diane didn’t do this to herself, then the one who did was still out there.
Alex stood, shaky at first, but trying hard not to show it. Dorothy walked him out to his cruiser and into a blinding burst of mid-afternoon sun. She held her clipboard up over her eyes.
“Alex, don’t let Sheriff Crow know what you’re up to.”
He gave her a puzzled look.
“He still doesn’t accept that her passing was anything but a suicide,” she said.
“I might not accept it either if I was the sheriff and my wife was murdered.”
“Just remember,” she said, crossing her arms emphatically, “no matter how much you respect him, no matter how much you look up to him, he’ll never be your friend on this one. You’re alone.”
Alone, Alex thought wryly. Nothing new there.
She walked over and hit him playfully with her clipboard. “Okay, now get outa here before I call the real cops.”
Smiling weakly, he removed his nightstick and slid behind the wheel of his cruiser. Sheriff Crow’s face had melted away, but he couldn’t completely erase the picture of the sheriff’s wife in the bath, slumped over, glaring back at him from two empty sockets. But somehow the residual effect of Dorothy’s slide show seemed far worse. That night, standing by the tub, the whole scene had felt surreal. He replayed the pictures of the bathroom in his head. The slides—some black and white, others stark and blurry—had felt ultra real. And for a reason he couldn’t put his finger on, they felt more vivid lately than they ever had.
Chapter 4
By the time Lysander found his first class, the halls had become a wasteland of crumpled papers and loose candy wrappers. He reached for the door, his pulse pounding in his neck. He was not getting off to a great start to the school year. Not only was he late, but now he had to make a grand entrance in front of everyone. As he stepped inside, thirty-five sets of eyes scanned him up and down. They were whispering, their low murmurs melding with the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead. Mr. Bennett had just finished writing his name on the blackboard, right under English 412. With an unsteady hand, Mr. Bennett flicked chalk dust out of his salt and pepper hair and fumbled through his jumble of papers.
“Mr. Shore, I presume?”
Lysander nodded.
Mr. Bennett pointed impatiently toward the back corner of the room, near an oversize map of Massachusetts.
“Over there, Mr. Shore.”
With the class’s attention glued on him expectantly, Lysander tripped over some smart ass’s outstretched foot and stumbled into the desk in front of him.
The class exploded in a pent-up fit of laughter, no doubt brewing since his big black boots first set foot inside class. Only one girl didn’t join them. He slid uneasily into the seat next to her, blushing and feeling microscopically small. He nodded at her in appreciation. Her large eyes flashed knowingly.
“Looks like you and I are the only Goths within a fifty-mile radius?” he whispered.
Her expression changed. “Goth? No, I’m Wiccan.”
“Oh.” He held out his hand. “I’m Lysander.”
She took it, and Lysander was struck by how delicate her hand was.
“I’m Sam,” she said, smiling. “Ignore these assholes. They’ve never seen anyone with taste before.”
A large, sweaty hand landed on Lysander’s shoulder from behind. At the other end of it was what looked like a boy in a man’s body.
Sam leaned over. “That’s Derek.” The man—boy smiled. Lysander returned the gesture, not certain he had any other choice.
Slowly, the laughter died down.
Mr. Bennett stood with his clipboard perched atop his belly. “Now since this is your first day back and since we do have some students who are new to Millingham High, I would like everyone
Alex stood, shaky at first, but trying hard not to show it. Dorothy walked him out to his cruiser and into a blinding burst of mid-afternoon sun. She held her clipboard up over her eyes.
“Alex, don’t let Sheriff Crow know what you’re up to.”
He gave her a puzzled look.
“He still doesn’t accept that her passing was anything but a suicide,” she said.
“I might not accept it either if I was the sheriff and my wife was murdered.”
“Just remember,” she said, crossing her arms emphatically, “no matter how much you respect him, no matter how much you look up to him, he’ll never be your friend on this one. You’re alone.”
Alone, Alex thought wryly. Nothing new there.
She walked over and hit him playfully with her clipboard. “Okay, now get outa here before I call the real cops.”
Smiling weakly, he removed his nightstick and slid behind the wheel of his cruiser. Sheriff Crow’s face had melted away, but he couldn’t completely erase the picture of the sheriff’s wife in the bath, slumped over, glaring back at him from two empty sockets. But somehow the residual effect of Dorothy’s slide show seemed far worse. That night, standing by the tub, the whole scene had felt surreal. He replayed the pictures of the bathroom in his head. The slides—some black and white, others stark and blurry—had felt ultra real. And for a reason he couldn’t put his finger on, they felt more vivid lately than they ever had.
Chapter 4
By the time Lysander found his first class, the halls had become a wasteland of crumpled papers and loose candy wrappers. He reached for the door, his pulse pounding in his neck. He was not getting off to a great start to the school year. Not only was he late, but now he had to make a grand entrance in front of everyone. As he stepped inside, thirty-five sets of eyes scanned him up and down. They were whispering, their low murmurs melding with the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead. Mr. Bennett had just finished writing his name on the blackboard, right under English 412. With an unsteady hand, Mr. Bennett flicked chalk dust out of his salt and pepper hair and fumbled through his jumble of papers.
“Mr. Shore, I presume?”
Lysander nodded.
Mr. Bennett pointed impatiently toward the back corner of the room, near an oversize map of Massachusetts.
“Over there, Mr. Shore.”
With the class’s attention glued on him expectantly, Lysander tripped over some smart ass’s outstretched foot and stumbled into the desk in front of him.
The class exploded in a pent-up fit of laughter, no doubt brewing since his big black boots first set foot inside class. Only one girl didn’t join them. He slid uneasily into the seat next to her, blushing and feeling microscopically small. He nodded at her in appreciation. Her large eyes flashed knowingly.
“Looks like you and I are the only Goths within a fifty-mile radius?” he whispered.
Her expression changed. “Goth? No, I’m Wiccan.”
“Oh.” He held out his hand. “I’m Lysander.”
She took it, and Lysander was struck by how delicate her hand was.
“I’m Sam,” she said, smiling. “Ignore these assholes. They’ve never seen anyone with taste before.”
A large, sweaty hand landed on Lysander’s shoulder from behind. At the other end of it was what looked like a boy in a man’s body.
Sam leaned over. “That’s Derek.” The man—boy smiled. Lysander returned the gesture, not certain he had any other choice.
Slowly, the laughter died down.
Mr. Bennett stood with his clipboard perched atop his belly. “Now since this is your first day back and since we do have some students who are new to Millingham High, I would like everyone
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