The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  Doing a quick count with some multiplication, Faith figured that, including the empty balcony, there were around a thousand seats in the auditorium. The bottom level was almost completely full. Most of the Westfield students were young girls. The majority of them were very thin, very well-heeled and very pretty. They ate organic produce and wore organic cotton and drove their BMWs and Minis to Pilates after school. Their parents weren’t stopping at McDonald’s on the way home to pick up dinner before they went to do their second job on the night shift. These girls probably lived a life very similar to Emma Campano’s: shiny iPhones, new cars, beach vacations and big-screen televisions.

  Faith caught herself, knowing that the small part of her who had lost so many things when Jeremy came along was acting up. It wasn’t these girls’ fault that they had been born into wealthy families. They certainly didn’t force their parents to buy them things. They were very lucky, and from the looks of them, very frightened. One of their schoolmates had been brutally murdered—more brutally than perhaps any of them would ever know. Another classmate was missing, probably being sadistically used by a monster. Between CSI and Thomas Harris, these kids could probably guess what was happening to Emma Campano.

  The closer Faith got to the stage, the more she could hear crying. There was nothing more emotional than a teenage girl. Whereas ten minutes ago, she had felt something akin to disdain for them, now Faith could only feel pity.

  McFaden took Faith by the arm. “That’s Mrs. Clark,” she said, pointing to a woman leaning against the far wall. Most of the teachers were standing in the aisle, diligently reprimanding students, keeping the peace in the large crowd, but Mary Clark seemed to be in her own little world. She was young, probably not long out of college, and bordering on beautiful. Her strawberry blond hair hung to her shoulders and freckles dotted her nose. Incongruously, she was dressed in a conservative black jacket, pressed white shirt and matching skirt that hit just below the knee—an outfit much more suitable for a matronly older woman.

  McFaden said, “If you could just say a few words to the students?”

  Faith felt a surge of panic. She told herself that she was only speaking to a room full of kids, that it didn’t matter if she made an ass of herself, but her hands were still shaking by the time they reached the front of the auditorium. The room was efficiently chilled by the air-conditioning, but Faith found herself sweating.

  McFaden climbed the steps to the stage. Faith followed her, feeling the same age as the kids she was supposed to be assuring. While McFaden went straight to the podium, Faith stayed in the wings, desperate for any excuse not to have to do this. The lights were bright, so much so that Faith could only see the students sitting in the front row. Their uniforms were probably custom tailored—schoolgirl skirts and matching starched white tops. The boys had fared better with dark pants and white shirts with blue striped ties. It must have been an uphill battle every day to make them tuck in their shirts and keep their ties straightened.

  There were six chairs behind the podium. Four of the chairs were filled with teachers, the last with a large hairy man wearing spandex shorts and clutching a wrinkled piece of paper in his obviously sweaty hand. His gut rolled over the waist of his shorts and sitting made it hard for him to breathe; his mouth was open, his lips moving like a fish. Faith studied him, trying to figure out what he was doing, and realized that he was going over the lines from a script in his beefy hand. Faith guessed by the whistle around his neck that he was head coach for the physical education department.

  Beside him was Evan Bernard, sitting in the last chair on the left. Daniella Park was in the last chair on the opposite end. Faith noted the distance between the two teachers and guessed from the way they were studiously avoiding each other’s gaze that there was some tension between them. She glanced out at Mary Clark, who was still standing in the aisle, and guessed that might be the reason.

  McFaden was checking the mic. Hushes went around the room, then the usual feedback through the sound system and the predictable murmur through the crowd. The principal waited for the noise to die down. “We are all aware of the tragedy that struck two of our students and one of their friends yesterday. This is a trying time for all of us, but as a whole, we can—we will—overcome this tragedy and make something good of it. Our shared sense of community, our love for our fellow students, our respect for life and the common good, will help all of us at Westfield persevere.” There was a scattering of applause, mostly from the parents. She turned to Faith. “A detective from the Atlanta Police Department is here to take some of your questions. I would remind students to please be respectful to our guest.”

  McFaden sat down, and Faith felt every eye in the room scrutinize her as she walked across the stage. The podium seemed to get farther away with each step, and by the time she reached it, her hands were sweaty enough to leave marks on the polished wood.

  “Thank you,” Faith said, her voice sounding thin and girlish as it echoed through the speakers. “I’m Detective Faith Mitchell. I want to assure you that the police are doing everything they can to find Emma, to find out who committed these crimes.” She threw in “And the Georgia Bureau of Investigation” too late, realizing that her sentence did not make much sense. She tried again. “As I said, I’m a detective with the Atlanta Police Department. Your principal has my direct phone number. If any of you saw anything, heard anything or have any information that might help the case, then please contact me.” Faith realized her lungs were out of air. She tried to take a breath without making it obvious. Briefly, she wondered if this was what it felt like to have a heart attack.

  “Ma’am?” someone called.

