Have You Seen Her? (6 page)

“We keep an ice pack in the freezer,” she said, gesturing to a refrigerator in the corner.

Easily he found it in the freezer door. Murmuring her thanks, she gestured to an empty chair.

“Please sit, Mr.—I’m sorry. Agent Thatcher.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” He sat. And waited.

For a full minute she stared down at her hands before lifting her head. “You saw Brad’s test,” she said abruptly and Steven could only nod. His voice seemed stuck in his throat. She leaned forward, her expression now earnest. “Brad was in my basic chemistry class last year, Mr. Thatcher. He made it a year I’ll never forget. He loved to learn. He was always prepared. He was polite, alert. Now he’s not any of those things.”

Steven closed his eyes and massaged his temples, a headache pounding behind his eyes. “When did you see him change?”

He felt her fingers close around his wrist and pull his hand from his face. He opened his eyes to find hers narrowed and worried. “Are you okay, Mr. Thatcher? You look pale.”

“Just a headache. I’ll be fine. It’s just stress. Really,” he added when she looked unconvinced. “When did you first notice a change in my son?”

She settled in her chair, back to business. “Four weeks ago. When school started in August I was thrilled to have him in my advanced chemistry class this year. Then right after the Labor Day break he was different.”

Steven frowned. “Different, how?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Restless at first. He missed simple questions. We had a test the Friday after Labor Day. He got a
D
. I was stunned. I thought I’d give it a few weeks, see if he snapped out of it.” She shrugged again. “Then today I graded his latest test and he failed it. He’s grown more isolated every day. I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to call and let you know.”

Steven made himself ask the question that had kept him awake most of the nights over the last four weeks. “Dr. Marshall, do you think my son has gotten involved in drugs?”

She pressed her fingertips to her lips and sat quietly for a moment that stretched on and on. He thought she wasn’t going to answer at all when she sighed. “Good kids can get involved in drugs, Agent Thatcher.” She met his eyes, her gaze sympathetic. “But you knew that already. The truth is I don’t know. I hope to heaven he’s not, but we can’t afford to believe he’s not.”

Steven watched her bite her lip and felt a strange calm settle around his shoulders.
We.
She’d said
we
. He still didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about Brad, but knowing this woman shared his frustration and seemed to genuinely care for his son provided a foothold, a place to rest, if only for the few minutes he sat across from her. “Then where do we go from here?”

She smiled, so gently it made his heart clench. “The guidance counselor would be a good place to start. He’s a friend of mine and very experienced.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her briefcase and wrote a name and phone number. “Call Dr. Bondioli on Monday. He’s expecting you.”

Steven folded the paper and slid it into his pocket. “You were sure I’d be willing to talk to him.”

“Brad’s a good kid. Good kids rarely raise themselves.” “Thank you. Believe it or not, I feel just a little better.”

Dr. Marshall stood, balanced her weight on one foot, and extended her hand. “I’m glad.”

He pushed himself to his feet and shook her hand, feeling a reticence to let go that was foreign to him. He abruptly released her hand. Foreign, unwise, and unwanted. “Thank you for agreeing to see me tonight. How’s your ankle?”

She put some weight on it and winced. “Better.”

Steven hesitated. “Is there someone you can call to get you home?” His eyes dropped to her left hand, quite of their own volition. No ring. No husband.
No way,
he thought.
Don’t go there.
But he had. He wondered if his face was as heated as hers had become. Her eyes dropped to her feet.

“No, I’m afraid not,” she murmured, almost as if to herself, and he wondered if he’d hurt her feelings. But when she looked up, her smile was firmly back in place. “No significant other. Just my trusty dogs.” Briskly she gathered her belongings. “No worries, though. My car’s an automatic and my right foot’s still good, but I could use some help getting to my car if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” He took her briefcase and offered his arm, steeling himself for the warm feel of her touch.

She isn’t married.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed the thought aside and with it the little spark it lit inside him. He needed to focus on getting her to her car and then getting home to find out what the hell was wrong with his son. That’s what he should be focusing on. If he were a good father that’s what he’d be focusing on. He must not be, he thought grimly, because what he was focusing on was the way her shoulder barely brushed his as she limped across the tiled lobby floor.

She fit well at his side. She was tall, taller than his wife had been, and the comparison stung as much as the memory. He tried to squelch the memory, to push it down deep where he could pretend it didn’t exist, but once begun it continued to roll. There was a time, long ago when the boys were small, when Melissa would nuzzle her cheek to his chest ...He’d lower his head, smell her hair ...A sharp pain struck him square in the heart. He couldn’t allow himself to remember anymore.

Melissa was gone, taking . . . no,
stealing
everything comfortable with her.
Damn you, Mel,
he thought, anger sweeping away the yearning.

