Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) (7 page)

LUCY WALKS ME to my door as her parents wait in their white Chrysler minivan. She glances at the high arches of my house. While all of the other houses have colonial-style architecture, our house is closer to the Mediterranean-style with a Sienna tile roof, adobe walls, and several windows in every room.

"Your house is really pretty," Lucy tells me.

"I don't like it." It's so different from everyone else's house."

"I like different," she murmurs. My heart skips a beat. She leans in and her lips touch against mine. My heart stops beating completely. When she leans back, it begins a slow rhythm again. She smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow at school. Have a good birthday."

I watch her skip down the steps. As soon as she's in her parents' minivan, I turn around and walk into my house. I don't want her to know that I was watching her like a desperate freak.

I walk into the kitchen and see my father pouring himself some scotch. He nods at me.

"Happy birthday," he says.

"Thanks."

"Did your mother give you a present, yet?" he asks. I shake my head.

"Well…I'll go ask her about that," he says. He takes a sip from his glass. "Have you thought about which school you're going to go to for college? It's important to start planning early. Before you know it, SATs are going to pop up, then you have to send in applications, and you have to do all of that during your normal schedule."

"I'm not sure yet," I tell him.

"Well, I don't know what's best for you for your four-year school, but for a dentist school, you should think about University of Michigan or University of California at Los Angeles School of Dentistry. San Francisco has a good dentistry program, too."

"Maybe," I say. The aspect of cleaning people's teeth for a living doesn't excite me. I can't imagine how it excites anyone.

"Well…I'll go talk to your mother. I can't believe she didn't give you anything yet. She's losing her mind." He begins to walk out of the kitchen.

"Dad?" I ask. He turns around to look at me. "Why don't we ever eat together as a family? Or ask each other about how our day was?"

He stares at me blankly. "We do the same thing every day. Why would we talk about it? And you know your mother and I have a busy schedule. We wouldn't be able to eat together. Where are these questions coming from?"

"I was just eating dinner with Lucy and her parents…and it was really nice. To just be together and enjoy each other's company," I tell him.

He forces a smile. "It was nice because it was your birthday…and you were a guest. I'm certain that usually their dinners are eaten separately, or they spend the whole meal arguing. It's good to have some independence away from your family. You have to learn to not depend on anyone early. People let you down. That includes family."

He takes a deep breath as if he's going to say something else, but he simply turns around and walks away.

People let you down. That includes family.

As I fall asleep that night, his words echo in my head, except that the sentence has distorted into its own mantra.