  Faith shielded her eyes against the bright stage lights. She saw that several hands were up. She pointed to the closest girl, concentrating all of her attention on the one person instead of the crowd of onlookers. “Yes?”

  The student stood, and then Faith noticed her long blond hair and creamy white skin. The question came to Faith’s mind before the girl got it out. “Do you think we should cut our hair?”

  Faith swallowed, trying to think of the best way to answer. There were all kinds of urban legends about women with long hair being more likely to be targeted by rapists, but as far as Faith’s practical experience had shown, the men who committed these crimes only cared about one thing on a woman’s body, and it was not whether or not she had short or long hair. On the other hand, Kayla and Emma looked so much alike that it could certainly point to a trend.

  Faith skirted the question. “You don’t need to cut your hair, you don’t need to change your appearance.”

  “How about—” someone began, then stopped, remembering protocol and raising her hand.

  “Yes?” Faith asked.

  The girl stood. She was tall and pretty, her dark hair hanging around her shoulders. There was a slight tremble to her voice when she asked, “Emma and Kayla were both blond. I mean, doesn’t that mean that the guy has an MO?”

  Faith felt caught out by the question. She thought about Jeremy and the way that he could always tell when she was not being honest with him. “I’m not going to lie to you,” she told the girl, then looked up at the group as a whole, her stage fright dissipating, her voice feeling stronger. “Yes, both Emma and Kayla had long blond hair. If it makes you feel more comfortable to wear your hair up for a while, then do it. Don’t let yourself believe, though, that this means you are perfectly safe. You still need to take precautions when you’re out. You need to make sure your parents know where you are at all times.” There were whispers of protest. Faith held up her hands, feeling like a preacher. “I know that sounds trite, but you guys aren’t living in the suburbs. You know the basic rules of safety. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t go to unfamiliar places alone. Don’t go off on your own without letting someone—anyone—know where you are going and when you will be back.”

  That seemed to mollify them. Most of the hands went down. Faith called on a boy sitting with his mother.
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  He spoke timidly. “Is there anything we can do for Emma?”

  The room went completely silent. The fear started to creep back in. “As I said …” She had to stop to clear her throat. “As I said before, any information you can think of that might help us would be appreciated. Suspicious characters around school. Unusual things Emma or Kayla might have said—or even usual things, something that maybe you are now thinking might be connected to what happened to them. All of that, no matter how trivial it may seem, is very valuable to us.” She cleared her throat, wishing she had some water. “As for anything you can personally do, I would ask again that you remember safety. Make sure that your parents know where you are at all times. Make sure that you take basic precautions. The fact is, we have no idea how this connects to your school, or even if it connects at all. I think vigilance is the key word here.” She felt slightly idiotic saying the words, thinking she sounded like a bad rip-off of Olivia McFaden, but the nods from both parents and students in the audience made Faith think that she had actually done some good here.

  She scanned the crowd. No more hands were up that she could see. With a nod toward the principal, Faith walked back across the stage and took her place in the wings.

  “Thank you, Detective Mitchell.” McFaden was back at the podium. She told the students, “In a few minutes, Coach Bob is going to do a ten-minute presentation, followed by an instructional film on personal safety.”

  Faith suppressed a groan, only to hear it echo around the auditorium.

  McFaden continued, “After Coach Bob, Dr. Madison, who is, as you know, our school counselor, will have some remarks to make about dealing with tragedy. He will also be taking questions, so please remember, any questions you have should be saved up until Dr. Madison is finished speaking. Now, if we could all just take a moment to quietly reflect on our fellow students—those among us and those who are gone.” She waited a few seconds, then, when no one reacted, she said, “Bow your heads, please.”

  Faith had never been a fan of the moment of silence, especially when it required head bowing. She liked it almost as much as public speaking, which took a close second to eating live cockroaches.

  Faith scanned the crowd, looking past the bowed heads to Mary Clark, who was staring blankly at the stage. As quietly as possible, Faith made her way down the stage stairs. She could almost feel Olivia McFaden’s disapproval as she sneaked down the side aisle, but Faith wasn’t one of the woman’s students and, frankly, she had more important things to do than stand in the wings listening to Coach Bob drill students about their safety for the next ten minutes.

  Mary Clark stood straighter as she realized Faith was heading her way. If the teacher was surprised to find herself singled out, she didn’t show it. As a matter of fact, she seemed relieved when Faith nodded toward the door.

  Mary didn’t stop in the hallway, but pushed on through the exit before Faith could stop her. She went outside and stood on the concrete pad, hands on her hips as she took deep breaths of fresh air.

  She told Faith, “I saw McFaden pointing me out before you started and I was sure she was telling you that she was going to fire me.”

  Faith thought this was a strange way to open up a conversation, but it seemed like the sort of inappropriate remark she was capable of making herself. “Why would she fire you?”

