Have You Seen Her?

by Karen Rose

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

One by one, the girls disappear from their beds at night. Each one is pretty, with long dark hair. And each one is found brutally murdered. Special Agent Steven Thatcher has sworn to find the killer. As the investigation pulls him one way, his family pulls him in another. A widower haunted by loss, he now worries about his son Brad slipping away. But there's a bright light in his life: his son's teacher, Jenna Marshall. But both have been hurt before. And as the two try to find the courage to bare their souls, a murderer looks for the real treasure he craves. He sets his traps. And waits.

Release date: September 3, 2007

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 512

Sample

PROLOGUE

Seattle, three years earlier

“I WISHED THEY’D FRIED HIS MURDERIN’ASS,” declared the first man bitterly, breaking the silence that had become explosive in its intensity.

Murmurs of heated agreement rippled through the small crowd that had gathered to watch the moving van being loaded. God only knew why they had. There really wasn’t anything to see. Sofas, chairs, antiques of all shapes and sizes. Vases that probably cost a year’s salary of an average workingman. A grand piano. Simply the belongings of an opulent family forced to flee the rage of an incensed community.

And the guards the family had hired to keep the crowds at bay. That was all.

The off-duty cop dressed in old jeans and a Seahawks sweatshirt wasn’t sure why he himself was there, standing in the cold Seattle drizzle. Perhaps to prove to himself that the murdering sonofabitch was really leaving town. Perhaps to get one last look at his face before he did.

Perhaps.

But more than likely it was to torture himself over the one who got away. The cruel, demonic, sadistic brute who got away. On a goddamn technicality.

There would be no justice for the grieving community, still in shock. Not today, anyway, he thought.

An elderly woman shook her plastic-rainhat-covered head as the movers loaded more boxes into the unmarked truck. “The chair wouldn’t have been good enough, not after what he did.”

Another old man squared his once-robust shoulders, staring at the darkened house with contempt. “Shoulda done to him what he done to those poor girls.”

His wife made a soft clucking sound in her throat from under the umbrella she held over them both. “But what decent person could they get to do it?”

“How about the girls’ fathers?” her husband returned, helpless fury making his voice tremble.

Again murmurs of agreement.

“What I can’t believe is that they just let him go,” a younger man wearing a Mariners baseball cap said in a bold, angry voice.

“On a technicality,” added the first man who had spoken, just as bitterly as before.

On a mistake. An error. A goddamn technicality.

“Cops arrest ’em, damn lawyers let ’em go,” said the man sharing the umbrella with his wife.

“Oh, no,” said the man in the Mariners cap. “This technicality was the fault of the police. It was all over the front page. The cops fucked up and this monster goes free.”

It was true. But he knew it wasn’t “cops.” It was only one cop.

“Richard,” shushed the younger woman at Baseball-cap’s side, grabbing his arm. “There’s no need to be vulgar.”

Richard Baseball-cap shook off the woman’s restraining hand. “He rapes and butchers four girls and I’m vulgar?” he declared in loud disbelief. “Don’t be an idiot, Sheila.”

Sheila looked down at the pavement, her cheeks crimson. “I’m sorry, Richard.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Richard muttered, looking up at the house. “It just pisses me off that rich people hire rich lawyers and get away with bloody murder.”

Agreement again passed through the group and the conversation turned to the inequities of the modern legal system until the movers loaded the last box and sealed the truck’s back doors. The truck pulled away to a cacophony of jeers and name-calling that did absolutely no real good at all, unless it made the crowd feel better. But how could it?

Then the small crowd hushed as one of the doors of the three-car garage slid open and a black Mercedes sedan emerged. No one said a word until the Mercedes was upon them, gliding by on the wet street. Then Richard Baseball-cap yelled, “Murderer!” and the cry was taken up by the others.

Except for the off-duty cop in old blue jeans and a now-soaked Seahawks sweatshirt who said not a word, even when the Mercedes rolled to a stop next to where he silently stood.

The crowd hushed again as the heavily tinted window rolled down, revealing the face that haunted his dreams, asleep and awake. Cold dark eyes narrowed, filled with unleashed fury. It was subhuman, the face and the eyes and the mouth that curved in a smug smile that he wanted to slice right off the subhuman face. Then the smug mouth spoke. “Go to hell, Davies,” it said.

It’s no less than I deserve. “I’ll meet you there,” Davies returned through clenched teeth.

