A shiver ran down her spine at the thought. What would prohibit him, the killer, from walking into a building like this and striking again?
Keep moving, she told herself. Moving and exploring.
She made her way to the main staircase and descended.
Downstairs was a warren of a basement where, she knew, some of the theology, psychology, and religion classes were taught. She snapped on lights as she looked into the rooms with their egress windows, whiteboards, overhead projectors, and flickering fluorescent fixtures.
Nothing sinister or suspicious.
At the end of the hall was a set of restrooms and a locked door marked CUSTODIAN, which she assumed was a janitor’s closet or furnace room. She felt a jab of disappointment that she’d discovered nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary, but then, if Blue Rock had dark secrets, they would be well buried.
Discovering a secondary, narrow staircase, she climbed and bypassed the first floor, heading to a choir loft situated high above the nave. This elevated position offered an eagle’s-eye view of the rows of pews below and, through the soaring windows divided by a massive crucifix, a wide panorama of the campus. As she turned around, noticing windows on all four sides of the loft, she realized every portion of the campus could be observed. Lake Superstition and the women’s dorm were visible, as were the cluster of main buildings, the gazebo, and the cafeteria, even the road leading to the stable and garages. Nearly three hundred sixty degrees. This place was like some kind of sacred watchtower.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” a deep male voice whispered from the shadows.
Jules gasped. Her heart clutched. She nearly tripped as she spun around.
Tobias Lynch stood at the edge of the loft, leaning against a bookcase.
She pressed a hand to her chest, as if that would still her pounding heart. Had he been here all along? Standing alone in the dark? Watching over his beloved campus from the shadows?
“You should see it in the moonlight,” he said as he crossed the loft noiselessly. Suddenly he stood so close to her that she felt the warmth of his body. She had to fight her instinct to cringe away.
This was creepy. Jules wanted to step away, put some distance between them, but she held her ground.
“The view is spectacular under a full moon,” he went on. “The lake and grounds cast in silver. Such a glorious example of God’s work.”
“It is beautiful,” she admitted, trying to keep her voice even, despite her racing pulse. What was he doing here in the dark? “I went to your office and you weren’t there. I hadn’t been up here, so …”
“You checked things out.” Was there a trace of judgment in his tone? “I understand, and I didn’t mean to startle you. We’ve all been under an undue amount of stress.”
In shadow, his face seemed darker, the hollows of his eyes and lines of his face more defined, almost sinister.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind as well.” He touched her shoulder, and his fingers lingered a millisecond too long. “Such tragedy and loss. A waste. Even though I know we have to take solace in the fact that Nona is with God now, it’s difficult to let go of her, bright star that she was.” He checked his watch, the illuminated dial glowing blue. “I see that I’ve kept you waiting. My apologies.” He motioned toward the main, open staircase that wound downward behind the altar.
She hurried down to the main level, his even footsteps behind her. He unlocked his office, chatting about the reasons why he kept this second office here in the chapel. All the while, she wondered if he’d been in the loft alone or if he’d followed her. Had her exploration been caught on a security camera and he’d been warned that she was poking around the building, or was it all just coincidence? Not that it really mattered, at least not this time.
“Come in, come in,” Lynch said, holding the door open for her and reaching inside the doorway to hit a switch. A desk lamp suddenly cast golden light into the small room with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a small brick fireplace, wide desk, and credenza. Upon the desk were several files, one open enough that she caught a glimpse of a picture of Cooper Trent, another labeled FARENTINO, JULIA.
Her heart jolted.
Why was Lynch looking into Trent’s file? And hers? Had he noticed that her maiden name was Delaney, which was the same last name of Shay’s mother? No, no … Delaney was a common name, and she doubted that the parent application would have asked for maiden names. Maybe he’d connected her to her cousin Analise …
So many worries. Jules knew that, with a little digging, he could find the truth, and her lie that she wasn’t related to anyone connected to Blue Rock would be exposed.
It’s nothing. Just a coincidence. He has no idea you’re involved.
He waved her into a rocker tucked into a corner, then quickly slipped both files into a cabinet behind his desk. Before he settled into his leather chair, he lit the fire, turning on a gas jet that ignited the kindling and logs stacked in the grate. “There we go.” Once the fire was crackling to his satisfaction, he turned off the gas and slid into his chair. “Sorry … organization is one of my strong points, but it’s been difficult keeping up with the recent turn of events here.”
He did seem a little flustered. Off.
“I wanted to talk to you alone, to personally welcome you to the staff, to assure you that we’re all a team and you can feel free to ask me any questions.”
“So you said,” she reminded him.
“I know. Last evening at my home.” Meaning: with my wife around. “But I wanted to share something personal with you.”
Warning bells went off in Jules’s head. He leaned back in his chair and stroked his soul patch with a finger. A sensual, thoughtful gesture.
She forced herself to remain seated.
In brief, he shared his testimony, explaining how once he’d been on “the wrong path,” when his negligent actions had put him and two others in the hospital. He’d been unconscious when his Lord and savior had come to him, told him that this time he’d spare Tobias and his friends, but from that point forward, he was to spread the word of God.