People let you down especially your family.

~~~~~

I PICK AT the butterfly bandage on my cheek as FBI Agent Rosenbloom sits across from me in the police captain's office, flipping through a case file about Azlan and Aisha Khouri's murders. Rosenbloom is a tall man with a broad chest, neatly combed black hair, and a demeanor that demands respect.

"And you're certain that you didn't know either Mr. Azlan Khouri or Mrs. Aisha Khouri?" he asks.

"I just moved here a few weeks ago," I tell him, putting my hands on my lap. "I haven't made any friends…and the only enemies I've made are with the Schneiders."

"Do the Schneiders know the Khouris?" he asks.

I shrug. "I don't think so. I mean, the Schneiders aren't prejudice exactly, but the Khouris aren't the kind of people they would associate with, either."

Rosenbloom raises an eyebrow and makes some kind of mark in the folder.

"Do the Schneiders own any guns?" he asks.

I face flames. "No. I wasn't saying they had anything against—"

"Agent Rosenbloom." An officer pokes his head into the office. "Dr. Sam Meadows is here."

"Good," Rosenbloom says. "Bring him in."

The officer disappears. I return to picking at my bandage. I feel it pull away from my skin, so I flatten it against my cheek again. I don't know why I'm so anxious.

Sam walks into the office. There's a flicker of confusion on his face when he sees me. For once, he's not wearing the white doctor's coat, but jeans and a button-up shirt the color of red wine with his sleeves pushed up. Rosenbloom gestures for him to sit. Sam smiles and inclines his head toward me when he sits down.

"Dr. Meadows," Rosenbloom says. "You were at the scene of the Khouri murders. Do you recall any details that you didn't remember before?"

"No," he says, his forehead furrowing. He glances at me and taps his forehead in the same place where I have my butterfly bandage. "Did you get in a fight with the high school kids?"

I shake my head. "I got shot at. Again."

He sits up straight. "What? Are you kidding me? Where?"

"At my house. I mean, my brother's house," I say.

His eyes search over my body. "You didn't get hurt anywhere else, did you?"

I shake my head, ignoring the pain from where a bullet scraped against my thigh. His concern is palpable and, after everything that's happened, it makes me want to cry. But I can't. I have to get through this.

"I have one more questions specifically for you, Miss Ellery," Rosenbloom says. "Do you have any enemies that you think would try to cause you bodily harm?"

My first thought is the reflective steel of a paring knife. Francis Tate. But he's in prison. He is serving his first year of a ten-year sentence at Southeastern Correctional Institute."

I shake my head. "No. There's no one like that in my life."

Rosenbloom turns to Sam. "You're the one who saw everything happen. You didn't see the shooter at all?"

"No, I was busy trying to save her from being shot." He gestures toward me. "Why is the FBI involved in a shooting of two people anyway?"

Rosenbloom sighs, setting down the folder. "This morning, we found a third body. The man is Gary Spencer. The Khouris owned an automotive repair shop. Spencer worked at an automotive repair shop. The only person who has been shot at in this general area who isn't connected to an automotive repair shop is you, Miss Ellery. The first time you were shot, Murray Police thought the shooter was simply trying to scare you. But a second shooting? He could still be trying to get rid of you as a witness or scare you, but it seems a bit risky to me unless there is more to the story. Are you sure there isn't a reason why someone would want to kill you?"

"I don't think so," I say. "Like I said, I haven't made any enemies."

"Dr. Meadows." Rosenbloom turns to Sam. "Even the smallest detail could help. Could you tell me exactly what you saw and what happened? It's best if you start before you tackled Miss Ellery."

"Well, I was driving to my practice," he says. "And as I'm going around the corner of Howard Street and Riversdale Road, I hear a gunshot. When I get around the corner, I see Aisha screaming over Azlan's body. I…I stomped on my brakes and at the same time I saw Aisha fall onto the sidewalk. I guess she was shot and I didn't hear it over my brakes. Then, I saw Grace's—Miss Ellery's—driver door open in front of me. All I could think was
I can't let this person die
. I jumped out of my car and ran straight for her. I tackled her and we fell onto the ground. The shooter shot at her truck for a minute. Then it was silent for another minute. We both got up and Grace…Miss Ellery…called nine-one-one."

"You never saw the shooter?" Rosenbloom asks.

"No."

"Did you see any vehicles around that seemed out of place?"

He tilts his head, his eyes shifting as he thinks. "No. There wasn't any vehicles parked…not that I can remember. Except Grace's truck in front of me."

Rosenbloom scribbles something in his notes.

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"It means the killer either lives nearby or he was dropped off by someone," Rosenbloom says. "There were some bicycle tracks around the area that the killer shot from, but we can't be certain they were from him."

Rosenbloom stands up. Sam and I stand, too, mirroring his actions. He shakes hands with me, and then Sam.

"Miss Ellery, your brother's house is now a crime scene," he says. "So, you can't return there. I've had it arranged so you will have a place at The Guardian Inn. We'll have one of the Murray officers keep watch of you in case the killer tries to strike again."

He walks out of the office, and I turn to Sam. "Hey again."

"Hey," he says. He shoves his hand in his pockets. "So, I heard that you have this habit of attracting bullets."

"Apparently," I say, grinning despite the situation. Something about Sam makes me relax. "I guess I took the whole good-girl-loves-bad-boy onto a whole new level."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't get hurt." He leans toward me. "Do you need a ride to the hotel? Or is one of the police officers going to take you?"

"Oh, God, that's the last thing I want…arriving at a hotel in a police car. Then nobody will want to hire me."

"Aren't you still working at the school?"

"I am, or at least I was. I have a feeling that Mrs. Schneider—the woman I was living with—is going to complain to the PTA and I won't have a job there much longer."

"I'm sorry," he says. "Maybe you could do some things at my practice…"

"You've done enough for me," I say, and then wince. "But could I ask for one more favor? Could I borrow your cell phone? I need to call my brother to tell him that his house is a crime scene."

He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and hands it to me. "Good luck with that conversation."

"Thanks." I dial Connor's number. As I wait for him to answer, I keep my eyes on Sam. He taps a beat against his leg with two of his fingers, but it's not impatience. It's as if he were keeping a beat to something only he can hear.

I realize his rhythm is the same as my heartbeat.