  “My class is too noisy. I’m not strict enough. I don’t adhere to the curriculum.” Mary Clark gave a forced laugh. “We have very different educational philosophies.”

  “I need to talk to you about Kayla Alexander.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Not Emma?” Her face fell. “Oh, no. Is she—”

  “No,” Faith assured her. “We haven’t found her yet.”

  Her hands covered her mouth. “I thought …” She wiped away her tears. They both knew what she had thought, and Faith felt like an ass for not being more clear to begin with.

  She said, “I’m sorry.”

  Mary pulled a tissue out of her jacket pocket and blew her nose. “God, I thought I was finished crying.”

  “Did you know Emma?”

  “Not really, but she’s a student here. They all feel like they’re your responsibility.” She blew her nose. “You were terrified up there, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Faith admitted, because lying about something so simple would make it harder to lie about bigger things later on. “I hate public speaking.”

  “I do, too.” Mary amended, “Well, not in front of kids—they don’t really matter—but in faculty meetings, parent-teacher conferences …” She shook her head. “God, what does any of that matter to you, right? Why don’t I say something about the weather?”

  Faith leaned against the steel door but thought better of it when her flesh started to blister. “Why weren’t you in the meeting this morning?”

  She tucked the tissue back into her pocket. “My opinion isn’t exactly valued around here.”

  Teaching was a profession famous for producing burnout. Faith could well imagine the old guard did not appreciate an idealistic young kid coming in to change the world.

  Mary Clark said as much. “They all think it’s just a matter of time before I run screaming out the door.”

  “You had Kayla Alexander in your class last year.”

  The younger woman turned around, arms crossed over her chest, and studied Faith. There was something hostile about the stance.

  Faith asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Mary was dubious. “They didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  She gave another laugh. “Typical.”

  Faith was silent, giving the other woman space.

  Mary asked, “Did they tell you that last year, Kayla was so mean to one of the other girls that she ended up leaving school?”

  “No.”

  “Ruth Donner. She transferred to Marist in the middle of last year.”

  “Daniella Park said that Kayla split the school in two.”

  “That’s a fair statement. There was the Kayla camp and the Ruth camp. It took a while, but pretty soon more and more people went over to Ruth’s side. Transferring out was the smartest thing she did, really. It put Kayla center stage, and suddenly, the cracks started to show. I think it’s fair to say that by the beginning of the school year, Kayla was universally reviled.”

  “Except for Emma.”

  “Except for Emma.”

  “I’m hardly an expert, but don’t girls usually outgrow that kind of behavior in middle school?”

  “Usually,” the teacher confirmed. “But some of them hang on to it. The really mean ones can’t stop circling once they smell blood in the water.”

  Faith thought the shark analogy was a good one. “Where is Ruth Donner now?”

  “College, I suppose. She was a senior.”

  Finding her would certainly be a priority. “Kayla would have been a junior last year. What was she doing going after a senior?”

  “Ruth was the most popular girl in school.” She shrugged, as if that explained everything. “Of course, there weren’t any ramifications for Kayla. She gets away with everything.”

  Faith tried to tread carefully. There was something else to this story. Mary Clark was giving off the distinct impression that she felt as if she was being asked questions that Faith already knew the answers to. “I understand that what happened with the other girl was horrible, but this feels very personal for you.”

  Mary’s hostility seemed to ratchet up a notch. “I tried to fail Kayla Alexander last year.”

  Faith could guess what she meant by “tried.” Parents paid a lot of money for their kids to go to Westfield. They expected them to excel in their classes, even if their work did not warrant good grades. “What happened?”

  “We don’t fail children here at Westfield Academy. I had to tutor the little bitch after school.”

  The characterization was startling considering the circumstances. “I have to admit, Mrs. Clark, that I find it
strange you would talk that way about a seventeen-year-old girl who’s been raped and murdered.”

  “Please, call me Mary.”

  Faith was at a loss for words.

  Mary seemed just as nonplussed. “They really didn’t tell you what happened?”

  Faith shook her head.

  “I almost lost my job over her. I have student loans, two babies at home, my husband’s trying to start his own business. I’m twenty-eight years old and the only thing I’m qualified to do is teach.”

  “Hold up,” Faith stopped her. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Kayla showed up for tutoring, but short of me physically taking her hand and writing her papers for her, there was no way she was going to do the work she needed to do to pass the class.” Mary’s neck showed a slight blush. “We had an argument. I let my anger get the better part of me.” She paused, and Faith was expecting the woman to admit to some sort of physical altercation, but what she said was far more shocking. “The next day, Olivia called me into her office. Kayla was there with her parents. She accused me of making a sexual pass at her.”

  Faith’s surprise must have registered on her face.

  “Oh, don’t be fooled by the schoolmarm before you,” Mary said. “I used to dress a lot better than this—like a human being, almost. I dressed too sexy, according to our illustrious principal. I suppose that’s her way of saying I asked for it.”

  “Back up,” Faith said. “I don’t understand.”