I was born with what some people call a gift. If a criminal makes eye contact with me, I
am inundated with glimpses of their past, pushed into a world of hate and violence. To
me, it’s a curtain that is pulled back from a crime scene I don’t want to see. It’s a curse
that penetrates my every waking hour with an unfiltered lens, giving me a persistent
need to track down those who’ve done wrong and bring justice to the victims. To me, it
is a constant battle I have to fight, but to my mother, it is a gift.
Chapter One
September was always Grace’s favorite time of year. Bridgeton students wound
down after long summer days spent on the wall that lined the town beach. The amount
of alcohol nips that sprouted from the beach sand like soldiers at attention were
minimized by half, starting as soon as the first day of school. The teenagers shed their
string bikinis and knee-length board shorts and concealed their bodies with the latest
trends found in stores like Pacific Sunwear, American Eagle, and Abercrombie & Fitch.
Even the most troublesome students fell into step with the cadence of the school year
and became creatures of habit, following a tight schedule of classes and activities that
survived only on routine.
The sound of crunching leaves served as a backdrop to the to-do list that Grace
was checking off in her head…pick up Mother’s medication, schedule a vet appointment
for Brody, make more room in closet for Mark’s stuff. It was the end of the first month of
school and students were filing out of the building, donning newly purchased clothing,
book bags filled to the brim like turtle shells on their backs.
As the town’s only school resource officer, Grace had to make sure she
personally met with each of Bridgeton’s three principals on a regular basis. This was the
first year in a long time that Frederick Harris Elementary School had a new principal,
and it was only because Mr. Woodward retired after holding the reign of principal for the
past 40 years. His time to retire was long overdue and it took some great convincing to
get him to give up his leadership role and pass the torch onto a younger, spryer
candidate.
During his retirement ceremony, Mr. Woodward was applauded for his dedication
to years serving the town’s youth and for the endless list of volunteer work that he’d
committed to over the years—Bridgeton Yacht Club Sailing Committee, Board member
of the Christmas tree lighting that started even before his time, founder of the “Bridgeton
Reads Foundation,” which was responsible for getting the majority of the town’s
youngsters interested in reading, thanks to the free pizza reward that each kid would
receive when they finished a book.
Past students even made an appearance at his ceremony, sharing the words of
wisdom Mr. Woodward had shared with them in witty speeches. Teachers that served
under his realm gathered with tear-drenched eyes as Mr. Woodward made his closing
remarks, his last opportunity to share words of wisdom in front of a listening audience.
There were several mentions of his seamless transition when the high school and
elementary schools swapped locations and of course the fact that he was the youngest
principal the district had ever had.
Mr. Woodward had been so immersed in his career that several residents
wondered what he would do once he retired. Grace had heard whispers of concern
leading up to his retirement as women of his generation would question whether he
would be stable not working, opening up their calendars, offering up their own senior
hobbies. Bowling, sailing, book clubs, volunteer work with the town’s American Legion,
were all suggestions Grace had heard, simply by coming into contact with concerned
residents. It turned out that Mr. Woodward was perfectly fine dislocated from his
longtime career as principal and he had taken to retired life quite easily.
“Hi, Officer Grace,” the voice, high-pitched and proud, came from the crosswalk
that sat perpendicular to the steps Grace was climbing to get into the old school
building. She didn’t have to think twice before she turned around, openly welcoming the
sight of Kloe Caverly, the little girl she had grown close to over the summer.
“Kloe! How was your first day of school?”
“Awesome. I’m the class news reporter so I get to make announcements,” she
said as she bounced on the balls of her feet while clutching her backpack straps.
“Well I’d love to hear all about it. I’m actually stopping by to give your mom
something tonight.” Grace remembered she had to pay Christie for the chunky necklace
she’d bought at a jewelry party she hosted a couple of weeks ago. Chunky jewelry
wasn’t a term that Grace’s vocabulary frequented, but she was trying to expand her
interests outside of work so she embraced a recent opportunity to mingle with other
women and engage in conversations that didn’t involve cop-talk.