And he had listened to the Lord, he told her soberly. His friends survived, though one had been confined to a wheelchair, and Tobias Lynch had turned his life around, accepting God into his life and dedicating himself to doing his will. It was his hope that this school, Blue Rock Academy, would survive him as an institution dedicated to helping troubled youth reclaim their lives.
“The purpose of this school—the academy’s mission—is a wonderful thing,” Jules said with forced conviction, and a part of her wanted to believe him. He seemed sincere. Even troubled. She looked down at her lap, thinking, The mission is good; the way you carry it out is what’s questionable.
“But? Do I detect a note of reticence?” He had a knack for reading between the lines. “You’ve been asking questions about Maris Howell.”
So Charla had already gotten to him. Word traveled fast.
“I’m taking over her classes. It’s natural to want more information.”
“Julia,” he said softly, his voice like an arctic chill against her skin. “It’s more than that, isn’t it?”
She felt like a trapped butterfly, alive and being pinned to a Peg-Board for observation. “Yes …,” she said slowly, thinking fast. “I wanted a better sense of what went on, who was affected. I want to be sensitive to the students’ needs. I couldn’t walk blindly into a situation where students had been hurt in some way.”
He was watching her carefully, his hands tented under his chin. “That’s rather insightful, but next time, come to me. Talk to me in person. We don’t want to stir up ill feelings on campus, do we?”
She nodded and he rose, signifying the meeting was over. “I hope you share our dedication and vision,” he said.
“I’m all about helping kids,” she said, which was the truth.
“Good, good. That’s what I want to hear.” Rounding the desk, he clasped her hand in both of his. “I’m just so
rry that you had to come amid this trying time. But we will get through it with God’s help.” He gave her hands a squeeze. “Welcome, Julia Farentino.” His smile was wide, almost knowing.
Warnings sizzled through her brain, hairs lifting on the back of her arms. She forced a smile and somehow kept up the lie. “I can’t wait to get to work,” she said as he finally released her hand. “Say hello to your wife.”
“My wife,” he said under his breath, as if Cora Sue were the furthest thing from his mind. “I will, yes.”
Jules thanked him for the opportunity to work with these students and slipped on her coat, all the while wondering what it was about him that set her nerves on edge.
As Jules left the building, she thought of the files she’d seen him slip into his credenza. Were they duplicates of the files Charla King kept in the admin building, or something more? It would be a waste of time to maintain duplicates. No, she suspected that Tobias Lynch kept his own files on every staff member, unofficial files that ignored the ethics of most human resources departments.
Out in the gathering snow, she kept her eyes on the path and moved quickly from one pool of lamplight to the next. She knew Lynch was watching her from the window; she had seen his silhouette.
A man of God?
Of true faith?
Jules wondered.
CHAPTER 27
Warming the back of his legs on the fire, Trent sipped coffee reheated from yesterday’s pot and turned Nona’s murder over in his mind. He’d tried and failed to connect Nona’s homicide to Lauren Conway’s disappearance, but somehow, he was certain, the two mysteries were linked.
He’d spent hours going over everything he’d learned about the events leading up to Nona’s fateful trip to the stable. He figured she’d worn Shaylee’s cap, probably just as she had on the night he’d discovered the filly caught outside. The way he saw it, the yearling had slipped out when Nona and Andrew had sneaked into the stables for a quick hookup. Then, later, Trent had stumbled upon them as they were leaving.
At the moment, he was going with the theory that Shaylee Stillman’s hat had been part of Nona’s disguise. He figured Nona had “borrowed” the cap, just in case any cameras had been rolling or in case anyone in authority caught a glimpse of her. In bulky sweatshirts, school-issued jackets, and jeans, the only identifying piece of clothing would have been the hat.
Too bad it had been left in the hayloft, and Shaylee Stillman had to take the heat.
Draining the cup, Trent thought about the two kids and the conversation he’d overheard that night. He remembered the girl being in a near panic and the boy trying to calm her down, promising to keep her safe. If it had been Drew and Nona, then he’d let her down. Big-time.
What was it she’d said?
This is getting out of hand…. I mean … when I agreed to this, to be a part of it, I thought it would be fun, a thrill, and I believed in him.
The more he considered it, the more he was certain the voice had belonged to Nona.
I believed in him.
Who? Who did she believe in?
A man. Trent didn’t think she was talking about God or Christ in the same sentence as “fun” and “a thrill.” He considered Reverend Lynch, but again, it didn’t fit. He couldn’t see anyone thinking the somber, self-important, Godfearing Lynch was fun. Or thrilling.
Puzzled, he poured himself the last of the coffee, heated it in his microwave, and, as the cup warmed, tossed the old grounds out.
Right now, Trent was going with the theory that there was a third person in the loft, one who, for whatever reason, killed Nona after getting his jollies watching the kids make love. Then somehow, he’d strung Nona up in some kind of statement.
To make it appear a suicide?
Or for theatrical effect?
It would have been so much easier just to leave her strangled body in the hay, instead of rigging a noose, looping it over the rafters, and hoisting her body up.
Unless that was what got him off.
