They crossed the pavement, and Lance opened the entry door for her. In the waiting area of the main office, a secretary faced a few plastic chairs. Ava sat in the corner. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and tears streaked her face. One empty chair separated her from a boy who looked to be at least eight and a woman Morgan assumed to be his mother. Mother and son had the same red hair, and there was a clear family resemblance.
Ava’s knees were drawn up to her chest, and she cringed into the corner as if she couldn’t get far enough away from the boy and his mother. No wonder. The mother was glaring at her, while the boy eyed Ava with a small, smug smile.
As soon as she spotted Morgan, Ava launched herself across the room. Morgan stooped and caught her, wrapping her arms around her daughter’s shaking body. “Shh. It’s OK.”
“It most certainly is not OK.” The red-headed woman stood and scowled at them. Her forehead wrinkled as she scanned Lance from head to boots. She turned back to Morgan with a frown. “Your daughter kicked my son in his, um, private parts.”
The principal walked out of her office. “Ms. Dane, you’re finally here. Now we can discuss the incident.” One eyebrow lifted over her stern dark eyes as she glanced at Lance.
Morgan introduced him. “Principal Small, this is Lance Kruger.”
She gestured toward a small conference room next to her office. “Mrs. Sloan is waiting.”
Mrs. Sloan was the music teacher.
“Wait here,” the mother said to her son as she walked toward the open door.
“I’ll be in after I’ve spoken with my daughter.” Morgan straightened, keeping one hand on Ava’s shoulder.
“We’ve already been waiting.” The principal crossed her arms over her chest.
“I appreciate that. I’ll be right in.” Morgan steered Ava out the door and into the hallway and squatted to her level. Lance leaned on the wall. She brushed Ava’s hair off her face. Her skin was hot and sweaty. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”
Ava’s breath hitched. “Bret kept pulling my hair.” She sniffed and dragged her hand under her nose. “I kept asking him to stop, but . . .” Sniff. “He kept doing it. It hurt.”
“Did you tell the teacher?” Morgan asked.
Ava nodded. “Mrs. Sloan said he probably likes me. If he likes me, why did he keep hurting me?”
“Your teacher is wrong.” Morgan bit back her irritation. “Boys don’t hurt girls they like.”
They do it because they enjoy it, and if no one teaches them manners, they grow up to be men with no respect for others, like Warren Fox or ADA Esposito.
“So the teacher didn’t make him stop?” Morgan asked.
Ava shook her head. “He did it harder after I told.” She rubbed a spot behind her ear. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “He said I’d be sorry if I told on him again.”
Morgan fished a tissue from her tote and gave it to Ava. Then she gently turned her around and checked the spot she was rubbing on her scalp. Anger did a slow burn up her windpipe. Ava had a swollen, scabbed bald spot the size of a dime.
That bully had ripped out a chunk of Ava’s hair.
Lance leaned over her. His face went taut.
Morgan breathed through a spike of rage. “So you kicked Bret?”
Ava’s head did a slow, exaggerated bob. “Grandpa showed me how to make a boy stop touching me.”
Grandpa . . .
A smile tugged at Morgan’s mouth. She and her sisters had received the same lesson from Grandpa, and it had served them just as well.
“Mrs. Sloan said I was in big trouble.” Ava wiped her nose with the tissue. “Am I?”
“No.” Morgan hugged her. “You did the right thing. You asked for help first and defended yourself as a last resort. I will handle Mrs. Sloan.”
She stood, took her daughter’s hand, and the three of them went back into the principal’s office.
“Would you mind staying out here with Ava?” she asked Lance.
“I’d be happy to.” Lance held out his hand and Ava took it. She moved closer to him, plastering her little body to his leg. When he sat in one of the plastic chairs, she crawled onto his lap. He wrapped his thick arms around the little girl. She leaned against his chest and finally relaxed, no doubt feeling safe for the first time all afternoon.
