The jogger followed the worn path, comforted by the familiarity of his morning run. The beam of a passing car lit up the compacted dirt beneath his Nike shoes, the gentle curve in the trail luring him like a smile. His feet stepped higher, his jaw loosening. Two mornings a week for the last three years, the same route had ushered him past Ravenswood High School and around the soccer field before depositing him safely onto the sidewalk and marching him a mile-and-a-half back to his house. Now, a chill in the air tingled his skin and dared him to push himself, to run faster, to live a little.
Glancing over his shoulder, he confirmed he was alone. Only the towering windows of the high school peered down on him. He angled his feet away from the main pathway and sprinted over a shadowy row of stones that cut through the middle of the student-planted rain garden. A Keep Off sign stood guard beside the garden path, its tilted lettering warning him away from the native shrubs. He inhaled through his nose and brushed past it, ignoring the way the tall weeds scratched at his calves. This small act of defiance was his favorite part of the run. Adrenaline surged through his muscles, a burst of renewed energy lengthening his stride. His breath came easier as he exited the garden and strode across the empty parking lot, almost as if an unknown force was guiding him.
A neon purple-and-orange banner flapped above the school’s side entrance—Geeks and Goblins, Wednesday, October 25th, 7–10 p.m., a series of solar lights illuminating the giant words. Today was Thursday. The banner hadn’t been there last week. The darkened outline of glass and concrete walls and a spinning wind turbine loomed in his peripheral vision, the building resembling something closer to a Fortune 500 company than a public high school. He huffed, listening to the sound of his rubber soles hitting the asphalt. They hadn’t built schools like that when he’d been a teenager.
Visibility was murky so early in the morning, and his toe caught on a loose rock. He slowed his stride and placed his feet carefully as he navigated the expansive parking area. A lone sedan materialized from the darkness near the back of the lot. Someone had arrived at school early. Or maybe they’d never made it home from the party. He chuckled, remembering his own escapades from his high school days as he made a wide turn to avoid the overflowing garbage bins. The stench of souring meat wafted nearby, which he took as more evidence of the successful celebrations the night before.
He continued jogging, nearing a preserved stretch of woods. The dew soaked into his shoes as he stepped from the hard surface onto the grassy decline. He plodded around the edge of the woods, immune to the wetness seeping through his socks. The soccer field emerged below, the scent of freshly cut grass filling his lungs. He set a mental goal to run five laps around the field before heading back home, as was his routine.
He labored forward, a shadowy and undefined heap catching his eye next to the goalpost, an aberration on the normally vacant field. Was it a forgotten bag of soccer balls? His vision had been deteriorating in recent months, but he could make out the curve of inflated leather. As his squeaky shoes carried him closer, his eyes refocused, adjusting to the dim light, his gut collapsing at the realization. The curve rising from the ground wasn’t a soccer ball.
It was a head.
The lifeless mound was a person.
The jogger’s legs stopped moving, his breath thick and choppy in his throat.
The woman’s pale limbs lay twisted in unnatural directions—a knee bent backward, an elbow turned down, and her head angled sideways. Her wavy blonde hair fanned out over her head as if she were plummeting down a drop in a roller coaster. Dried blood bloomed in grotesque flowers across her silky shirt and unzipped jacket, revealing multiple slashes cut through her neck and torso. Blood splatter reached across her frozen face like gnarled fingers. An inky, curdling puddle darkened the manicured turf beneath her.
The jogger rested his hands on his knees and retched. His trembling fingers pushed the emergency button on his smartwatch, calling 911. As he waited for the police to arrive, he noticed a lanyard flung into the grass a few steps away. He inched toward it, lowering his eyes, lungs heaving. It was a Ravenswood High School teacher ID. The woman in the photo shared the honey-blonde hair and slender build of the mangled woman in the grass. She was a teacher in the English department, and her name was Elena Mayfield.