Steven straightened so abruptly that Dr. Marshall looked up in surprise, her sudden movement sending her black hair swinging over her shoulder.

“Did I step on your foot?” she asked. He could see she was in pain. Her lips curved, but the smile was for polite show only.

He shook his head. “No.”

Her eyes questioned, then dropped back to her feet when it was clear he would say nothing more. Her head lowered and her hair fell forward to hide her face. Quickly she tucked it behind her ear. Coconut. Her hair smelled like coconut. Beaches and suntan lotion. And bikinis.
God.

She smelled good. He didn’t want to notice it any more than he wanted to notice the curve of her jaw or the straight line of her nose. Or her full lips. Or her legs that went all the way up to her shoulders. He didn’t want to notice any of her attributes, but he found them impossible to ignore. He drew an appreciative breath before locking his jaw.

The last thing he needed at this stage of his life was the distraction of a woman. Normally ignoring distracting women was one of the things he did best, much to the dismay of his aunt Helen. But it seemed harder today. Today he was feeling very... vulnerable. He grimaced. Just thinking the word left a bad taste in his mouth. But it was true, be it the emotionally taxing experience with Samantha Eggleston’s parents or the fact that his son’s life was falling apart and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do.

Dr. Marshall paused as he opened the front door of the school for her. Her hand that so gently grasped his arm for support gave a single soft squeeze.

“It will be all right, Mr. Thatcher,” she said quietly. “You need to believe that.”

He needed to believe that. He almost did. Almost wished he could have someone like her at his side, giving him the same kind of encouragement day in, day out. Almost.

He nodded once. “Do you think you can drive yourself home?”

She tilted her head as if to sharpen her focus and he felt suddenly exposed, as if she could see his most acute fears. He expected more wisdom, but instead she simply answered the question he’d asked. “Yes. As I said before, my right foot’s fine and my car’s an automatic. I’ll be fine.”

“If you give me your keys I’ll bring your car.”

He watched as she fished in her purse, coming up with a set of keys. “It’s a red Jag.”

He blinked. “You have a Jaguar? On a teacher’s salary?” “I inherited it,” she said and pointed to the far corner of the parking lot. “It’s over there.”

He took the keys from her hand and helped her down the flight of stairs leading from the school. At the bottom she released his arm to grab the iron guardrail. And he felt bereft. He didn’t like the feeling.

Distraction. Brad’s Dr. Marshall was definitely that. Brad needed to get his act together and fast, both for his own sake and to keep his father from needing to see his teacher again.

F
IVE

Friday, September 30, 4:45
P.M.

B
RAD
T
HATCHER SAT ON THE EDGE OF HIS BED
, his head in his hands. He’d failed his chemistry test. He knew it even though he hadn’t stayed in class long enough to get his test back. One look at Dr. Marshall’s face told him everything he needed to know. He hated disappointing her after everything she’d done for him. He thought of his last test, the way she’d put the test paper on his desk, facedown. He’d always felt sorry for the kids who slipped their test into their backpacks without turning it over to see the grade because they knew they’d flunked. Because they were losers.

Like me,
he thought. “God, I’m such a loser,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his unshaven face, the stubble making his palms sting. After that first
D
, his first
D
ever in his life, Dr. Marshall had asked him to stay after class. She’d asked him what was wrong, what she could do to help. Reminded him if his grades continued to slip he’d lose the scholarship he’d wanted so much.

Slip? He hadn’t slipped. He’d dived straight off a damn cliff. He clenched his fists. She should have told him to stop fucking up. She should have smacked him upside the head. But she hadn’t. She’d just looked at him, her eyes so sad. She’d been so careful not to make him feel dumb. His head dropped back and he stared at his ceiling. She’d been so nice to him. He’d wanted to blurt it all out, to tell her what had been eating him alive. He still did. She’d understand. She wouldn’t pat him on the head and tell him not to fret, that everything would be okay.

But what could she do?
What could anyone do?

Brad stood up, paced, then turned to stare at his unmade bed, knowing it was there, hidden between his mattress and box springs, fighting the need to drag it out, just to look at it again.

He’d become . . . obsessed. Disgusted, he squeezed his eyes shut, made himself turn around, made himself stop looking at the line that separated the mattress from box springs. Tried to stop seeing it in his head. He opened his eyes, chanced a glance in the mirror over his dresser. Shuddered at what he saw. His eyes were red, his hair dirty, uncombed. He hadn’t shaved in days.

He was a wreck.

“Brad?”

His nerves crashed and he spun around to find Nicky standing in his doorway, his hand on the doorknob. The kid never knocked. No respect for his privacy, not from anybody in the whole damn house. Rage blazed at the intrusion and he took a step forward.