Morgan was almost ashamed at the small surge of pleasure she felt when the bully shifted to the last seat in the row to put one more chair between him and Lance.
Almost.
The teacher, the principal, and the boy’s mother were all sitting at a round table in a small conference room.
The principal gestured toward the teacher. “Mrs. Sloan is in charge of the school play tryouts.”
Mrs. Sloan narrowed her eyes. “During today’s session, your daughter kicked Bret. She could have seriously injured him.”
Morgan sat. “Did my daughter come to you for help?”
“Well, yes.” Mrs. Sloan pursed her lips. “But it was such a trivial thing. Children are so touchy these days. They really need to toughen up.”
“Exactly what did Ava ask you to do?” Morgan asked.
Mrs. Sloan lifted her chin. “She wanted me to make Bret stop tugging her hair.”
“Did she use the word tug?” Morgan settled into cross-examination mode.
“I don’t recall her exact words.” Mrs. Sloan sniffed.
“How did you address the issue?” Morgan leveled her with a steady gaze.
Mrs. Sloan shifted in her chair. “I told him to stop. Kids will be kids. Your daughter needs to develop a thicker skin.”
“Keeping one’s hands to oneself is a simple concept all children can master,” Morgan clarified. She was having none of those boys-will-be-boys excuses.
Bret’s mother humphed. “I’m sure Bret was just being friendly.”
Morgan ignored her. The woman obviously had no clue what her son was up to.
“Did you follow through?” Morgan asked Mrs. Sloan. She pictured a distracted teacher, irritated by what she considered to be a trivial interruption.
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Ms. Dane,” the principal chimed in. “Your daughter admitted to kicking Bret. End of story.”
“Oh, no it isn’t. That isn’t even close to the end,” Morgan said. “You have a responsibility to protect my daughter while she is in your care. You didn’t do that. You forced a six-year-old to defend herself against a much larger child. Bret ripped out a chunk of Ava’s hair violently enough that her scalp bled.”
“I . . .” Mrs. Sloan leaned back from the table.
When the woman appeared to be at a loss for words, Morgan continued. “This boy is older than Ava. He’s twice her size, and he was clearly bullying my daughter. You didn’t make him stop. He should be in trouble, not my daughter.”
The self-satisfied smile fell away from the mother’s face.
Were some kids born mean or did they learn it from their parents?
It didn’t matter.
Not all children were nice. Not all people were nice. It was a fact of life, which was the reason Grandpa had made sure all the children in his family could look out for themselves.
“We always punish all participants in a physical fight,” the principal said in an end-of-discussion tone. “Our school has a zero-tolerance policy. I have no discretion. Both children will receive a two-day suspension. Today is Wednesday. Ava can return to school on Monday.”
“You’re suspending my daughter from school? She’s six!” Disbelief flooded Morgan. “Bullying is a permissible activity?”
“I have no choice,” the principal said. “Bret will be punished as well. Those are the rules.”
“Bret threatened and physically attacked Ava,” Morgan said. “If an adult committed these acts against another adult, they could be charged with assault and battery.”
The color drained from the principal’s face. “They’re just children.”
Morgan leaned forward a few inches, her gaze locking on t
he principal’s. “If I reached over and yanked out a handful of your hair, what would you do? Would you consider that trivial? Would you brush it off? I’m taller and stronger than you. I could do it easily.”
Morgan let three heartbeats of silence pass. “So you wouldn’t tolerate that behavior for yourself, but you expect my daughter to toughen up? Seems to me she is plenty tough.”
“I didn’t know he had actually hurt her.” Mrs. Sloan’s voice weakened.
You didn’t bother to find out.
“If children are afraid to stand up for themselves, then your policy protects and enables bullies.” Morgan turned to the principal. “Did you know I used to be an assistant district attorney, and now I’m a criminal defense lawyer?”
“No.” The principal looked as if that information made her physically ill.
Morgan addressed the boy’s mother. “Did you know that parents of bullies can be sued?”