Seven weeks before Elena Mayfield’s murder
The shiny stapler, document organizer, cup of pens, and updated framed photo lay evenly spaced across the surface of my lemon-scented desk. This was it—the pinnacle. The cleanest and most organized my desk would be all year. I snapped a mental picture before pacing in front of my fourth-hour scholars. The first day of eleventh-grade AP Chemistry was underway.
“Please take a moment to admire my new artwork.” I bit back my smile and waved toward the posters that I’d ordered online and had tacked to the wall this morning. A black poster with a red border read, Think like a proton—be positive! Next, there was a bubbling test tube with the words, Don’t overreact. And then there was my favorite statement of the obvious—Science is Real! It was hard to believe we lived in a world where one must defend the existence of science. I surveyed twenty-eight faces of varying skin tones, their eyes as round and wide as petri dishes.
A few of the students chuckled and shifted in their chairs.
“Before we start section one, let’s take a minute to think about how chemistry is relevant to our everyday lives.” I stepped in front of the Smart Board, my fingers laced behind my back. The jitters that normally rippled through my stomach during the first days of school had died down.
A plain-faced girl in the front row coughed. What was her name? Dawn or Devon? My feet inched toward the seating chart I’d camouflaged between some other papers on my desk. A boy with an athletic build whispered something to his friend in the back of the class, and the other boy laughed
“You, back there.” I pointed toward the offender, tossing a sly glance toward my cheat sheet. “Is it Austin?”
“Yeah.”
“Any ideas?”
“Um.” He shrugged. “Food?”
A ripple of laughter spread through the class.
I made a face. “Okay. I guess I’ll take that. To be more specific, there are numerous chemical processes used to cook food. Anaerobic respiration. Also, the Maillard reaction.” I surveyed the room. “Anyone else?”
Five hands shot up. I motioned toward a girl with a pointed face whose glossy hair spilled over her shoulders. “McKenzie?”
“Combustion of fuel.”
I nodded. “Yes. Even lighting a match or turning on the oven.”
McKenzie crossed her arms and leaned back, satisfied. She wore the standard uniform of popular girls—black leggings, a T-shirt, and trendy sneakers.
“Tell me more,” I said. “Does anyone know the opposite process of photosynthesis?”
My eyes scanned the classroom, waiting.
I took note of the students who weren’t participating. A girl dressed like McKenzie and Dawn, but with a messy dirty-blonde bun atop her head slumped in the front row. Her pretty face carried a sullen expression as if she’d just been told athleisure-wear was no longer permitted in school. I edged back toward my desk, stealing a look at my chart. Her name was Phoebe Granger.
My shoulders straightened. I’d met Phoebe’s mom, Amy Granger, in the office yesterday. She had explained how she’d taken the part-time administrative job to build up her résumé after enduring a nasty divorce the year before. She said her daughter would be in my class and hoped Phoebe could keep up her grades between her new spot on the varsity tennis team and multiple AP classes.
I moved my eyes away from Phoebe. I’d envisioned her differently. More involved, for one. It seemed like she couldn’t give a crap.
A pale, lanky boy near the back was also completely unengaged. A dark trench coat hung from his narrow shoulders, despite temperatures near 80 degrees outside. His dense eyes sunk into his head like heavy stones. The boy’s name was Rowan Hasloff, and his reputation as a troubled loner had preceded him.
I squared my shoulders toward him. “Rowan, do you have any ideas?”
The boy pressed his thin lips together, his shaggy bangs obscuring his eyelids. He shook his head without making eye contact. I wondered how he’d made it into AP Chemistry.
A freckle-faced boy named Liam scooted forward in his chair, a devious spark in his eyes. “How about when you took a crap this morning, Rowan?”
The class erupted.
I held up my hand, swallowing my smile. Show no reaction. I’d learned that in teaching 101. Liam’s older brother had been in my class two years earlier and had also produced a smart-ass response at every opportunity.
