Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

So Molly sat in the family room with the TV on. She kept expecting to see someone through the glass doors, lurking at the edge of the forest in the back. Finally, she closed Angela’s ugly drapes, blocking the view entirely. She almost telephoned Henry down the block, but stuck it out until 12:25, when Chris finally came home.

Just having a semi-adult in the house made her feel safer — which was also kind of silly, because three of the killer’s victims were adult males. Still, Molly was able to relax a bit with Chris there.

He’d asked to use her car again this afternoon to hang out with Elvis, but she had to drive Erin to her ballet recital.

Molly still couldn’t find the damn MapQuest directions. She decided to go into Jeff’s computer, check the sites she’d last visited, pull up the page, and print it again — a solution she should have thought often minutes ago.

On her way to Jeff’s study, she ran into Chris coming down the stairs. His hair was carefully combed, and he wore a pair of pressed khakis, a crisp-looking blue shirt, and black loafers, shined and buffed. He carried a lightweight, dark jacket.

“Well, you look nice,” Molly commented. “I thought you were getting together with Elvis. You look more like you’re going out on a hot date.”

He frowned at her a bit. “No, we’re just hanging out, that’s all,” he muttered. At the front door, Chris threw on his jacket. “We — um, we might go to the art museum. I just didn’t want to look like a bum.”

“Can I drop you at Elvis’s? It’s on the way, and there’s still time before Erin’s Swan Lake stint.”

“It’s okay. I’m taking the bus downtown and meeting him.”

“Well, try to be back in time for dinner,” Molly said, patting his shoulder. “Your dad’s coming home, and I’m fixing lasagna. Tell Elvis he’s invited, too.”

Chris just nodded distractedly. “I’ll call and let you know. Bye.” Then he headed out the front door.

Molly glanced at her wristwatch. She still had to get dressed. “Erin, honey!” she called upstairs. “Just to let you know, we’re leaving in about twenty minutes!” Then she murmured to herself. “If I can ever track down how to get to this damn place. .”

She headed into Jeff’s study, sat down at his computer, and got online. She clicked on the browsing history arrow. She was about to scroll down to MapQuest.com Search Results when she noticed two sites listed near the top: King County Metro Online Trip Planner and Bonney-Watson Funeral Home, Seattle.

Molly shook her head. “Oh, that sneaky son of a. .”

She stood up and peered out the window. She could see Chris at the end of the cul-de-sac, near the NO OUTLET sign. Molly felt a little sad pang in her stomach as she watched him. His head down as he walked, Chris pulled a tie from his jacket pocket and started to fix it around his neck.

The bus was late.

Chris stood at the stop, by the pole with the route table listed on a small placard. It was a chilly, overcast afternoon, but he wore his sunglasses anyway. He hiked up the collar of his jacket, and then felt his tie knot again. He figured it was crooked, but he could always straighten it out when he got to the funeral home.

He wondered if he’d read the bus schedule wrong when he’d checked it online. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out the piece of scrap paper on which he’d written the bus numbers and pickup times. On the back of the scrap paper was a MapQuest printout to someplace in Mountlake Terrace. He turned it over and glanced at his notes. He had to make three transfers, and it would be a ninety-minute trip each way.

He wondered if attending this wake was such a good idea. He didn’t want to upset Mr. Corson’s family, and chances were good he’d upset them — big-time. But he had to make amends and apologize to someone.

He remembered trying to get ahold of Mr. Corson after he left school in December. But his guidance counselor, who had always been there for him, changed his cell phone number and e-mail address. Chris used to run the high school track alone late afternoons, hoping against hope that Mr. C would surprise him and show up. He knew it was a crazy notion.

Mr. Corson once mentioned he sometimes ran on the Burke-Gilman Trail along north Lake Union in Seattle. So for three nights in mid-February, Chris took two buses to the University Bridge and then strolled along the trail in search of Mr. Corson. He didn’t spot him until the fourth trip.

It was unseasonably warm, and the setting sun marked the sky with streaks of red, orange, and plum. The colors glistened off the lightly rippling water of Lake Union. The trail had a steady stream of people running, walking, and riding their bikes. Chris was momentarily distracted by a pretty blonde in a clingy black jogging suit, and he almost missed Mr. Corson — jogging a few feet behind her.

“Chris?” he said, slowing to a stop.

Chris gaped at him. He looked so different. He had a heavy five o’clock shadow, and his hair was longer. He appeared tired — and older, somehow. He wore a Huskies sweatshirt and black knee-length workout shorts.

“Um, hi, Mr. C,” Chris murmured.

Mr. Corson wiped the sweat from his brow. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to find you,” Chris admitted. “I–I feel awful about everything that happened.”

Mr. Corson nodded. “So do I, Chris.” Frowning, he glanced over at the sunset and then sighed. “The big difference is you’re still in school and you still have a future — and me, well, I doubt I’ll be able to get a job in any school again. That’s a done deal.”

Chris shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Mr. C,” he said meekly.

Mr. Corson nodded toward a nearby park bench that faced the water. “C’mon, I need to sit down and take a break anyway. I’m so out of shape lately, it’s not even funny.”

He lumbered toward the bench, and Chris walked alongside him. Mr. Corson brought his hand up toward Chris’s shoulder, but then he hesitated. Chris noticed him pull away slightly. They sat down — with a gap between them, big enough for another person.

“I don’t really blame you for anything, Chris,” Mr. Corson said, staring out at the water. “It’s just that Courtney Hahn and her pals made all those accusations about me on Facebook and Rate-a-teacher-dot-com. So many parents — especially the Willow Tree Court group — they got all stirred up, and it was over absolutely nothing.”

He leaned forward and ran a hand through his brown hair. “You know, there’s a big difference between folks who look out for the welfare of their kids, and the ones that spoil them rotten and let them get away with anything, simply because they’re their kids.” He let out a defeated laugh and shook his head. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is for teachers nowadays? We have to put up with kids texting and Twittering during class and then rating us online. We have these self-righteous parents calling us up and screaming at us about why their kid didn’t get a better grade or more time playing in a varsity game or more pages in the yearbook. Shit, I should be glad they fired me. I guess I’ll survive this. But your neighbors on Willow Tree Court and the ones like them, they’ll have to pay. They’ve raised a bunch of coddled, selfish brats who have an overblown sense of entitlement and absolutely no accountability. It’s going to bite them on the ass eventually. It reminds me of this saying my wife has: ‘Time wounds all heels.’ ”

Dumbfounded, Chris just stared at him. He wasn’t quite sure what Mr. Corson meant. He’d never seen him this upset and angry before. Did Mr. Corson consider him a selfish, coddled brat ?

It turned darker — and colder — in a matter of minutes. Chris shivered and rubbed his arms to fight off the chill. “Is there anything I can do — anybody I can talk to — that will help you get your job back?”