Gayle Wilson - The Suicide Club

“You may not know that you know.”

“I’ve thought a lot this week about what you said. I looked at every kid who came through my classroom and wondered. And after all that, the answer I came up with isn’t any different from the one I gave you on Tuesday. I don’t believe any of my kids was involved.” She turned to look at the ruin again. “I don’t believe any of them are capable of this kind of…I don’t know. Senseless destruction.”

Except Jace knew it hadn’t been. It had been premeditated and deliberate and very carefully thought out.

That wasn’t what the media had suggested with their spur-of-the-moment copycat theory. At that point he’d seen no reason to correct their impression.

He still didn’t. He had just wanted the people involved to be aware that as far as he was concerned, this wasn’t over.

“Maybe…Maybe they’re through with it,” she went on. “You said they were after the adrenaline rush, but maybe all the attention scared them away.”

“The only thing scaring them away is irregularly spaced patrols of all the other isolated churches in the area.”

“Then why don’t they go somewhere else? There are plenty of places in this part of the state—”

She stopped abruptly, making it obvious she’d made one of the connections he had hoped she would. He didn’t say anything, preferring to let her work it out herself.

She turned to look at him again, the perfect oval of her face revealed by the moonlight. “They have a curfew.”

“And somebody who waits up for them. Maybe even somebody who checks the mileage on the car they drive.”

“The fires are on the weekend because they aren’t allowed out on a school night,” she said, continuing to put it together. “That’s why you’re convinced they’re students.”

It wasn’t the only reason, but it appeared to be enough to make her buy in to the theory that the task force had devised. Once she did, he should be able to use her to get into the heads of her students.

Just as he’d used plenty of other people to succeed at what he did. He’d misled them. Tricked them. Any cop who said he’d never done those things was a liar. They all did them on occasion because it worked. And because it served the ends they sought. The right ends. Justice.

“They’re probably out there tonight,” he said. “Driving around. Thinking about what they could do instead of this.”

“They haven’t done anything since the last one.”

Seven weeks. Or rather seven weekends. They’d all waited, diligently patrolling any spot that was particularly vulnerable. And Lindsey was right. Nothing had happened.

“That doesn’t mean they’re through.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know about the rush. I know it’s addictive.”

“Is that what made you a detective? The rush?”

Maybe it had. Maybe that’s what had kept him at this job when any sane person would have moved on to something else. Anything else. Instead of doing that, he’d come here—a south Alabama county as alien to him as the face of the moon.

At least he was doing something constructive with his addiction, he thought, pulling his mind away from people and places he couldn’t bear to remember. All these punks were doing was destroying. And he knew in his gut, as strongly as he’d ever known anything, that whoever or whatever they were, they weren’t through with their destruction.

Ms. Sloan’s got a boyfriend.”

The comment came out of the blue during the last seconds before the tardy bell for second period. Lindsey looked up to see who’d made it, but half the class was sniggering.

The masculine half, she realized. And the voice that had made that announcement had definitely belonged to one of them.

“Ms. Sloan! Have you been keeping secrets from us?”

Renee Bingham was the prototype for the American cheerleader. Blond, blue-eyed, and slightly buxom, she was also enormously popular. And one of the nicest people Lindsey had ever known. No matter where someone ranked on the school’s rigidly established social ladder, Renee was friendly to them.

That same friendliness extended to her teachers, whom she was apt to treat with a familiarity that had nothing to do with disrespect. Since Lindsey was aware the girl’s taste in literature ran to supermarket celebrity magazines, she knew any gossip pertaining to a teacher’s love life would be irresistible.

She was grateful when the tardy bell sounded, bringing the last few stragglers to their desks as well as giving her an excuse to ignore Renee’s question. She opened her grade book, willing the telltale flush in her cheeks to subside.

“Paul Abbott.”

“Here.”

“Ms. Sloan, you aren’t just gonna call roll and not tell us.” Renee’s tone was indignant, as if an injustice had been done, to her and the class.

“Tell you what, Renee?”

“About your boyfriend.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend. And if I did, that would hardly be something I’d discuss with y’all.”

“He’s the new detective in the sheriff’s office. From somewhere up north.”

Lindsey was surprised that Steven Byrd had been the one to share that information. He seemed to have little use for the rumors that ran rampant in the high school—who was dating whom, which couple was breaking up, which was reconciling.

“When I first saw them together,” Steven continued, his eyes shining mischievously behind his glasses, just as they had when he’d seen her and Jace that morning in the office, “I thought Ms. Sloan was in trouble with the law. Lucky for her, that wasn’t what the detective was investigating.”

There was a masculine chorus of “ooohs” from the back of the room in response to his slightly suggestive statement. Lindsey could feel the color rising in her cheeks again.

“That’s enough.” Lindsey looked down at her grade book in an attempt to gather her composure. “Leslie Arnold.”

“Here. Is that the guy you were with at the game?”

“I sold tickets at the game,” she said evenly. “I wasn’t with anyone. And I’ll repeat for those of you who don’t seem to get it, my social life isn’t any concern of yours.”

By now she realized she’d bungled this. If she’d made a joke, said something clever, claimed to be smitten, they would have let it drop. Instead, she’d stupidly added fuel to the fire by trying to quash it. Then she’d fanned the flames by letting them see that she was embarrassed by their teasing.

“We’re just glad to know that at your age you can still get a date.” Roy McClain’s comment drew laughter, still good natured, despite her mishandling of the situation.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to rectify that mistake. These were her seniors. She’d taught most of them for the last two years. Their interest in her social life was misplaced, but after all that time together, it was also pretty natural.

“I’m delighted to have relieved your mind about that concern, Roy. You may now consider yourself free to worry about your own social life.” The laughter that greeted her response told her she’d struck the right note. Maybe one that could carry them safely into today’s lesson. “Can we now concentrate on Beowulf rather than me?”

“Is he cute?” Renee’s lips were slightly parted as she looked up at Lindsey from the front row, blue eyes rapt. And she wasn’t referring to the hero of the Anglo-Saxon epic.

“As a little ole bug,” Charlie Higginbotham drawled. Coming out of the mouth of the biggest defensive lineman on the football team, the phrase provoked more laughter.

“I don’t think cute is the right word.” Although Lindsey had pointedly looked down at Renee as she answered, there was another outbreak of catcalls from the guys. “But we’re not going to spend class time discussing what might be.”