Tall stalks whipped against Lindsey’s legs as she ran. Her ragged breath broke through the silence of the dark, isolated field. She put everything she had into maneuvering through the deep weeds. Her chest burned, but an icy dread kept her desperate to outrun the beam of light following her.
Exhausted, Lindsey paused and kneeled by a thicket of grass, hoping to remain out of sight. But then a flashlight locked on her position. She startled and stumbled backward, tripping over something.
Falling to the boggy ground, weeds slapped her face, and her leg scraped against a sharp object.
Son of a ...
Lindsey grabbed her leg but kept silent as a sting flared above her ankle. When she reached down, the spot was wet to the touch.
Blood. Crap. That will leave a trail.
She discovered the cause of her fall—a marker built of stone.
Lindsey had heard stories about the famous battlefield and the single marker left to remember the fallen soldiers.
“Where are you going to run, Lindsey?”
The nondescript, guttural voice seemed to surround her.
Lindsey hurried to get up while scouring the trees. She judged the distance it would take her to get lost in their shadows.
She surveyed the endless acres of grass. There was nowhere else to go.
A tickle raced across her neck, awakening an intense dread. The locket she kept close—the one containing pictures of her and Marjorie—had slipped off.
Not my locket!
She wanted to search the grass for the prized memento, but there was no time. The rays of the flashlight found her.
Lindsey summoned her courage, determined to lose her tormentor.
The hurried whoosh of trampled weeds drew closer.
Lindsey cursed. She took off, dashing for the trees, not looking back. She ran into pockets of thick mud and her legs tired as she struggled.
A ray of moonlight broke through the clouds. Lindsey examined the outline of the land. The grass thinned before the line of trees.
She kept going, and when she broached the trees, relief rolled through her.
Branches scratched her face. The sting they left brought tears to her eyes, but she pushed on.
Almost there.
The pine needles crunched beneath her feet, alerting her pursuer to where she was.
Then another sound rose in the air—churning water. The bend in the fast-moving Bayou Teche was ahead. She lunged for the end of the tree line.
Around her was more tall grass, and then ahead, piers poked out of the swirling waterway.
A structure appeared on her left. Rising against the dark sky, its craggy outline hinted at crumbled walls and a collapsed roof. A smokestack rose like a column into the night.
Lindsey ran, glimpsing trash piles and abandoned machinery around the site of the old sugar mill.
A darting orb of light swept past her.
She charged toward the river’s edge.
The piers got closer, and she spotted the remains of the old dock, its rotting planks poking out along the shoreline.
Lindsey closed in on the water, knowing she had no place else to go.
A light behind her danced along the water’s surface, heightening her fear.
The riverbank came up quickly. Lindsey paused on the edge, staring into the churning current at the river’s bend.
She looked back over her shoulder. “I’ll see you in hell.”
Lindsey dove into the swirling currents. The cold shocked her just as an undertow pulled her down. She fought to get to the surface. Panic ate up her oxygen as she kicked hard, but she wasn’t gaining any ground.
Darkness closed around her, engulfing Lindsey in blinding terror.
1.
The humid fall breeze drifted in the open window of Aubrey’s beat-up Accord, cooling her flushed skin. She gazed out at the grounds of Waverly Preparatory School, where majestic oaks provided shady havens for the students dressed in their blue and gray uniforms. She wiped her brow, anxious about her new job. Her memories of the private school were not the best. She hoped teaching the students turned out to be better than being one.
She got out of the car, making sure to lock her luggage inside. After the long trip from Baton Rouge, she welcomed the chance to stretch her legs. The sun beat down as she walked the path from the main parking lot. The occasional heavy-based thump of a song from somewhere on campus drifted by, along with the sweet succulence of magnolia trees. Students strolled across grassy patches, carrying book bags weighed down for a day of classes. In the distance, a faint whinny from one of the horses in the stable carried across the sprawling grounds. Waverly prided itself on offering physical education programs that included riding, fencing, tennis, swimming, and even lacrosse.
The atmosphere reeked of privilege from BMWs in the parking lot to the pricey array of laptops students toted to class.
Aubrey chuckled. Nothing has changed.
She progressed along the walkway, recalling the days on campus when she had been an unsure adolescent, afraid of being rejected because she was too chubby, too smart, or too dark. While self-consciousness about her skin color had faded, returning to her roots had reawakened her insecurities.
Ahead were the granite steps of the imposing two-and-a-half-story antebellum home that remained the centerpiece of the school. With a sweeping second-floor balcony and sprawling porch, the plantation home formed the entrance to a quad where several square brick buildings rose against the sky, dwarfing the original 1832 structure.
Walkways on either side of the house led to the inner quadrangle or heart of the school. Stone benches and a large round fountain adorned with a flashy silver sculpture glistened in the morning sun. The Quad was where students went to decompress or meet with friends.
Aubrey patted her stomach, assuring herself that her experiences at the school—both good and bad—had prepared her for her new job. But as the historic home loomed, its french windows and smooth white plaster finish only added to her nervous butterflies. She admired the detailed scrollwork running along the balcony's white iron railing, while smooth columns set off the gray shale roof. A bricked chimney rose on either side and the arched front doors topped with a fan transom of leaded glass seemed to ooze a warm Southern welcome.
Elaine House, as it was known, was home to the principal or headmistress of the school and was the one place on campus that Aubrey dreaded to enter. Not so much for its rumored past of ghosts and strange occurrences, but for the woman who occupied the French Creole structure—Sara Probst.