“What do you want?” he snarled, then immediately regretted his words and his tone when Nicky’s eyes widened and his baby brother shrank back, half hiding behind the door. Nicky’s lower lip trembled and Brad felt lower than shit. He made himself smile, but Nicky didn’t smile back. He stepped forward and Nicky stepped back, not taking his wide brown eyes from Brad’s face.

“I’m sorry, Nicky.” He reached to ruffle Nicky’s red hair and hated himself for Nicky’s flinch. His brother was just now getting to the point where he tolerated their touch again. Just now getting over the nightmares of guns and monsters stealing him from his bed. Nicky didn’t need any anger, least of all from him.

Brad crouched down until he was level with Nicky’s freckled face. He slowly extended his hand and touched the tip of

Nicky’s nose. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was wrong to yell at you.”

Nicky nodded. “Aunt Helen says it’s time for dinner,” he whispered back, too solemnly for a seven-year-old boy, and Brad hated himself again.

He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

Hating himself. He thought of it again, still hidden between the mattress and box springs. Wishing it weren’t there, that he’d never laid eyes on it. Wishing his life was different. Back to the way it was before, but it never would be the same again. It was a hard truth to swallow.

Brad pulled the corners of Nicky’s mouth down in an exaggerated frown and found himself smiling at the soft, almost silent giggle that emerged from his baby brother’s lips.

Well, they could still smile, he thought.

That was something.

Friday, September 30, 5:00
P.M.

Jenna gripped the railing of the school’s front steps, the iron cold against her palm still warm from Steven Thatcher’s arm. She watched him walk across the parking lot, his stride long and strong. Even from here she could see the tight fit of his jacket across the breadth of his shoulders and remembered the way those shoulders had sagged as they’d talked about his son, as if the weight of his worry was simply too heavy to bear. Jenna chewed at her lower lip. She’d told him everything would be all right. She hoped she hadn’t told the man a lie.

How she wished she could have said, “Oh, no, Mr. Thatcher—there’s no way Brad could be involved in drugs!” in a perky little voice that would make the anguish in his eyes disappear. But that wouldn’t have been honest. She’d learned a long time ago it was far better to approach a problem with all the facts, even though the facts were often hard to accept when the fear and hurt were fresh. So she’d told him the truth. Good kids can get into trouble. He knew that already. But somehow the truth had seemed to help, making his shoulders relax just a bit.

“Jenna, you’re a fool,” she muttered. “An optimistic fool.” But she didn’t really think that was the case. She hadn’t been what anyone could call optimistic in a very long time. No, on some level, she really did believe Brad Thatcher would be all right. Maybe it was just knowing he had a dad that cared so much about him.

That had to be it.

That also had to be the reason for the urge, one she’d just barely managed to fight, to brush her fingertips across Steven Thatcher’s brow, to smooth away the deep lines of worry. Because he was a kind father who cared about his son.

Not because he had warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Or because his shoulders were so broad. Or because his upper arm was solid and strong, yet his hands were gentle. Or because his smile over her stupid shoes had simply taken her breath away.

No, she’d had the urge to comfort him because of Brad. But the other urges were all hers and, quite frankly, surprised the hell out of her. She hadn’t felt any stirrings, not even modest ones, since . . . She sighed, the sound lonely in the quiet night. Not since Adam got sick. Certainly not since he died.
See, Casey,
she thought.
I can say it. Died. D-i-e-d, died. I’m not in denial, for God’s sake.

It had been two years since Adam’s death, and in that time she hadn’t touched a man—not unless you counted that last friend of Casey’s boyfriend Ned, the one whose hand she’d needed to firmly remove from her ass.

She tilted her head, considering her reaction should Steven Thatcher try the same thing—she would not be nearly as annoyed. In fact . . .
Just stop,
she mentally ordered herself.
Just stop that right now.

“Jenna Marshall,” she murmured aloud. “Shame on you.” She looked out across the parking lot to where Mr. Thatcher stood next to her car, his hands on what probably were very trim hips.

Casey would be amused, both at her noticing Steven Thatcher was indeed a man and at the way she was scolding herself for noticing. Therefore, Casey must never know. That was simple enough. What wasn’t as simple was the knowledge her body had emerged from a two-year deep sleep and her hormones were now active again.
Well, you are human,
she thought.
You had to start looking again sometime. Just look, but don’t touch.

A cool breeze fluttered and Jenna shivered first, then frowned. Minutes had ticked by as she’d stood here balanced on one foot, woolgathering. Mr. Thatcher should have been here with her car already. In fact, where was he? She lifted herself on her toes and stared off to the edge of the parking lot only to see a gray Volvo station wagon approach, Steven Thatcher at the wheel.