The woman in the Mercedes’s front passenger seat murmured something and the subhuman raised the window. The engine gunned and the tires squealed against the wet asphalt as the Mercedes leapt forward, sending up a fine cloud of charred steam that burned his nose.

And off they go, Davies thought. Off to have a life. Unfair. Inequitable. A vicious, sadistic murderer robbed four teenaged girls of their lives and was set free to have a life of his own. For now.

Because soon enough the blood lust would rise up again and more girls would be at the murderer’s mercy. More girls would die, because the murdering sonofabitch had no mercy.

More girls would die. But the next time I’ll be ready. The next time there would be no technicality. The next time the murdering, sadistic monster would pay.

Neil Davies watched the Mercedes turn the corner at the end of the street and then it was out of view. Next time, he vowed to the four girls. To himself. I’ll get him. He’ll pay. I promise.

ONE

Present Day, Raleigh, North Carolina, Monday, September 26, 10:00 A.M.

THE FACT THAT HE’D SEEN MORE HORRIFIC SCENES over the course of his career should have made this one easier to mentally process.

Should have.

It didn’t.

Special Agent Steven Thatcher loosened his tie, but it didn’t do a thing to help the flow of air to his lungs. It didn’t do a thing to change what he’d found in the clearing after the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation received an anonymous tip leading them to this place.

It certainly didn’t do a thing to bring the poor dead woman back to life.

So Steven centered the knot of his tie right over the lump in his throat. He stepped forward carefully, earning him a glare from the rookie Forensics had sent because the rookie’s boss had picked the week they discovered a gruesome, brutal murder to take a cruise to the Caribbean.

Now, looking at the mangled corpse, heavily scavenged by whatever creatures lived in these woods, Steven couldn’t help wishing he were on a boat far from civilization, too.

“Watch your feet,” the rookie cautioned from his hands-and-knees position on the grass next to the body, irritation in his voice. Kent Thompson was reputed to be quite good, but Steven would hold his judgment. However, the fact Kent hadn’t thrown up yet was a stroke in his favor.

“Thank you for the lesson in crime-scene investigation,” Steven replied dryly and Kent’s cheeks went redder than chili peppers.

Kent sat back on his heels and looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m frustrated. I’ve checked this entire area three times. Whoever left her here didn’t leave anything else behind.”

“Maybe the ME will find something on the body,” Steven said.

Kent sighed. “What’s left of it.” He looked back at the corpse, clinical detachment on his face. But Steven also noted the flicker of controlled compassion in the young man’s eyes and was satisfied. Kent would do his job, but still remember the victim. Another stroke in the newbie’s favor.

“Sorry, Steven,” said a ragged voice behind him and Steven turned to find Agent Harry Grimes taking labored breaths as he slipped a handkerchief in his pocket. Harry’s face was pale, although the green tinge had passed along with the Egg McMuffin Harry had downed on his way to the scene.

New to the SBI, Harry had been assigned to Steven for training. Harry showed a lot of promise, except for his very weak stomach. But Steven couldn’t blame him too much. He might have lost his own breakfast had he taken the time to eat any. “It’s okay, Harry. It happens.”

“Have we found anything?” Harry asked.

“Not yet.” Steven crouched down next to the body, a pen in his gloved hand. “Nude, no ID or clothing anywhere around. There’s enough left of her to know she was female.”

“Adolescent female,” Kent added and Steven’s head shot up.

“What?”

“Adolescent female is my guess,” Kent said, pointing to the corpse’s torso. “Pierced navel.”

Harry’s gulp was audible. “How can you tell?”

Kent’s mouth quirked up. “You could see if you put your face a bit closer.”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry in a strangled voice. Steven balanced himself on the balls of his feet, still crouched. “Okay, an adolescent female. She’s been here at least a week. We’ll need to run a check through missing persons.” He gently rolled the body over and felt his heart skip a beat at the same time Harry cursed softly.

“What?” Kent asked, looking from Steven up to Harry and back at Steven. “What?”

A grimness settled over Steven and he pointed his pen at the remains of the young girl’s left buttock. “She had a tattoo.”

Kent leaned closer, then looked up, still squinting. “Looks like a peace symbol.”

Steven looked up at Harry who wore a look of the same grim acknowledgment. “Lorraine Rush,” Steven said and Harry nodded.

“Who was Lorraine Rush?” Kent asked.