~~~~~

GRACE IS ASSIGNED to Room 403 at The Guardian Inn. The room has a queen-sized bed with a red comforter. The walls are white while the curtains and carpet are red. I stand on the threshold of the room as Grace pulls in her suitcase.

She turns around and notices I'm still at the door. "Are you coming in?"

"Do you want me to?" I ask.

She laughs and says, "Sam, come in. I need you."

"You need me?" I take a step in and close the door behind me.

"Remember? My brother never answered his cell phone and the only way he can reach me…is through your phone."

"Ah." Words begin to fail me again. This is what I hate. Two people alone. There isn't a third person to pick up the slack when I can't figure out what to say.

"Should we order something to eat? I haven't eaten since eleven this morning." She picks up the hotel binder and flips it over to the restaurant section. "They have a Chinese place nearby. And a pizza place. Do you think we should take something out to the officer down the hall? It's not his fault that he was stuck with babysitting me."

"Whatever you want," I tell her.

She bites her bottom lip before she speaks. "Do you like burgers?"

"I'm an American, aren't I?" I joke.

She grins and takes my order of a bacon cheeseburger with fries. She picks up the hotel phone and dials. As she is ordering, my phone begins to vibrate. I take it out of my pocket and see a number I don't recognize. This is beginning to get annoying. What's the point of having a private cell phone if anyone can call me? I answer it.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?" a man asks, hesitantly.

I'm not sure how to answer because I have no idea
why
someone would be calling me and then
asking
me who is answering. I glance over at Grace. Oh. Her brother.

"One minute," I say as Grace hangs up the hotel phone, and I hand her my cell. "I think it's your brother."

She takes it from me and puts the phone up to her ear.

"Hey, Connor," she says. "What?…That was Sam…No, you don't know him…Because the police took my phone…I've been trying to call you!…What? I was on CNN?…Yeah, the other guy in the picture was Sam…Because he was with me when I was shot at the first time…Yes, there was more than one time I was shot at. And there wouldn't have been a second time if that bitch Lori didn't lock me out of your house…Oh please! They act as if it's
their
house. They treat me like
I'm
the renter. Like I have no right to be there…They won't even give me their precious wireless password."

My cell volume is high enough that I'm able to pick up some of Connor's end of the conversation. He's furious and sounds more like a father than Grace's brother. I begin to feel uncomfortable as I listen to them. I grab the TV remote and turn on the TV. The channel turns on to CNN.

"I know, Connor. I should have said something sooner, but I didn't want to sound ungrateful…And you're going to ask them to leave?…Yes, thank you."

The newscaster has the grim expression and suit of a man attending a funeral—the only discrepancy being that his tie is bright orange.

