Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) (3 page)

BEHIND THE SCHOOL, I find the oak tree that has a honeysuckle bush beside it. I pull off my hoodie. I slide the shotgun and the hoodie under the bush. I don't think my hoodie has any evidence on it, but it's soaked in sweat and I don't want to have to explain that to anybody.

I ride my bike back around the school—adrenaline still pumping through me—and park it inside the bike rack. I lock it and run inside the school. It's between first and second period classes. What's next? English?

Then, I see her. The woman from the truck. She's heading toward the administrative office. She passes right by me and a gust of cold air hits me.

"On the first day, man, that is so awesome," Zach Schneider whispers to his sister, Kit. The Schneiders are new here—at least in the sense that they have been here for about a year and a half. Most of the kids here grew up together, but Zach and Kit slid their way pretty easily into the social network of high school. They're two blond kids who wear too much brand clothing and never know when to shut up, so of course they would fit in.

"Think she'll get fired? I'm thinking she will," Kit mutters.

I walk over toward them, pretending to get a drink from the water fountain. When I press the button, the water almost sprays straight up into my nose.

"They might tolerate a teacher being late on the first day, but a substitute? No way."

"Yeah, and she can take her stupid ass back to nowhere Ohio and we can have our basement back," Zach says. "How the fuck are we supposed to smoke if we can't do it downstairs? It's literally the only place we had that Mom and Dad wouldn't check on us every five minutes."

"Do you guys know her?" I ask, standing up straight. Kit nods, blushing from getting some male attention. Women. I'll never understand them and I don't care enough to try.

"She's living in our basement," she says.

"Like a rodent," Zach mutters. "It's only because Dad knows her brother, who's fighting the good fight overseas."

The mention of the military, a soldier, makes me stand up straighter and my heart beat faster.

"God bless America," I say. Zach shrugs. He and his sister walk away. It's easy for kids like him to not care about all of these outsiders invading into Murray. Their mother is a nurse, which isn't the kind of job these bottom-feeders are looking for.