“Lorraine was reported missing about two weeks ago,” Harry said quietly. “Her parents went in to wake her up for school and found her bed slept in but empty.”

“No evidence of forced entry,” Steven added, looking at the corpse with new concern. “We had to assume she’d run away. Her parents insisted she never would run, that she’d been kidnapped.”

“Parents always insist their kids would never run away,” Harry said. “You still don’t know that she didn’t and just met up with some rough character along the way.”

Steven could see in his mind’s eye the picture of Lorraine as she’d been, the smiling girl in the photograph on the Rushes’ fireplace mantel. “She was sixteen. A year younger than my oldest son.” Steven let his thoughts briefly linger on his troubled son who’d undergone such a radical change in personality in the last month. But that was another worry. He’d dwell on his very personal problem of Brad when he’d put Lorraine Rush out of his mind. Whenever that would be.

“Damn shame,” said Kent.

Steven pushed himself to his feet and stared down at what was left of what had once been a beautiful, vibrant young woman. Pushed back the primal rage at the monster who could take the life of another so brutally. “We’ll need to inform her parents.” He didn’t look forward to that task.

Breaking the tragic news of a loved one’s murder should have been easier after all these years.

Should have been.

It wasn’t.

TWO

Thursday, September 29, 8:55 A.M.

“HOW ARE YOU, STEVEN?”

Steven looked up to find his boss, Special Agent in Charge Lennie Farrell, looking down at him with that troubled expression that made Steven want to groan. When most people said how are you, they meant how are you? but when Lennie Farrell said how are you, it meant they were going to have a chat, which in Steven’s case would almost certainly include a discussion of “the incident” from six months before. Which Steven didn’t have the emotional energy to go through. Not now.

Not after yet another argument with seventeen-year-old Brad last night over his oldest son’s month-old attitude that gave “sullen teenager” new meaning. They’d fought, screamed at each other, and Steven still didn’t know why or who had won.

Not after yet another over-breakfast argument with his aunt Helen over the “nice young woman” she’d lined up for him to meet this weekend. Helen never understood that he was determined to remain a widower for the foreseeable future, at least until all his boys were grown.

Steven pressed his fingertips to his throbbing temple. And especially after trying to hug his youngest son before leaving the house and once again having seven-year-old Nicky push him away. Nicky and “the incident” were inextricably intertwined.

Steven would rather date one of Helen’s debutantes than talk about it again.

But Lennie’s expression said that’s what he’d come to talk about and although Steven had learned from experience that Lennie would not be deterred, he did know his boss could be distracted. So to his boss’s how are you, Steven replied, “About like you’d think after looking at pictures of a mutilated, animal-scavenged corpse.” He pushed the folder to the edge of his desk.

Lennie took the bait, flipping through the pictures of the body in the clearing, his seasoned cop’s face showing no sign of emotion. But he swallowed hard before closing the folder.

“And our suspects?” Lennie asked, his eyes still on the folder cover.

“Not many,” Steven said. “Lorraine Rush was a well-liked girl, a cheerleader at High Point High School. Sixteen, no boyfriends her parents knew about. Her friends are stunned.”

“And her teachers?”

“Nothing there either. We’ve checked her whereabouts every day for three weeks before she was reported missing and nothing stands out. Lorraine was a clean-cut all-American girl.”

“With a tattoo on her buttock,” Lennie said.

Steven shrugged. “She was a teenager, Lennie. They paint and pierce themselves, God knows why. In my day it was dyeing your hair green and sticking safety pins in your nose. We ran a tox screen on what was left and didn’t find any evidence of the usual teenage party scene.”

“So, in other words, no suspects,” Lennie said, frowning. “Nope.”

“And the Forensics report?”

“She was killed there in the clearing. Her blood was found soaked three inches into the soil.”

“It’s been so dry lately,” Lennie murmured. “The ground just drank her up.”

Steven eyed his half-drunk coffee with new distaste. “Yeah. Cause of death may have been stabbing, but the ME wouldn’t swear to it. There just wasn’t enough of her body left. She’d been there five days based on the larval state of the maggots that were busy eating what the animals left behind. She was probably raped, although the ME wouldn’t swear to that either.”

Lennie’s mouth tightened. “What will the ME swear to?” “That she’s dead.”

Lennie’s lip twitched. Once. Through all the horror, they had to find ways to lighten the stress. Humor normally sufficed, as long as they kept it to themselves. But the humor was a trapping, a cover that just hid the horror for a moment or two. Then it was there again, staring them in the face.