Some kind of sick torture.
But only the girl. Drew had been hit over the head and tossed through the ladder’s hole.
The microwave dinged, and he picked up the cup gingerly. Staring out the window to the storm, still raging, still dumping more snow, he thought of the information he’d gotten from the sheriff’s department and sipped the bitter blend.
Detective Baines had informed him that Nona didn’t have defensive wounds, though the coroner had found skin cells under her nails. They were waiting to see if the cells matched Andrew Prescott’s DNA—a possibility, since the two were naked and entangled. But that analysis would take some time. There was still trace evidence being studied, fingerprints to be matched, but nothing firm yet.
And meanwhile, this whole community was trapped here, trapped and scared.
He took a final swallow from his cup, then tossed the remainder down the sink. Now that he was a damned deputy, he’d better get to work and find out what really happened in the hayloft.
For once, Jules awoke from a dreamless sleep. Thankfully she’d been exhausted enough to keep the nightmares at bay, and her headache had receded, no longer pounding.
“Clean living,” she whispered to herself before taking a quick, hot shower, then changing into thermal underwear, jeans, a sweater, and a thick, insulated parka.
She was reaching for the handle of her door when she caught sight of a small piece of white paper near the threshold, a page that hadn’t been there earlier.
She picked up the single sheet and turned it over.
HELP ME!
The frantic message was scrawled at an angle in black ink.
She nearly dropped the page.
“What the devil?” Was this some kind of a joke? A prank the kids pulled on the new teacher? Or something else? Hadn’t she felt as if someone had been in her room the other night? Possibly standing over her and watching her as she slept.
Her skin crawled as she threw open the door and stepped into the outer hallway.
Empty.
The two other doors on the floor shut tight. Who had left the desperate plea?
Shay.
Of course.
But it wasn’t her sister’s style to be so coy.
Tucking the bit of notebook paper into her pocket, she hurried down the flight of stairs, looking for anyone who might have slipped the page under the door. So you got a note, so what? She tried to make light of the situation, but because of the murder, she couldn’t.
She climbed down the stairs and came across no one.
At this hour, Stanton House was quiet.
She checked the main level, where a few couches, tables, and lamps created a seating area, but again, she was alone, the only sounds in the house the soft purr of a hidden furnace forcing warm air through the building and the quiet tick of an old clock mounted on the wall.
For now, there was no telling who had left the note or whether it was a serious plea or some kind of prank.
Get over yourself!
Yanking on her gloves, Jules made her way outside, where the night wind howled as it battered the campus, dumping snow, churning the dark waters of Lake Superstition.
Pulling the hood of her jacket tight against her face, she muttered, “Just another day in paradise,” and trudged through a new layer of snow to the stable. The pathway was covered with six inches of the white stuff, and the drive, where some of the school’s vehicles were parked, hadn’t yet been plowed.
So much for the Arcadian, sun-dappled shoreline and serene Alpine vista that she’d seen on the Web site. Even the winter photographs had been of kids sledding or snowshoeing in a wintry but sunny forest. There had been shots of the interior of the rec center, the panes of glass frosted, students gathered around a cozy fire burning in the grate. Another photograph had showed a twenty-foot Christmas tree glowing with hundreds of tiny lights as students in stocking caps gathered, hymnals in hand.
Like angels … Oh, sure.
Jules shi
vered.
There were no warm and fuzzy photo ops today, not with the windchill factor driving the temperature into the teens and the pall of a student’s gruesome death hanging over the school.
Wind whistled around the door as she stepped into the stable. The interior was warm with incandescent lighting and the smells of horses and fresh straw, a haven from the outside world.
Curious, the horses peered over the gates to their stalls. With dark, liquid eyes, flickering ears, and snorts of disapproval, the animals appraised her. She walked along the aisle, petting muzzles, feeling hot breath on her hands, a little wary just in case some of the animals weren’t as friendly as they seemed.
Then she saw it. The rust-colored stain on the floor below the ladder to the hayloft. Someone had tried to clean it up, but the stain seemed indelible. Covered by stray wisps of hay, the evidence of Andrew Prescott’s fall caused her to stop dead in her tracks.
There must have been so much blood….
She stepped backward, shivering.
Scraaape.
What was that?
The sound of leather against wood.
She wasn’t alone!
Heart hammering, she backed up, ramming into a post just as scuffed cowboy boots and long, jean-clad legs appeared on the ladder. “Someone here?” Trent called, just as he hopped to the floor, his boots avoiding the stain. He saw Jules and one side of his mouth lifted. “Lookin’ for me?” he asked, a bit of humor glinting in his brown eyes. He was still unshaven, his mouth a razor-thin line, his deep-set eyes cutting right to her soul.
“Definitely not looking for you to scare the hell out of me,” she said, hand over her heart.
“But you were looking for me.” A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, and the corners of the stable seemed to grow closer. Tighter. The atmosphere suddenly thick.
“You tell me.”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “What’s the fun in that?”
She grinned, not able to believe him. “Wait a second, Cowboy. Are you flirting with me?” she asked, secretly pleased, even though the entire situation was surreal, considering the circumstances.