Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

“Well, I guess he scheduled me today because he knew his wife would be busy with some block-party meeting or something,” Tara replied. “He wants to see me again on Thursday at one.”

“That’s it?” the woman asked.

There was a silence on the other side of the stall door, and then she heard Tara snorting. According to Tara’s earlier descriptions of her sessions with Jeremy Hahn, the two of them did quite a lot of coke up in that room. She couldn’t believe the girl wanted yet another hit of the stuff. She listened to her snorting again — and then, a long sigh.

“He bought us a bottle of champagne from room service,” Tara finally said. “It cost like two hundred and fifty bucks. I saw the bill, and asked how he could afford it. He said he was charging his company. Isn’t that funny? I wouldn’t be surprised if he puts me on the company expense account, too. Some of these executive pricks think they can get away with just about anything. . ”

In her head, the woman listed the possible charges against Jeremy Hahn : Statutory rape, supplying drugs and liquor to a minor, solicitation, possession of drugs and illegal pornography, and now corporate theft.

“Y’know, I was thinking,” Tara said, “I don’t really understand how you’re friends with his wife, and why you’re keeping tabs on him. I mean, I remember you saying they had an open marriage, but still. .” There was a click, and the stall door opened. Tara was face-to-face with the woman. Her head cocked to one side, Tara stared at her inquisitively. For a moment, she looked eleven years old. “Anyway, I just don’t get it. . ”

The woman in the trench coat smiled. “His wife just wants to make sure he doesn’t get himself into too much trouble,” she explained. “And besides, dear, you don’t have to ‘get it.’ Just call me whenever he schedules you for a session. See you on Thursday.”

She gently pinched the girl on the cheek, and then headed out of the women’s room.

The three murdered teenagers from Federal Way — that was all everyone talked, Twittered, and texted about at school that Monday after Halloween. As he walked down the crowded hallway toward his locker, Chris overheard people chattering. Apparently, a lot of kids from James Monroe High knew Rob Sessions, Sarah Manning, and Luke Brosco.

During first period, they’d announced over the intercom that any students who wanted to attend a group counseling session led by Mr. Munson in the auditorium during sixth period had to sign up by lunchtime in order to be excused from class. Touchy-feely Munson was slated to talk about grief, loss, fear — and how to cope.

Chris didn’t sign up. He didn’t know any of the kids who were murdered.

Courtney started texting and Twittering about it late Friday night, when people first found out about the latest cul-de-sac killings:

I’m pretty sure I met the 3 kids who were murdered. I went to a lot of parties w/that crowd from Federal Way last year. It’s a scary time 4 us people who live on cul-de-sacs!

Just a few minutes ago, as the school day ended, Courtney was really milking the situation with her latest and extremely lengthy Facebook status update:

When I think of my friends Rob, Sarah & Luke, I just want to cry. Munson’s meeting was no help at all, a waste of time. Some of us living on cul-de-sacs are really scared. My dad mentioned over the weekend that he’s thinking of moving us to a hotel until this killer is caught. But we’re sticking it out at home. If we moved or changed our lives around, then the CDS Killer would win.

It was funny about Courtney. She didn’t seem to realize what a major phony she was. Chris remembered all her postings on Facebook and all the texts she’d sent when her “best friend forever” Madison was burying her mother. But once Madison moved in with her dad and her much-loathed stepmother, Courtney saw a lot less of her. And Madison’s dad didn’t live all that far away, either. By the time Madison started senior year at Roosevelt High School in another part of town, Courtney already had a new “best friend forever,” Cindy McBride, whom Chris couldn’t stand.

Of course, why should he have been surprised? Courtney had gotten over him pretty fast, too.

Yet he still had a thing for Courtney, maybe because she was so beautiful — and insecure. She’d admitted to him once that by the time she’d turned thirteen her dad seemed to lose all interest in her. “He used to make me feel so special,” she’d said. “I was his little girl. Now that I’m older, I feel like I’m turning into my mother, and he hates her.”

Chris couldn’t fathom what that was like. As screwed up as his parents were, at least he felt loved.

He walked around a couple who were making out by his locker and then he stopped dead. The combination lock was gone. Chris glanced at the number again: 216 . It was his locker, all right. “What the hell?” he murmured. He squinted at some fresh dents and silver scratches near the handle, where the combination lock had been. Someone had knocked it off.

Chris carefully opened the locker door, not sure what to expect. Everything appeared just as he’d left it before last period. His school jacket hung from the hook. His backpack was stashed at the bottom of the locker, and on the upper shelf were his books.

He glanced around the corridor to see if anyone was watching him. Maybe the culprit was still around. The couple making out by his locker had moved on, and the crowd of students had thinned out. But there were still some stragglers by their lockers.

Chris pulled his backpack out and rifled through it. Nothing seemed to be missing. He wondered if maybe the cops had gotten a bad tip, and they’d broken off his lock to search his locker for drugs or something like that. But wouldn’t they have told him?

“This sucks,” he muttered. Now he’d have to clear out his locker if he didn’t want anything stolen tonight. He stuffed the books in his backpack. Then, as he put on his jacket, Chris felt something in the inside breast pocket.

With two fingers, he fished out a folded-up piece of spiral notebook paper. He unfolded it. In an almost childlike handwriting, someone had written a brief, cryptic message:

Ask your stepmother about Tina Gargullo and Nick Sorenson.

Baffled, Chris stared at the note in his hand. He slowly shook his head.

Then something else caught his eye. It was along the red, ribbed cuff of his school jacket.

Someone had cut out a perfect, small square of the material.

Most of the Google results for Nick Sorenson were articles about a Cleveland Browns defense back, Nick Sorensen. It wasn’t even the same spelling. There was another Nick Sorenson from Des Moines, Iowa, on Facebook. He had 231 friends, and neither Molly nor this Tina Gargullo person was listed.

With a sigh, Chris glanced up from the computer screen. Only a few other students were still in the school library at this hour, most of them using the computers. There was a row of monitors and keyboards on a long table by the big windows. Outside, it had started to get dark already — a typical autumn afternoon.

He wondered who had written that weird note about Molly. The only person he could think of was Courtney. She never had anything nice to say about his stepmother, but she was always pretty open about it. Why would she break into his locker to pass along this bizarre message? And why cut off part of the cuff to his jacket? Already one small thread had unraveled along the freshly cut edges.

He tried searching for Tina Gargullo on Google. But a message popped up along the top of the results. Google asked: Did you mean Tina Gargiulo?

He tried that for two pages, but it seemed like a dead end. Pretty soon, Chris was aimlessly staring out the window at the red, brown, and golden treetops. He was thinking of the other mysterious notes he’d gotten — over the summer, when he’d been a lifeguard at the Lake Forest Park Community Pool.