Aubrey adjusted the wrinkles in the front of her formfitting dress, wishing she had worn something more comfortable. October in Louisiana could be brutal.
The languid breeze, and buzz of life around the campus, infused Aubrey with determination. She wasn’t a student anymore, but an educated professional and no longer subject to her former principal’s tirades. Aubrey steadied her shaking hands as she walked the last few feet to the granite steps.
A breeze caught several fliers pegged to an announcement board along the walkway, and Aubrey became distracted by a young woman’s picture.
A pair of green eyes edged with despair called to Aubrey amid the notices for tutoring help and laptops for sale. Troubled was the first thing that popped into her head. The tightly drawn line of the girl’s mouth, dark circles, and sunken cheeks stirred a tide of sadness in Aubrey. But the note and name at the bottom quickly piqued her curiosity.
Have you seen me?
Lindsey Gillett is missing.
The name was one Aubrey didn’t know, but the eyes she’d seen before. A million unhappy memories returned as she examined the flier. All the angst her time as a student at Waverly had brought returned in a heated rush.
“Ms. LaRoux, I’m glad you’re on time.”
The cold, gruff voice sent a chill through Aubrey.
She turned toward the steps and put on her best smile.
Sara Probst, wearing gray tweed despite the heat, stood on the airy porch and glared at Aubrey. The former athletic director remained as lean and shapely as when Aubrey had attended the school ten years ago.
Sara had climbed to the esteemed position several years before Aubrey enrolled. The assertive woman with the brassy blonde hair had led Waverly into the twenty-first century, without forgetting the school's esteemed seventy-year reputation of providing top-notch college-preparatory education.
Aubrey stepped closer, noting the subtle wrinkles of middle age across Sara’s brow and around her mouth. Sara’s killer stare was still there, making Aubrey reconsider returning to her alma mater.
“Ms. Probst,” she said, speaking clearly and succinctly, just like the woman had taught her. “It’s good to see you again.”
Sara came down the steps, her square-heeled pumps tapping the stone.
“I was surprised when I received your application. I didn’t think when you left here, you would ever want to come back, considering all that happened.”
The comment rekindled the image of the pretty field hockey team captain who had gone missing in Aubrey’s senior year. Marjorie Reynolds had a reputation for a sharp-tongue and quick right hook. Aubrey had avoided the svelte brunette, eager to stay out of her line of fire.
She turned to the poster of the girl. Then it struck her why the woman’s eyes had stood out—the girl reminded her of Marjorie.
“I’m sorry to see you have another missing girl. Waverly has had more than a few in the past as I recall.”
Sara motioned to the board. “Yes, there were the three girls who vanished in the nineties. But their tragedy is nothing like this. Lindsey is a precocious troublemaker. The police believe she ran away, just like Marjorie did when you were here.”
The comparisons rattled Aubrey. “Not everyone believed Marjorie ran away.”
The headmistress came alongside her, and her wide-eyed stare withered Aubrey’s self-confidence.
“What else could have happened?” Sara’s expression cooled. “Marjorie ran away several times while she attended school here. Or didn’t you know?”
Aubrey straightened her back, attempting to appear resilient. “I’d heard rumors, but Marjorie and I weren’t close.”
“Yes, I remember how she bullied you. Several of the faculty called her out on it. You were suspected in her disappearance, as I recall, because of the bad blood between you.”
Aubrey squirmed. “I was questioned, but I wasn’t a suspect.”
Sara tilted her head. “Marjorie always was a pigheaded girl. Lindsey was the same way. Same bad seed ran through both.”
Shock ruffled Aubrey’s system. “Excuse me?”
“They’re sisters.” Sara turned away from the board. “Well, half sisters—same mother, different fathers. Lindsey was sent here by her father. He hoped getting her out of New Orleans would settle her down. She had some run-ins with the law. Of course, I didn’t learn about any of that until after she ran away. I wished I would have known sooner. Might have avoided a difficult situation for everyone involved.”
The woman’s cold analysis didn’t surprise Aubrey. She had been the same way when Marjorie had disappeared.
But keeping up a stoic attitude when faced with tragedy was something Aubrey understood. Dwelling on something of which no one had control didn’t change anything. And when you’re responsible for the well-being of hundreds of students, forbearance was the best course of action.
“Do they know where she went?”
Sara motioned to the open front doors of the home. “Not a clue. Officers came to the school, questioned several students—with parental permission, of course—and then went on their way. I get updates, but I don’t pry. I have other students who need my attention. I can’t let the school fall apart for one flighty girl.”
“What about the students?” Aubrey argued. “This can weigh on young minds. They might need counseling or at least access to some professional help. I find getting students involved, and not cutting them off from a crisis, helps them cope.”
Sara’s lips thinned into an unamused smile. “This is not a crisis. And they already have access to all those things. Discussion groups, counseling, advisors—whatever the board sees fit. I don’t want this unfortunate event distracting students from their studies and overtaking the school. We have kept things quiet and will continue to do so.”
Aubrey remembered the time after Marjorie disappeared. Keeping quiet had not helped anyone cope.
“Is that a good idea?” Aubrey demanded. “Some students might want to do more.”
“It is all they will get, Ms. LaRoux.”
Sara marched up the steps, exhibiting the same military precision with her movements as Aubrey remembered.
“Come inside and let’s go over my expectations,” Sara called over her shoulder. “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
Aubrey followed the school director to the entrance of the historic home.
God, give me strength.
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