Steven sighed and opened the folder. “Kent also found what looks like a new tattoo on the Rush girl’s scalp. Whoever killed her shaved her bald and left his mark on her.”

Lennie bent down and squinted at the picture. “What is it?” “Not enough left to say. Kent’s investigating. Whoever shaved her head didn’t do it there in the clearing or if he did, he’s one meticulous sonofabitch. We picked at the grass with tweezers for two days and didn’t find a single hair. Nothing,” Steven added irritably.

It was Lennie’s turn to sigh. “Well, now you’ve got another place to look.”

Steven straightened in his chair. “What are you talking about, Lennie?”

Lennie pulled a folded sheet from his pocket. “We got a call from Sheriff Braden over in Pineville. His sister went in to wake his sixteen-year-old niece for school this morning and—”

Dread settled in the pit of Steven’s stomach. Two of them. Two meant the “s” word. Serial killer. “And the girl was gone,” he said woodenly.

“Bed slept in, no evidence of forced entry, window left unlocked.”

“Could be unrelated,” Steven said.

Lennie nodded soberly. “Pray they are. This one’s yours. I have to ask if you can handle it.”

Irritation bubbled and Steven let just a little of it show. “Of course I can, Lennie. I wish you’d just leave it the hell alone.”

Lennie shook his head. “I can’t, you know that. I don’t want one of my lead agents cracking in the middle of what could turn out to be a high-profile serial murder case. I also don’t want you to have to go through another case where children are stolen out of their beds.”

Like Nicky had been, six months before when a wife-beating, murdering cop took his littlest boy hostage to make Steven back down. Nicky was returned, physically unharmed, in large part due to the heroics of the cop’s abused wife, but his baby had not been the same. Gone was his infectious laughter, the way he’d hugged them for no reason at all. Nicky had allowed no hugs since that day six months ago. He hadn’t slept in his own bed, either, and he hadn’t slept through the night.

Steven knew this because he sure as hell hadn’t slept through the night either.

Lennie broke into his thoughts. “Steven, can you handle this or not?”

Steven looked at the picture of the mutilated body of Lorraine Rush and thought about the newest girl, missing from her bed. These girls deserved justice, above all else. He looked up at Lennie, his smile a mere baring of teeth. “Yes, Lennie. I can handle it.”

Lennie handed him the report, concern still evident in his eyes. “Her name is Samantha Eggleston. Her parents are waiting for your call.”

Thursday, September 29, 11:00 P.M.

Thunder rolled off to the east. Or was it west? It really didn’t matter, he thought, scratching the back of his neck with the flat of the blade. With his very sharp blade. He grinned to himself. One slip would be the end of him. He glanced down at the ground and raised a brow thoughtfully. One slip would be the end of her, too. But never stop with just one slip. Not when he’d gone to so much trouble. Every movement must be planned. And savored. He rolled up his left sleeve, then transferred the blade from one gloved hand to the other and methodically rolled up the right while she watched, her blue eyes wide and terrified.

Terrified was good. Just looking at her lying there tied, and scared—and nude—made his skin tingle with anticipation. She was completely under his control.

It was like . . . electricity. Pure electricity. And he’d made it. He’d created it. What a rush.

Rush. As in Lorraine Rush. No pun intended. Lorraine had been a good practice run. A good way to return to the game after so long on the sidelines. He’d forgotten just how damn good it felt.

This new one, she hadn’t made a sound yet. Well, she was wearing a thick strip of duct tape over her mouth to be perfectly fair. But he’d take the tape off eventually and she would. She’d try not to. She’d bite her lip and cry. But in the end she’d scream her head off. They always did. And it wouldn’t make one lousy bit of difference. That was one good thing about Hicksville. There were places you could go and scream bloody murder and nobody would ever hear a single word.

Another roll of thunder rattled the dry ground under his feet and this time he looked up to the night sky, totally annoyed. It could actually rain. How irritating was that? “The best laid plans,” he muttered, then had to grin as he punned once again. Laid. That was the operative word. One of ’em anyway. Then the wind changed and his grin faded. Of all the sonofabitch nights to rain.

He crossed his arms over his chest, holding the ten-inch blade out to one side, and frowned. He could just get it over with, but that seemed anticlimactic. He’d planned for quite a while to bag this little doll. She’d been so unsure. “I just don’t know,” she’d whispered into the phone, trying not to wake her parents and sound breathy at the same time. In his mind he mocked her maidenly refusals. If her parents only knew their little darling was a real little slut, meeting a stranger after they’d gone to sleep. No brainiac here. They’d raised a slut and an idiot.