I smile. At least I won't have to worry about that woman. The Schneiders are likely right. The school won't tolerate a woman who's late on the first day. She'll go back to Ohio and I won't have to worry about her talking about anything she saw when I killed those Muslims. Dr. Meadows won't be a problem either. Albert just had his checkup for his heart disease and Dr. Meadows, has only ever seen me in the waiting room. Albert doesn't need to get his heart checked for another six months. By then, everyone would have long forgotten about the Muslims. By then, I will have made everything right.

~~~~~

THE SECRETARY AT WAYCROFT HIGH has enough wrinkles on her face that I imagine she has too much skin when her face is smooth. She doesn't look up from the piece of paper she's jotting notes on when I walk up to her desk.

"Um, excuse me," I say. She raises her index finger in the
one moment
gesture. Behind her is a poster of the Virginia state flag. The seal of the flag shows a woman with her foot on a man's chest. It is meant to symbolize peace overcoming tyranny, but I always found it strange that it would be peace with her foot on tyranny instead of something more durable. Underneath this image are the words
sic semper tyrannis
—"thus always to tyrants." But what happens when the tyrant is in your own head?

The secretary sets down her pen and looks up. "How may I help you?"

"I'm Grace Ellery. I'm supposed to—"

"Miss Ellery." The secretary raises her chin. "You were supposed to be here at seven forty-five. It is now nearly nine o'clock."

"Yes, I know, but something happened on the way—"

"Miss Ellery," the secretary repeats. "This is a high school. I don't know how they ran high schools in Ohio, but
here
we believe in efficiency. Since you did not show up for work on time, the next person in the substitute rotation was called. There is no work for you here today."

"You don't understand…I was on my way here and—"

"You should go home, Miss Ellery. We will call you if we decide that you are still worth contacting, but I wouldn't hold my breath."

"A couple was murdered," I blurt. "And then my truck was shot up. I've been talking to the police for the last hour."

The secretary frowns. "Miss Ellery, this is Murray, Virginia. I don't know what insane place you came from in Ohio, but people don't get murdered here. Vehicles do not get shot up. That story may work in other places, but not here."

"It's the truth," I insist. "They were a Muslim couple. It was on the corner of Howard Street and Riversdale Road."

"Miss Ellery…" The secretary shakes her head. A student walks into the office with a piece of paper in her hands. "Miss Ellery, you should leave. I have work to do here."

"No, you need to listen to me. Call the cops. They will tell you that there was a murder on the corner of Howard Street and Riversdale Road."

"Oh, I'll call the cops," she says. "But it will be to come down here and remove you from this office."

I cross my arms over my chest and sit down in the chair across from her. She grits her teeth. I may be acting childish, but after this morning, my stress level is too high to deal with a secretary who refuses to believe me.

The secretary stands up, walks over to a door that says
Principal Pattinson
, and knocks. After a few seconds, the door opens.

"Mr. Pattinson. The new substitute, Miss Ellery—the one who didn't show up for her first period class—she's making a scene and won't leave the office."

A man steps into view. He's handsome—dark hair, olive skin, tall—and he has a gentle smile. "Miss Ellery. Can I ask what the problem is?"

His kindness makes me almost want to cry, but I take a deep breath.

"There was a murder on the corner of Howard Street and Riversdale Road. It was a couple…they were Muslim. I happened to be driving by at the time that they were shot. I got out of my car to see what had happened when I heard the shots and this guy…his name was Dr. Meadows…Sam, I think—?"

"Sam Meadows?" Mr. Pattinson and the secretary seem to straighten. They exchange a look.

The secretary smooths her hair with one hand. "She didn't mention Dr. Meadows before," she mumbles.

"What?" I ask. "I'm not an unreliable flake who can't tell time and has a disturbing imagination just because I mentioned him?"

"Dr. Meadow's reputation precedes him," Mr. Pattinson says. "And it's not that Mrs. Dowell didn't believe you—"

"It's just that she thought I was crazy," I finish. The secretary glares at me, but I'm too tired to care about her opinion at this point. I'm also bewildered at how Dr. Meadows has such a good reputation that it would change both of these people's minds, but I'm not going to question it.

"Miss Ellery, we will call you tomorrow if there's another substitute slot open," Mr. Pattinson says.

"Oh, yeah, um…my cell phone was in my truck when it was towed away by the police. Can I give you my home number instead?"

"We don't have it on file?" Mr. Pattinson asks.

"No. I've kind of been moving around a lot lately and it's not really my house…it's my brother's house, but there's another family living there too…"

Mr. Pattinson smiles. "You're going to be a troublemaker, aren't you?"

I shrug. "My reputation precedes me, too."

~~~~~

"MOST PEOPLE THINK that slavery was the cause of the American Civil War, but it was only one of the issues. The ruling in Dred Scott versus Sanford, the power struggle between the federal government and states' rights, the accumulation of states after the Missouri Compromise, Abraham Lincoln's election, the secession of the South, and the attack on Fort Sumter were also important factors," I tell the class. "Can anyone tell me why Abraham Lincoln's election caused tension between the North and South?"

"Because he wore a stupid hat," Tom Rifter drawls.

"No," I say, trying to hide my annoyance. "Anybody else?"

I pick up a bag of chocolate bars from my desk.

"Whoever gives the correct answer gets a piece of chocolate." I stare at the class and they stare back at me. It's the third week of class and I still haven't gotten anyone to participate. I was prepared though. I was told repeatedly that Bishop High School, an at-risk youth education center, was full of difficult cases and students who only came to school to see their friends and get a free lunch.

The class continues to stare at me, barely moving except for two girls in the back who are whispering to each other. Slowly, one of the smaller kids in class—dark hair, dark eyes, skin so pale it seems to glow, and zero body fat or muscle—raises his hand. I smile.

"Yes, Francis?"

A few of the kids snigger at his name. He flushes.

"Um, w-well, L-Lincoln was a-against s-slavery. H-he told the S-south that he wouldn't a-abolish s-slavery, but the S-south—"

"Hurry it up,
Francis
," Tom snarls. "We don't have all day to hear your s-s-stuttering."

"Tom," I snap. "Go to the principal's office."

"What!" he shouts. "That's bullshit."

I fold my arms over my chest. He scowls, gathers his books, and slings his bag over his shoulder. As he passes by Francis, he purposely hits his elbow against Francis's head. After he walks out of the room, I turn back to Francis. His face is beet red.