Bret’s mother’s mouth hung open a full inch. Sadly, the only thing that appeared to get the woman’s attention was the thought of the incident costing her money, not the fact that her son had hurt another child.
“Now you do.” Morgan stood. “You can all expect an e-mail summing up today’s discussion. Since this is a district policy issue, I’ll copy the school board and superintendent. But as far as I’m concerned, my daughter handled the situation admirably.”
No one responded, but then Morgan hadn’t really expected them to. She also didn’t expect that Bret would bother Ava again. Not that she had any faith in his mother’s ability to discipline her son. It was Ava’s well-placed kick that had earned Bret’s attention. Most bullies didn’t pick on kids who fought back.
“Goodbye.” Frustrated, Morgan left the room.
Ava sat up. “Am I in trouble?”
“No, honey. But you’re going to have a couple of days off from school. Maybe you and Gianna can do something fun.”
“But I want to go to school.” Ava’s eyes filled with tears, and she sagged back against Lance.
“I know, honey. I’m sorry.” Morgan touched her daughter’s head. “But you did the right thing. You can always defend yourself.”
Lance shot Morgan a tight-lipped look. He stood with Ava still wrapped in his arms. “Let’s get you home.”
He set her down, and she slid her tiny hand into his giant one as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Can we get some ice cream?” Ava asked with a thin smile.
Morgan looked at her daughter’s teary, swollen face. “Absolutely. Let’s get some for everyone.”
“’Specially Grandpa.” Ava’s step lightened as soon as they left the building.
“Yes. Especially Grandpa,” Morgan agreed.
They climbed into the vehicle.
“Why don’t you stay with your kids tonight,” Lance said as he started the engine. “I’ll take Sharp with me.”
“Are you sure?” Morgan glanced in the back seat. The sight of a sad-faced Ava resting her head on the side of her booster seat tugged at Morgan’s heart. Balancing her career and motherhood felt like she was juggling a raw egg, a live grenade, and a chainsaw. At any moment, something could break, blow up, or slice her to pieces.
“Sharp and I can handle one interview. Ava needs you tonight.”
“You’re right, and thank you.”
Lanced inclined his head toward the rear seat. “She is the most important thing today.”
They bought several containers of ice cream, and Lance dropped Morgan and Ava at home. Morgan was greeted with the usual chaos of kids and dogs.
Mac was standing behind the crew. “If you don’t need anything else tonight, I’m going to head home and see Stella before she goes back to work. She has some kind of meeting tonight.”
“We’re fine.” She gave Mac a hug. “Thank you for everything.”
He left. Morgan locked the front door and tossed her coat and bag over a chair. She took the ice cream into the kitchen and put the containers into the freezer.
Gianna peeked in the oven. “Mac and cheese is almost ready. Girls, let’s go wash up.”
“Gianna made garlic bread,” Mia yelled as the girls followed Gianna from the room.
“What happened at school?” Grandpa asked.
Morgan filled him in.
“I’m not exactly making friends at the school.” Morgan couldn’t shut off the instant replay of the scene in the principal’s office. How many times could she second-guess herself? “Do you think I overreacted?”
She thought of Warren Fox grabbing her, the stench of him, the bruises he’d left on her arm. The incident with Esposito hadn’t been violent, but he’d also tried to intimidate her. She touched her throat, where Tyler Green’s hands had left a ring of bruises two months ago. And now she had to consider the possibility that Tyler was stalking her.
Had today’s incident with Ava hit a personal chord and had she let her emotions get the best of her?
Grandpa snorted. “Should you have let it go to make nice with the teacher and principal?”
“No.” Morgan reached for a pile of mail on the counter. “I won’t kowtow to school administrators who would rather look the other way than address a difficult issue. I guarantee Bret’s days as a bully aren’t over.”
“But he probably won’t target Ava again.” Grandpa sounded pleased. “At least not unless he’s wearing a cup.”
“I’m going to have kids at that school for the next nine years,” Morgan said. “They probably have me marked as a troublemaker.”