“Actually, Liam, you’re correct. Our bodily functions are part of chemistry, too. Thousands of chemical reactions take place during digestion.”
As I lectured the room about an enzyme in saliva that breaks down sugars and carbohydrates, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling window of my classroom and brushed against my skin. Despite the occasional wise guy, there were few places I’d rather teach than in this Midwestern college town where progressive education and inclusivity reigned supreme. I’d moved from Chicago to Ann Arbor eight years ago and landed the teaching position at Ravenswood a year later, and I’d never looked back. I was grateful for the chance to shape the scientists of tomorrow. The school’s sustainable construction had been completed the same year I’d been hired, seven years earlier: a state-of-the-art, four-story, energy-efficient building complete with solar lighting, a geothermal heating and cooling system, and a vertical axis wind turbine to generate power. The school’s campus sprawled across one hundred acres, but only half of the land had been developed, the remainder preserved as woodlands and wetlands to coexist with nature. I couldn’t have done it any better if I’d designed it myself.
On a tidy patch of grass outside my classroom window, the new English teacher, Elena Mayfield, sat cross-legged in the center of a circle of students. Her calico tank top billowed in the wind, a strand of honey-colored hair whipping across her face. Every once in a while, she rotated herself around and pointed at someone, throwing her delicate chin in the air as she laughed. The scene played out like a silent movie from another era. Elena looked to be in her mid to late twenties, a few years younger than my thirty-three-year-old self, but way prettier and cooler. It blew my mind that straight-laced Principal Albright had agreed to let her teach outside.
As I observed the engaging outdoor lesson, my fingers touched the blunt ends of my utilitarian haircut, a Great Clips special landing just below my jawline.
“Why can’t we have class outside?” Liam asked.
I turned my head, shoving my hand in my pocket, and realizing my entire class had been staring out the window along with me. “Because chemistry requires indoor equipment.”
Several students groaned.
Outside, Ms. Mayfield stood up with a dandelion tucked behind her ear and her pride of students following behind her.
“Let’s talk about matter,” I said, picking a subject guaranteed to spark enthusiasm. “As I’m sure you remember, all matter can be understood in terms of various arrangements of atoms.”
A door slammed in the hallway, hoots and hollers ringing out. Despite the school’s solid construction, the wall between my classroom and room 102 was thin.
Twenty-eight sets of eyes flickered toward the classroom next door as I rambled on about chemical reactions and the transfer of electrons. Elena’s voice chirped from the other side, followed by intermittent waves of laughter.
I paused my lecture, flipping through notes, my equilibrium upset by the unrestrained glee next door. My students shifted in their seats, probably wishing they were on the other side of the wall.
My first impression of Elena had been formed during a teacher workday last week. She introduced herself to me with overeager eyes and a mild quiver in her voice. My initial reaction was harsh, silently predicting that her students would eat her alive. But when another teacher told me that Elena had transferred from a magnet school near Detroit, I realized there was substance behind the demure facade. I’d pegged her all wrong.
I lectured for a few more minutes before giving my students some independent work time. Then I redirected my attention toward the fidgeting students in front of me. “Tomorrow, we’ll pick up with lesson 1.2, changes in matter. No homework until next week.”
“Yes!” Liam pumped his fist. Several others let out sighs of relief.
The bell rang, and chairs scraped out in all directions, backpacks flung upon shoulders.
I pointed toward a pile of my husband’s business cards I’d stacked on a table near the door. “Feel free to take a card on your way out. My husband is a handyman. He can fix anything.” I peered out into the hallway, making sure no other teachers were lurking around the corner to witness my bending of school rules.
A few students grabbed one as they fled, their young minds not yet cynical enough to question the shameless self-promotion of our family business.
My stomach growled. I tucked the remaining cards in my desk drawer and closed the door to my classroom, heading around the corner to the teacher’s lounge. Elena strolled in the same direction.