"Please continue Francis," I say. "What about the South?"

"T-they didn't b-b-believe Lincoln," Francis finishes. I nod, walk by his desk, and slip him two chocolates.

"Good job," I whisper. I pat him on the shoulder before returning to the front of the class. When I look back at him, he's smiling from ear to ear.

~~~~~

THE HEART SENDS two thousand gallons of blood throughout the body every day. The heart is used as a symbol of love, but really, it should be a symbol of life. Without the heart, the whole body fails. This one organ, which is the size of a fist, keeps the rest of the body alive. This single organ is a miracle and that is why I study it.

When I leave my office, my own heart is heavy. People don't go to a cardiologist because everything is going well. They go to a cardiologist because something is terribly wrong. My last patient, James Egan, had been having arrhythmias, so his physician, John, recommended that he visit me. He has an atrial myxoma—a benign tumor in his heart. It's nearly fourteen centimeters wide and it will have to be surgically removed. His mitral valve will have to be replaced as well. Though, the tumor is benign, it could lead to an embolism (cells from the tumor break off and clog blood flow) or the tumor itself could block blood flow and cause sudden death. I advised James to go see a renowned cardiac surgeon in Richmond, because I want him to get it removed by the best. Despite all of my best efforts, I hate this part of my job. I prefer to help people before the disease sets in and makes a home inside their bodies.

As I put my briefcase into the backseat of my car, I notice someone standing outside the 24/7 convenience store next door smoking a cigarette. The light from the cigarette glows red even under the lights from all of the stores. When the smoker brings the cigarette toward her lips, I realize the person is Grace.

I lock my car again and walk over to her. She smiles and waves. She has a plastic bag around her wrist with a 24/7
logo on it.

"Hey," I say. "You know those things are bad for you."

"Ah, I forgot," she says, still smiling. "You're a doctor."

"Cardiologist," I say. "And you don't want to see what the heart of a smoker looks like."

She drops the cigarette and crushes it under the toe of her shoe. "I had actually stopped smoking a year ago." She takes a cigarette carton out of the plastic bag and throws it into the garbage can behind me. "But…it was a weird day. Terrible day."

"Getting shot at or dealing with high schoolers?" I ask. She smiles again. I love her smile—it's both shy and seductive.

"I didn't get to deal with high school children," she says. "I was sent home. By the principal."

I raise one of my eyebrows. "David Pattinson? I know him well. I could talk to him, if you want."

"No, it's fine. We figured everything out. I don't need a man to rescue me…except, you know, when I'm getting shot at."

"You probably weren't going to get hit. It was an instinctive reaction for me. How does your head feel? You haven't passed out or anything, have you?"

"Nope. I am still as messed up as I was before you tackled me."

"I'm glad. I mean, I'm glad that you're okay. Not that you're messed up…not that I think that you're messed up."

"You have no idea," she says.

I tilt my head. "I smoked all through college."

She laughs. "Ah, a doctor—excuse me, cardiologist—and a hypocrite."

"Maybe," I say.

She opens the plastic bag again and pulls out a caramel apple tightly wrapped in plastic. "I actually bought something for you to thank you for saving my life. I planned to wrap it and pretend it was from somewhere nice…but now you know I'm cheap."

"It's great," I say, as she hands it to me. "Let me guess…an apple a day—"

"Keeps the doctor away," she finishes, grinning. "I'm glad you get it. Not that I want you to stay away…or that I do want you to stay…I just…thought it was funny."

"It is," I tell her. She's cute. Awkward, but I like it. I take my Swiss Army knife out of my khakis pocket. As soon as I start cutting the plastic away from the apple, Grace takes several steps backward and her face is contorted with anxiety. I take a step forward, concerned, and she takes two more back. I stand still. "What's wrong?"

"I…have to go." She turns and nearly runs toward the bus stop that's across the street. After a minute, it occurs to me that she was staring at the Swiss Army knife. I fold the blade into the handle and put it back into my pocket. There's more to Grace's story than I know, something that is like James Egan's tumor, except it won't suddenly kill her. Something in her mind is eating away at her, but I don't want to invade her privacy. I want her to open up to me on her own.

I roll the caramel apple in my hand. It really was a sweet gesture.

~~~~~