Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

“I hear she used to be a big deal at James Monroe High,” the BlackBerry girl said, eyes still riveted to her apparatus. “But she moved here, because her mother died. Now she’s living with her father and her stepmother. I guess her old lady got really drunk one night and killed herself—”

“Suicide?” the redhead asked, looking at her friend’s reflection in the mirror.

“No, she passed out and hit her head on the toilet or a table or something. Like I say, she was a drunk. She bled to death.”

“If I had a dipshit daughter like that, I’d drink, too.”

The one with the BlackBerry laughed.

“You guys!” the girl on her cell phone said. “We’re going to be late for Lawson’s class. Remember last time?”

“Oh, shit!” the redhead said, throwing the lip gloss tube into her purse. She started giggling, and so did her friends. The three of them hurried out of the bathroom, their laughter echoing off the tiled walls.

The woman stood there for a moment. The tall redhead had merely glanced at her, and the other two hadn’t even bothered to look up from their gadgets. Kids with cell phones and BlackBerries had a way of not noticing things around them.

Obviously, they hadn’t seen under the far stall door, the feet of another girl — and she was wearing a pair of green Converse All Star high-tops.

The woman heard her muffled sobbing.

She knew who was on the other side of that stall door — a slightly gawky-looking girl whose stepmother didn’t let her get away with anything.

Madison Garvey’s onetime counselor, Mr. Corson, would have been happy to know — as miserable as she felt right now — Kay’s daughter was on her way to becoming a better person.

“Stop. . just a sec. . stop it,” she whispered, pushing him away. “Did you hear that?

“Hear what?” Rob Sessions asked. The handsome, blond-haired eighteen-year-old stopped nibbling on her ear for a minute. He was practically on top of Sarah Manning. Tangled up in one corner of the couch in the Sessions’ family room, they had an old Seinfeld rerun on the big-screen, plasma TV.

This was Rob’s third date with the pretty brunette, whose breasts — he thought — could have been bigger. Then Sarah would have been a real knockout. Still, that Thursday night, three days before Halloween, he was discovering that Sarah was a good kisser. Damn good.

“Didn’t you hear the noise outside?” Sarah said, squirming out from beneath him. She grabbed the remote control and turned down the volume on the TV. “It was like somebody walking on gravel. Didn’t you hear it?”

Rob shook his head. But there was a small strip of gravel along the north side of the house — below the family-room windows. Rob squinted at the darkened windows and saw nothing. He listened for a few moments. “I don’t hear anything. Maybe it was the TV.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Now, where were we?”

He started to fondle her breasts over her blouse, and Sarah didn’t protest or push his hands away. This was a very good sign. Rob was beginning to wish he’d sent his best friend, Luke, home — instead of out to score some beer and pot. Rob realized he had a pretty good chance of getting laid tonight. And Luke would be back any minute now, damn it.

He figured once his pal returned with the brew and the bong-feed, he’d allow him a few hits, and then give him his walking papers. Luke was a good buddy. He’d understand. Opportunities like Sarah didn’t come along every day.

Rob’s parents had left two days ago for Phoenix to visit his older sister, Cathy, and her husband, Mike. That left Rob alone in the house for a week, and he intended to make the most of it.

Last night, Luke and two other friends had come over. They’d all eaten McDonald’s and drank Thunderbird while watching porn on the big TV. Tomorrow night, Rob was thinking of having a bunch of friends over. In fact, word was out all over Federal Way High School: Party at Rob Sessions’ house on Laurel Lane.

Maybe that explained why the DEAD END sign at the start of the cul-de-sac had gone missing this morning. Somebody was playing a joke. Just two weeks ago, Rachel Porter, one of the most popular girls in their class, claimed someone had stolen the NO OUTLET sign at the end of Larkdale Court, where she lived. It turned out Jim Hall and some of his buddies from the football team had swiped the sign as a gag.

Sarah had noticed the missing sign when Rob had turned down Laurel Lane in his dad’s BMW on their way here tonight. She’d freaked out a little. But Rob had assured her that someone was just probably playing a gag. Besides, together, he and Luke could take on this Cul-de-sac Killer nut job.

Obviously, Sarah wasn’t totally reassured, and every little noise outside threw her into a panic. Rob didn’t mind her being a little scared and vulnerable, except when it put a crimp in the make-out proceedings.

“Everything’s fine,” he whispered between soft kisses on her neck. He’d read somewhere once that it was a woman’s erogenous zone. “Just chill out and relax. . ” He started to unbutton her blouse.

That was when he heard the noise, too — gravel crunching underfoot. Someone was just on the other side of the windows. “Shit,” Rob said, pulling away from her. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes.” She sat up. “See? I’m not crazy.”

Rob gazed over toward the darkened windows. Again, he didn’t see anything. But he heard the footsteps retreating. Someone was creeping around out there.

Sarah squeezed his hand. “What is that?”

Biting his lip, he reached over and turned off the lamp on the end table so he could get a better look outside. Sarah wouldn’t let go of his hand as he climbed off the sofa. He moved toward the windows — with her hovering behind him. He saw their reflection in the dark glass, and they both looked so scared. Rob studied the bushes alongside the house. They swayed a little with the breeze. “Nobody’s out there,” he told her — and himself, too. His mouth was suddenly dry. He reached up and made sure both windows were locked.

Rob wondered if Luke or one of his buddies from last night was trying to punk him or something. “I bet you anything it’s a gag,” he mumbled. “Luke’s screwing around with us.”

“What do you mean?” She followed him as he headed back for the coffee table, where he’d left his cell phone.

“Check this out,” he said. His hand was a bit shaky as he speed-dialed Luke. If his pal was right outside, Rob would hear the phone go off. Luke’s ringer was the first few bars of Beethoven’s Fifth. Rob crept toward the window again, waiting to hear that ominous tune on the other side of the glass.

But it was dead quiet.

“What are you doing?” Sarah asked. “Are you calling the police?”

Luke’s voice mail clicked on: “Yo, it’s Luke. You know what to do. Talk to you later!”

Rob waited for the beep. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Where are you? Why am I talking to your stupid machine? Call me back, okay?” He clicked off.

Frowning, he turned to Sarah. “That’s weird, Luke’s not picking up.”

She was shaking her head. “I don’t like this. You should call the police. . ”

“Are you nuts?” he asked. “Just because Luke isn’t answering his cell phone?”

“Because the dead end sign at the end of your cul-de-sac is missing!” she said, edgily. “And because we heard someone outside. Those are both pretty damn good reasons for calling the cops.” She glanced toward the windows, and nervously rubbed her arms. “I just want to go home — only not now. What’s going on out there? I swear to God, Rob, if this is some sort of setup to scare me, I’m going to be so pissed off at you.”