“How’s it going?” I asked as we entered the atrium-like lounge, beams of sunlight and the smell of old coffee attacking us. There were three similar adult sanctuaries placed throughout the school, but this one was the closest to my classroom. I preferred to eat lunch here instead of in the teachers’ cafeteria, which bordered the student cafeteria.
Elena lowered her long eyelashes for slightly longer than a blink and tossed her wavy hair behind her shoulder. “Great. I’m really getting to know them today.” Her straight white teeth formed a satisfied smile as she sat in a chair at an empty table.
“How’d you swing teaching outside? I mean, with Albright.”
Elena shrugged. “I just did it.”
“You didn’t ask?” A prickling chill displaced the warmth in my cheeks.
She opened her flowered lunch bag, ignoring my question.
“What about your department chair?”
Elena made a face. “Jefferson? I think his head would explode if I moved my desk three inches to the left.”
Jefferson Sebold, the English and Language Arts Department Chair, had the immediate task of overseeing Elena. I only knew him in passing, a skeletal man in his late fifties. He operated in a constant state of nervous jitters, as if he’d downed five cups too many of coffee while standing on the edge of a cliff. Elena was right. Taking her students outside might have been more than he could handle.
Still, a bubble formed in my throat. I’d been at this school long enough to know how things worked. Anything even slightly out of the ordinary needed approval from the top. Department chairs oversaw the teachers in each department and documented every break from routine with forms and detailed notes, which were then sent directly to Principal Albright. Paper trails were essential to avoiding lawsuits. That’s what my own department chair, Vera Hubbard, reminded me multiple times a year. Luckily, she was older than dirt and didn’t have the energy to nitpick with me or anyone else in the chemistry department. Other than passing out a few unauthorized business cards, swiping an occasional pad of sticky notes from the supply room, and brushing the odd parent complaint under the rug, I usually played by the rules. Vera had never been aware of any reason to write me up.
Elena should have gotten approval. Her outing would get back to Jefferson and then to Albright. The Principal was a control freak, a lover of standardized tests, and a figurehead who only surrounded himself with yes-men and yes-women, like Vice Principal Nina Mittal, who rushed from meeting to meeting in her pressed trousers and shiny heels, always too preoccupied to speak directly to the teachers. Albright loved Vice Principal Mittal because she kept herself busy and didn’t rock the boat. His glowing public perception and the continuation of Ravenswood High School’s Top Ten in-state ranking were his utmost concerns.
As I debated whether to warn Elena about not following protocol, she adjusted the beaded bohemian bracelet on her wrist and pulled a book of American short stories out of her bag. I bit my lip and lowered myself onto the chair across from her.
She slid her book to the side and glanced up at me. “How are things in the world of chemistry?”
Her lean body and carved features would have fit in better on the cover of a fashion magazine, instead of trapped inside a teachers’ lounge that smelled of ranch-flavored Doritos and old soup. Her clothes had their own effortless style; a crochet cardigan was draped over her tank top. Not like the uniform of khaki pants and a black shirt that I wore every day, too lazy to formulate a different combination.
“Could be worse. I think I have a good group.”
Elena tipped her head toward me. “It’s so nice when you have students who actually want to learn.”
“Have you settled in okay?”
“I’m all moved into my classroom and my apartment.” Her eyes flickered to the side and I thought I saw a flash of sadness. “I have a commute. My apartment is all the way south of the mall.”
“You gotta love how we’re barely paid enough to live in the town where we teach.” Elena smirked, her eyes giving me the knowing look of all teachers who were overworked and underpaid.
The door burst open and Nick Bell’s six-foot frame strode inside, a brown bag clutched in his hand.
“Ladies,” he said, dipping his chiseled chin toward us.
I raised my hand. “Hi, Nick.”
His gaze paused on Elena, whose own oceanic eyes were glued on him. My fingers rested on the lid of my container of blueberries. I was caught in the middle of something.
Nick stepped forward, jutting out his muscled arm. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Nick Bell.”