“Or maybe your response will change the way the school handles this kind of behavior.”
“Maybe.” Morgan hadn’t thought of it that way. “But I was angry. Really angry, and I don’t lose my temper often. I’m an adult. But this—this really threw me.”
“Someone hurt your baby, and you went mama bear on their asses.” Grandpa crossed his arms. “Now they know not to mess with you or Ava. Nothing wrong with that.”
Morgan flipped through the mail. Mostly junk. She set it down. On the counter next to the envelopes was a squat brown box. Morgan’s name and address was printed on the top, but there was no return address. “What’s this?”
Grandpa craned his neck to look at the package. “Gianna said the neighbor from two doors down dropped it off. She said someone left it on her porch this afternoon. The delivery service must have gotten the houses mixed up.”
“There’s no postmark or bar code.” Morgan’s instincts went on alert.
Obviously, so had Grandpa’s. “I should have noticed. Don’t touch it. We should call Stella.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This could be anything.” Morgan went to the chair at the front door and took a pair of vinyl gloves from her tote. Back in the kitchen, she used a pair of scissors to slit the tape at the end of the box. When she opened it, she found photographs nestled in crumpled brown packing paper.
Morgan lifted the stack. The first picture was her leaving the courthouse. The photographer had clearly followed her. The stack of images followed her from the courthouse across the parking lot to her minivan. There were photos of her arriving home as well, getting out of her minivan, walking into the front door, and greeting her kids.
My kids!
A chill swept through her, settling in her chest. Her hands trembled. Seeing her little girls in the sights of a stalker made Morgan ill with terror.
But the children clearly weren’t the focus of the sender’s rage. Each picture had a bloodred X drawn across Morgan’s face. Some of the lines were scratched into the photographs, as if the hand that held the marker had pressed hard enough to break the felt tip.
The last photograph was an eight-by-ten shot of Morgan’s face. Instead of red Xs, bullet holes riddled the picture, as if it had been used for target practice. On the bottom of the page was a message written in blocky print.
PAYBACK IS A BITCH.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The little house stood alone on a
quiet section of country road. There were no other houses, no other vehicles in sight.
No one close enough to hear a scream.
He doubled-checked the address. 212 County Line Road, residence of the next person on his list.
He parked his car down the street and watched the house. Except for one room at the front of the house, the rest of the windows were dark. What would two old people do on a weekday evening? They’d sit in the living room and watch TV.
When nothing moved for ten minutes, he moved his car farther away and parked it behind a stand of trees. Then he stepped out of the vehicle and tugged on a ski mask and a pair of gloves. His black sweatpants and hoodie would blend into the dark. Slinging a black pillowcase over one shoulder, he walked through the side yard, past a vegetable garden tilled for the winter.
Cloud cover kept the yard dark. He couldn’t risk being seen until the last moment. With two of them inside, this needed to be a surprise. A light shone in the first window. He ducked under it and moved to the next. Rising onto his toes, he cupped his hand over his eyes and peered through the dark glass at the empty kitchen. Light spilled from a doorway that led into the living room.
Then he waited, listening.
The sound of a television blared through the house. P. J. and his wife must be stone-deaf. He circled around the back and opposite side of the house, giving each window a cautious look and getting a general layout of the interior. In addition to the main living area in the front of the house, he noted a kitchen and three bedrooms. The second bedroom had been converted into an office. Children’s furniture and toys decorated the third. Grandchildren?
The rear door had nine panes of glass in the top half. He could see straight through into the living room. Two gray heads were visible over the back of a sofa. An old man would not be able to put up much of a fight. An elderly woman didn’t pose much of a threat either.
He eyed the flashlight in his hand. It would be just as easy to bash them both over the head. But impulsive behavior is what got him into this mess. He couldn’t take the chance that one of them would have time to call for help. With two targets, he had to be quick. Besides, there was no one around to hear a gunshot.
Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3) Page 15