He closed his eyes and brought the image of another to mind. He could see her face in his mind. So incredibly beautiful, so . . . pure. He’d have her someday. Soon. But until then...He looked down at the huddled form at his feet. Until then, this one would have to do.

Thunder rolled again. He needed to make up his mind. Either hurry up and finish before the rain closed in or pack her up and store her until the storm passed through. Either way he was taking a chance being out here in the rain. A hard rain would leave the ground soft. Soft ground left footprints and tire prints and cops were pretty good about tracking those kind of clues these days. Damn forensics. No matter. He was as smart as they were. Smarter.

Hell, a baboon was smarter than the cops. If he’d waited until the cops had discovered little Lorraine’s body on their own, there wouldn’t have been enough left of it to identify.

And he wanted little Lorraine’s body identified. He wanted everyone to know. To fear.

Fear me. Your daughters aren’t safe even in their own beds. Fear me.

He’d wait, he decided. He’d rushed the last one and it was over too fast. Like an amusement park ride you stand in line for two hours to ride and the damn ride only lasts three and a half minutes. He’d gone longer than three and a half minutes with the last one, for sure. But it was still over too fast. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. It had been his only mistake, he thought, rushing the grand finale. Everything else he’d done to perfection. Not a single thread of evidence left behind. No surprise there. He was thinking much more clearly now.

Carefully he sheathed his blade and slipped it under the front seat of his car, popping the trunk latch on his way back to where she lay, eyes still wide with terror.

“C’mon, sugar,” he drawled, scooping her up and tossing her over his shoulder. “Let’s go for a ride.” He dropped her in the trunk with a loud thud, then patted her bare butt fondly. She whimpered and he nodded. “Don’t worry, we’ll come back tomorrow. Until then, sit tight and entertain yourself. You could think about me,” he suggested brightly. “You do know who I am.” She shook her newly bald head hard, denying the inevitable, and he laughed. “Oh, come on, Samantha. You have to know who I am. Don’t you watch the news?” He leaned a little closer and whispered, “Don’t you have a good imagination?”

Her eyes shut tight, she pulled her nude body into a fetal position, shaking like a leaf. Two tears seeped from her eyes and slid down her cheeks.

He nodded again and slammed down the trunk. “Good girl. I guess you do.”

THREE

Friday, September 30, 12:30 P.M.

TWENTY-SEVEN DOWN, THREE TO GO. And Brad Thatcher’s would be one of the three.

You’re a coward, Jenna Marshall told herself. Afraid of a sheet of paper. Actually five sheets of paper stapled precisely in the upper left corner. Times the three students whose tests she’d yet to grade. She stared hard at the purple folder containing the ungraded organic chemistry tests.

You’re a coward and a procrastinator, she told herself, then sighed quietly. She looked across the scarred old table that dominated the faculty lounge, a wall of haphazardly stacked folders meeting her eye. Casey Ryan was back there somewhere, behind the folders, busily grading the junior English class’s thoughtful analyses of Dostoyevsky. Jenna shuddered. Poor kids. Not only did they have to read Crime and Punishment, but they had to write a theme on it, too. She rolled her eyes.

Get to work, Jen. Stop procrastinating and grade Brad’s test. She picked up her red pen, stared hard at the purple folder, thought about Brad Thatcher and the test he’d more than likely failed, then desperately looked around for anything else to do. The only other occupant of the faculty lounge was Lucas Bondioli, guidance counselor by day, pro golfer in his dreams. Lucas was intensely focused on sinking a putt into an overturned plastic cup. Lucas tended to become very unhappy when his putting was disturbed so Jenna turned her attention back to Casey.

Casey’s hand appeared over the top of the leaning stacks of folders and grabbed another theme paper, sending the stack swaying. Standing, Jenna grabbed the closest stack to avert certain disaster.

“Don’t even think about it,” Casey snapped, not even looking up from her grading.

“Dammit!” Lucas bit out.

“Just put them back and nobody gets hurt,” Casey continued, as if Lucas hadn’t spoken.

Jenna looked up in time to see Lucas’s putt go wide, winced, meekly put Casey’s folders back, and sat down. “Sorry, Lucas.”

“It’s okay,” Lucas responded glumly. “I wasn’t going to make it anyway.”