“Hi. Elena Mayfield.”
Their hands connected, free of wedding bands, sparks practically flying before my eyes. Now this was chemistry.
I pretended to look at something outside, wishing I could evaporate. I’d been buddies with Nick for years. He’d been a reliable friend, a respected teacher of ninth- and tenth-grade social studies, and a successful coach of the varsity soccer team. But, in certain circles, he had a reputation as a freewheeling bachelor and ladies’ man.
The weight of watching eyes drew my head toward the far side of the room, where the ceramics teacher, Annie Babcock, pulled her bottle of organic tea closer to her and dropped her gaze. A stray piece of auburn hair stuck up behind her headband in a curlicue. Her eyes darted in several directions, giving her the scattered look so often seen in artists and writers.
Annie and Nick had dated for a few months last year. She’d gotten burned. I wondered if Elena would be his next victim. The faces of all the girls with crushes on Mr. Bell circled in my mind. The arrival of Ms. Mayfield had just extinguished their misguided hopes of a fairytale romance with their handsome teacher. And there were probably plenty of hot-blooded boys in Ms. Mayfield’s classes who’d already fantasized about what they’d do with a few minutes alone with their new teacher in the supply room.
Nick twisted his lips to the side, activating his dimple. “So, you’re the amazing new English teacher I’ve been hearing about.”
“I don’t know if amazing is the right word.” Elena blushed, releasing his grip.
I shook my head and flashed a wry grin at him. “It’s called ELA now, Nick. English Language Arts. Get with the times.”
“ELA. Of course. Can you forgive me?” he asked, refocusing on Elena.
Elena crinkled her cute nose. “Just this once. What do you teach?”
Nick smiled. “Social studies. Ninth and tenth grade.” He pulled his gaze away from Elena, produced a pad of paper from his bag, and uncapped a pen. “I have to figure out the starters for practice today.”
“Nick coaches the boys’ varsity soccer team,” I said.
“Nice.”
The door creaked open, and Albright’s wide hips sauntered through, his presence sucking the air out of the room. The principal’s visits to the teachers’ lounge weren’t common—or welcome—so I braced myself for whatever request was coming next.
Albright clapped his hands together as he approached. “How about this good-looking crew?” His close-set eyes gleamed from within his Frankenstein-shaped head. He had a knack for flattery but would stab a teacher in the back without a second thought if it meant saving his skin. He’d thrown Elena’s predecessor under the bus for mentioning his increasing class sizes and the non-increasing amount of his salary to parents during Curriculum Night.
“Classes going well?”
Elena’s flawless face beamed. “Yes. Thank you.”
Albright huffed out a labored breath. “I’m looking for a few good men and women to head up the Geeks and Goblins fundraiser. It’s the Wednesday before Halloween. There’s a group of parents involved already, so it won’t be much work.”
Oh, lord. I pressed my spine against the back of my chair. I’d fallen for this before. I glanced over my shoulder to see if I could direct him over to a different set of more gullible teachers in the corner, but, other than Annie, there was only a coiffed middle-aged woman who worked in the office heating something in the microwave. She turned to the side, and I realized it was Phoebe’s mom, Amy Granger. My hand lifted in a wave, but Amy only stared out the window as she waited for her food to heat.
Elena angled herself toward Albright. “Geeks and Goblins. What’s that?”
“It’s basically a Halloween party on school grounds—DJ, food trucks, haunted graveyard,” Nick said. “Except teachers display some of their students’ work, too. Kind of like an academic art exhibit people can walk through.”
Albright strummed his stubby fingers on the table. “It was our largest fundraiser last year.”
“It’s a lot of work.” I shifted in my seat, hoping to catch Elena’s eye, begging her to see the giant NO flashing across my face.
Elena sat up, beaming at Albright like an overeager puppy. “I’d be happy to do it. I might need some guidance, though.” She glanced toward Nick.