“You are?!” Kloe started to smack her hands together but stopped when she
realized her friends were watching. Obsessing over what others thought evidently made
its appearance at the young age of seven, which made even Grace feel a sense of loss
at the waning of innocence.
“See you later, Klo.” Grace took her cue to exit, turning on a heel. She made her
way up the last few steps, broken concrete squealing beneath her feet.
As soon as she opened the door, she was greeted with a rush of moth balls and
old paper, the smell adhering to her like an old memory that’s hard to let go of. The
linoleum floor, once white and shiny, was yellowing and dull, decorated with scuff
marks, old gum embedded in the cracks. The walls looked as old as they were, the
track lighting offering no forgiveness for the dull concrete that was only a shade different
from the floor.
Grace felt like she was walking through a tunnel, leading her back in time. The
first hallway spilled out to a common area that housed an old black leather sectional, a
coat room and a tall cardboard box for lost-and-found items. A door with a small
wooden sign labeled, “Principal Whittaker,” hung on a door with a glass window that
was unheard of in today’s newer buildings. A glass door would be far too welcoming for
a school shooter.
She sat on the leather couch, and was instantly swallowed up, its cushions
providing too much give thanks to the many years of students and staff sitting on them.
Just as she felt like she was about to drown in the sea of black leather, a young woman
emerged from Principal Whitaker’s office. The woman closed the door gently, leaving a
swinging door sign in her wake, and walked by Grace with the urgency of a soldier. Her
swift jaunt left nothing for Grace to see except the thin woman’s long black hair swinging
across her mid-back. Grace’s eyes were tugged back to the small alcove when she
heard the turn of the doorknob, the old latch offering up three loud clicks before
Principal Whittaker emerged from the office. Before Grace could make herself known,
he flipped a light switch by the door, darkening the room down to a black nothingness.
“Mr. Whittaker.” Grace started to pull herself up and out of the quicksand of
leather, just as he jumped back and let out a slight burst of trepidation. Feeling for the
light switch in the dark, he flipped the light back on. Grace was still struggling to get to
her feet, using the armrest to help drive her body up so she was eye level with his tan
V-neck sweater fitted to his chest muscles and allowing for extra space around his
waist, where his 50-something-year-old body had accumulated a modest extra layer.
“I’m sorry if I startled you.” Grace tilted her head up and sealed her focus on a
pair of hazel eyes, a deep burnt orange outlined in various shades of brown, blue and
green. Darker flecks in the shape of little slivers slashed through the outer rings. And
with the flecks came flashes of a woman lying on a pile of leaves, the oranges and
browns the same blend of colors in the principal’s eyes.
Stiff brown curls with streaks of blonde sprang from her head in one big wave
that moved over to the left side of her face. A pair of deep brown eyes outlined in cobalt-
blue shadow peeked through specks of a gray powder. Streaks of dark pink made their
way up each of her cheeks, reaching toward smudges of the shadow that extended past
her eyelids. A turquoise warmup jacket zipped up to her pale neck, greeting a bright
yellow collar the same shade as the asymmetrical shapes that stood out on the
windbreaker. Her lips were as pink as her cheeks, and they parted slightly, opening and
closing as if she were trying to say something.
Then the woman’s face transformed into one that was soaking wet, bangs now a
flattened mess and her hair a chunk of scraggly noodles touching her shoulders. Her
makeup streaked of pink, black and blue cascading down her face. And then the image
of a masculine arm with skin broken by four small dots. Her mouth opened and closed
again. Grace tried to decipher the words that came, but it was as if she were
disconnected from her body, frozen in a moment she never truly existed in.
“Do we have an appointment?” The question served as background music for the
scene playing in her vision. Just as fast as Grace had been pulled into this cryptic world,
she lurched from it, standing face to face with Principal Jack Whittaker, the man who
was somehow connected to the woman with the messy made-up face and fluorescent
warmup jacket. ...
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