He pulled the car up to the curb next to where she stood, got out, and stood inside the open driver’s door with his arms folded across the roof of his car.

“Do you have any enemies?” he demanded with a scowl. Jenna’s heart sank. Adam’s XK 150. Then her temper surged. “Only about nine hundred,” she answered from behind clenched teeth. Word of Rudy’s suspension was out and now she was on the hit list of roughly nine hundred hormonally whacked teenagers. She sighed. “How bad is it?”

“Your tires are slashed, all four of them.”

Jenna limped a few steps to lean against his passenger door. “Reparable?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. These aren’t just punctures, they’re slashes. The tires are ribbons. But that didn’t worry me as much as this.” He held a sheet of paper across the car’s roof. “Don’t touch it, except for the corner,” he cautioned.

Jenna scanned the page and her heart stilled. “ ‘Put him back on the team or you’ll roo the day you were born, you bitch,’” she read in an unsteady voice, then cleared her throat and looked up at Mr. Thatcher. “They misspelled ‘rue,’” she said, simply because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Mr. Thatcher smiled grimly. “I don’t think they were too worried about the school spelling bee. Who’d you flunk off the team?”

Jenna stared back down at the paper in her hand. No one had ever threatened her before. Her anger fizzled, numb fear taking its place. “Rudy Lutz,” she murmured.

“The QB?” She looked up in time to see him wince. “You’re not from around here are you?”

Jenna’s temper simmered. First her car was vandalized, then this
person
intimated it was all her fault. Any lingering admiration of his soft brown eyes and trim hips went right out the window. “I’ve lived in North Carolina for more than ten years.”

“Then you should know the risks of interfering with high school football in the South.”

Jenna saw red. “What I
know
is that he failed my class and I’m not only within my rights, but my
responsibility
as a teacher to—to—” She stuttered to a stop when Thatcher held up his hand.

“I didn’t mean you shouldn’t have failed him.” He considered her thoughtfully. “In fact, I’d say you have some real guts to do what no other teacher’s probably ever done before.”

“Well, thank you,” Jenna began, calming again. Thatcher raised his hand again. “However, you should know that your actions are not without risk. Your car needs all new tires and you’ve been threatened. You shouldn’t park at the far end of the parking lot anymore. And ask someone to walk out with you after school—especially if it’s dark outside.” He looked around at all the cars in the lot. “I’d better take you home. I don’t like the idea of you being here all alone when that crowd breaks at halftime. It could get ugly.”

Jenna looked down at the threatening note she still held gingerly by two fingers at the upper corner, as instructed. “It already has.” She looked up and her heart skipped a beat at the sincerely caring expression in his brown eyes.
Good God, Jenna,
she thought,
when your hormones wake up, they really wake up.
Her throat was suddenly as dry as soda crackers. “I, uh, I hate to keep you from your family.”

“My aunt is probably feeding them dinner as we speak and they’re used to my odd hours. I’ll be home before bath and bedtime for sure.”

Jenna drew a breath just as an angry roar came from the direction of the football field. “That didn’t sound too cheerful, did it?”

He shook his head. “No.” He came around the car and opened the door, taking her briefcase in one hand. He feigned a stagger and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “What are you carrying in here? Bricks?” He put her briefcase in the back-seat and pretended to stretch his back.

Jenna smirked as she got in the car. “Yes. I alone have discovered the secret for turning metal into gold bricks. I change a few folding chairs to gold every day in the hopes of early retirement.”

He was chuckling when he slid into his seat. “I wouldn’t say that too loud. The parents that don’t hate you for benching the QB will torment you for your secret.” He pulled his door shut with one hand and grabbed his cell phone in the other. “Let’s go report the damage to your car and get you home and out of those ridiculous shoes.” He winced. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

Jenna smiled over at him as she buckled her seat belt, comfortable in their banter. “You did. But you’re right.” She held three fingers in the air, Girl Scout style. “I from here on out promise to put comfort and safety ahead of high fashion.”

“My son would ask you to spit in your palm to seal such a serious covenant.”

Jenna raised a brow. “Brad?”

A shadow passed over his face. He put the Volvo wagon in gear and headed to the back corner of the parking lot. “No, not Brad.” And just that quickly, the crinkles were gone from the corners of his eyes, replaced by the lines of worry across his forehead.

Friday, September 30, 5:45
P.M.

Necessity truly was the mother of invention.

He stood in the middle of the empty room, viewing the bare walls in the dim glow of the electric lights. Probably not a candidate for a Martha Stewart prize, but it was solid, it had a roof, electricity, running water, and best of all, it was unoccupied. Besides, with a couple of Chinese lanterns, a little paint, a bit of cheery wallpaper, perhaps a throw pillow or two—hell, he could turn this barn into a real little home away from home.