“I’ll help her.” The words slipped from Nick’s lips a little too quickly, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
“Great.” Albright clapped his hands together. “Jane. Can we make you part of the team?”
My chest deflated. I scanned the room, but there was nowhere to run. Albright’s beady eyes pinned me to my chair. “Sure.”
He pumped his fist in the air. “Terrific. Time to make my rounds. Thanks again.” The principal hobbled away, letting the door to the lounge bang closed behind him.
I slumped forward. My resolve to not allow the school to force me to do any extra work without extra pay had already been defeated.
“We should go out for a drink sometime to talk about it.” Nick’s eyes shot from Elena and toward me as if he’d suddenly remembered I was there. “How about tomorrow? No soccer practice.”
Elena’s lips curved into a timid smile, her gaze flickering between Nick and me. “Sure. But only if Jane comes with us.”
I shrugged, amused by their awkward dance. “Sounds good.” I wasn’t one to turn down a happy hour with colleagues. Still, their attraction had ignited a spark and now they were fanning the flames. I swallowed back the uneasy feeling that I was walking directly into the fire.
Amy clipped back the stalk of the rose bush, letting the withered cluster of petals fall onto the mulch. The deadened, chopped limbs lay in messy clumps along the front of her house as the September sun burned against her exposed arm. She pulled the brim of her hat lower on her forehead and considered going back inside and applying some sunscreen but decided against it. She wouldn’t be out here much longer. Besides, two or three months from now in the frigid grip of another Michigan winter, she’d yearn for the feel of the sun against her skin.
Be grateful. Good things will come your way. She silently recited the mantra she’d been repeating to herself in recent weeks to combat her destructive thoughts. She twisted her head and stared up at the brick 1960s colonial behind her. Scott had stolen so much from her—her trust, her pride, the business, her dream of a happy future—but at least she’d gotten to keep the house. More importantly, except for every other weekend, Phoebe and Ben didn’t have to be uprooted. They could live with her, go to the same schools, and keep their friends.
Her white-brick colonial was tucked into a wooded acre in a subdivision full of sprawling lots and spacious houses. Over mornings spent waiting for the bus and summertime potlucks, the neighbors had become friends. Or at least she thought they had. The landscape of friendships and allegiances had become murky since the divorce.
Amy clipped another stalk, but this time the razor tip of a thorn poked through the membrane of her gardening glove and pierced her fingertip. Yanking her hand toward her, she removed her glove and sucked the bead of blood off the pad of her finger. She considered going inside again, washing her hands, and drinking a glass of iced tea. She checked her watch. Ben would be home from his second day of seventh grade in about forty minutes. She wanted to be outside to greet him when the bus dropped him at the end of their driveway. Then she’d leave to pick up Phoebe from tennis practice at the high school. She could finish pruning before then if she kept working.
Her phone dinged in her pocket, alerting her to an email. She set down her glove and checked her phone. Welcome to eleventh-grade English! An email from Phoebe’s new ELA teacher, Elena Mayfield, appeared. Amy had met the young teacher briefly yesterday in the teachers’ lounge, Elena’s eyes dancing with hope, her lips stained the color of summer berries. An unexpected swell of sadness had filled Amy’s chest. She, too, had once been young, beautiful, and idealistic. She mentally added the losses to the list of things Scott had stolen from her.
The email began with a few niceties and then outlined the week’s assignments. A final paragraph read: My goal is to provide an encouraging and nurturing environment for personal growth through the exploration of literature. There are no stupid questions or bad ideas. All thoughts and emotions, no matter how uncomfortable, are welcome to be expressed in my class.
Amy sighed and turned off her phone. She was all for progressive learning. That was one of the main reasons she and Scott had stayed here. They wanted their kids to have the best education, to expose them to diverse cultures and different viewpoints. But pretending there was no such thing as a stupid question wasn’t going to help anyone.
She picked up her sweaty glove and pulled it over her hand as she searched for more wilted petals, her mind wand. . .
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