"This make three murders and one attempted murder in the usually peaceful town of Murray," the newscaster says. "Grace Ellery, originally from Ohio, is not a stranger to violence. She had been attacked by one of her prior students back in 2012. The student, Francis Tate, attacked her with a knife, stabbing her several times before leaving when he heard her mother, Louise Ellery, arriving at the house. Tate is currently in Southeastern Correctional Institute."

Grace grabs the remote control from me and turns off the TV.

"You were attacked?" I turn to her "Why didn't you bring that up to the police or the FBI?"

"Connor, let me call you back…Yes, either from this number or from the hotel…I have to go." Grace ends the call and hands me the cell, all the while ignoring my gaze. "Because it's none of their business."

"It could help the case."

"You heard the news!" she snaps. "Tate is in prison! It has nothing to do with him."

"He could have accomplices."

"He wasn't some mastermind psychopath. He was a kid. I met him when he was sixteen years old at an at-risk youth education center. He was a good student and a gifted writer. I could see from his writing that he was troubled…but I thought he had dealt with any aggression he felt through his writing. While he was in college, he sent me an e-mail. In the e-mail he said he had found my e-mail address on the internet…and said he credited a fair bit of his own success to my efforts. I was so…thrilled to read his message and know that I had made an impact. I sent him a message, thanking him for his gratitude and I wished him well. I didn't say anything else. I didn't initiate further conversation or tell him where I was living. At the trial, I found out he sent multiple e-mails after I had left the school. Anyway, somehow he learned that I was living at my family's farmhouse. I was shocked to see him, but I invited him in because I didn't want to be rude. We had a friendly conversation about what was going on in our current lives, but when he started to become…overly friendly…I told him I wasn't interested and he became hostile. He wasn't even the one who grabbed the knife. I did. He just…managed to get it out of my hand and…that's when he attacked me. The only reason I'm still alive is because my mother came home."

"And now he's in prison."

"Now he's in prison," she repeats. "He was caught three days later, hiding out at one of his friends' houses. He's serving a ten-year sentence. I never went back to interventional education. I failed to get Tate the help he needed."

"It's not your fault," I say, taking a step toward her. She stumbles back, her legs hitting against the bed.

"I was a teacher. It's my job to guide children in the right direction. I should have seen the signs early. I should have gotten him help. What if he had attached himself to some other woman and stabbed her? That blood would have been on my hands."

"He was already broken—"

"You didn't know him. You don't know any of those kids," she says. "I was there to be a lighthouse for them and I failed."

"I'm a cardiologist and the brain is just another part of the body. Tate had a sick brain. Sometimes people are too damaged to be repaired."

I reach toward her, but she leans away from me.

"That doesn't mean that we don't try to help them," she says.

"Are you saying that you didn't try? Because I find that hard to believe. I may barely know you, but I see people at their weakest all of the time, so I understand people's character. You aren't the kind of person to watch an injured person without helping."

"Well, I used to work with injured people, so I know what they look like too," she retorts. "So, tell me…why are you injured? You've changed from the first two times we talked. Something happened in your life. You know my story. Tell me yours."

"That's not relevant. It's not what we were talking about."

"Oh, I thought we were talking about character," she says. "I thought we were talking about us. So, what? I'm supposed to spill my guts while you play psychologist? Honest communication is a two-way street, Sam."

"The only thing that honest communication can do is destroy that street."

"How does honesty destroy it?" she asks, hands on her hips.

"Like this."

I cup her face in my hands—the soft curves of her face fits perfectly in the angles of my fingers. I press my lips against hers. The texture of her lips reminds me of velvet. I wait for her to jerk away, but instead her fingers are on my waist. I slide my hands under her blouse. I skim the raised skin of scars from when she was stabbed and I love them for being part of her—something that changed her into who she is now.

My mind—filled with logic and despair a few seconds ago—goes blank and all I know is Grace. I can feel every atom of her body touching me and I smell the soft floral scent of her skin.

I let it absolve me. I let it build a street and I can never return to where I was.

~~~~~