“What about me?” Casey demanded from behind the wall of folders.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” Jenna shot back. “I was just trying to bring some order into chaos.” She waved her hand at Casey’s leaning stacks. “You are a disorderly person.”

“And you are a procrastinator,” Lucas said mildly, sitting down next to Jenna.

Casey’s hand appeared to grab another theme. “Why are you procrastinating, Jen? That’s not like you.”

Lucas slid down in his chair. “Because she doesn’t want to grade Brad Thatcher’s chemistry test, because she knows he probably failed it, and she knows contacting his father about his sudden personality changes is the right thing to do, but she’s scared to call any more parents because Rudy Lutz’s father cussed her out on Wednesday”—he drew a deep breath— “for failing Rudy in remedial science and getting him suspended from the football team,” he finished. And exhaled.

Jenna looked at him in annoyed admiration. “How do you do that?”

Lucas grinned. “I have a wife and four daughters. If I don’t talk fast, I’d never get anything out.”

Casey’s chair scraped against the tile floor and her blond head poked up from behind the paper wall. Five feet tall on her tiptoes, she was only visible from the chin up. “Brad Thatcher failed his chemistry test?” Her brows scrunched, making her look like a profoundly perplexed disembodied elf. “Are we talking about the Brad Thatcher, Wonderboy?”

Jenna looked down at the purple folder, sobering. “Yes, only he’s not the same Brad. Not anymore. He got a D on his last test. I’m afraid to grade this one.”

“Jenna.” Lucas shook his head, taking on the quiet, thoughtful persona that made him a wonderful mentor to new teachers like herself. “Just do it. Then we’ll talk about what to do next.”

So Jenna grasped her red pen firmly, opened the purple folder, and found Brad’s test at the bottom of the thin pile. Her heart sank as she marked an “x” next to every question, feeling hopelessness mount with each one. Brad had been her most promising student. Bright, articulate, a veritable shoo-in for a prestigious scholarship sponsored by a group of Raleigh companies. He’d all but thrown that opportunity away. One more test like this and he’d fail her class, jeopardizing his chances at admission to the top colleges he’d chosen. And she had no idea why. With another sigh she wrote F on the first page, top and center. She looked up to find Lucas and Casey quietly waiting.

“I didn’t think I’d ever put an F on anything Brad Thatcher did,” Jenna said, putting down her pen. “What’s happened to him, Lucas?”

Lucas picked up Brad’s test and flipped through the pages, her concern mirrored in his dark eyes. “I don’t know, Jen. Sometimes kids have problems with girlfriends. Sometimes their problems are at home. But you’re right. I never would have expected Brad to change like this.”

“You think he’s into drugs?” Casey asked soberly, voicing their collective fear.

“We all know it can happen to kids from good homes,” Jenna answered, slipping Brad’s test back into the purple folder. “I guess I need to call his father, but I’m not looking forward to it, not after breaking the news to Rudy Lutz’s dad that his son flunked his last test and is on the bench until he pulls up his grade.”

Casey came around the table and half sat against the edge closest to Jenna’s chair. “Mr. Lutz let you have it, huh?”

Jenna felt her gut churn just remembering. “I learned some new words during that phone call.” She managed a weak grin. “It was certainly educational. I just feel so helpless with Brad, watching him throw his life away like this. There’s got to be something I can do.”

Casey’s eyes narrowed. Quick as a flash her small hand shot out and grabbed Jenna’s chin. “There is. You call his parents, offer your support, then you step back, Jen. You aren’t the savior of the world. He’s not one of your pound puppies you can save from the needle. He’s a high school senior with enough brains to make his own choices. There’s nothing you can do to force him to make the right ones. That’s just a cold reality of life. Understand?”

Casey had always assumed the role of Jenna’s protector, ever since their college days at Duke. It was really quite comical as Jenna towered over Casey’s petite frame. Mutt and Jeff they’d been called in college and it was a fair description. Jenna tall and dark, Casey small and blond. Casey, the perennial cheerleader and social butterfly; Jenna, much more quiet and reserved. Now, pushing thirty, Casey still played the mama tiger to perfection. Jenna had long since given up trying to dissuade her from it. “Yes, ma’am. You can let go now.”

Casey let go, still eyeing her uncertainly. “Let me know how the talk goes with his parents.”

Jenna found her list of students’ parent or guardian contacts. “Brad only has a father.”

“