by Linda Keir
“Not every girl wants to fuck her teacher,” he called after her, craning his neck to watch her go.
She didn’t respond. He had no way to know if she’d even actually heard him.
He filled his glass again.
Happy fucking New Year.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Did everybody have a good winter break?” asked Mr. Kelly as the bell rang and Noah slipped through the door, running late as usual.
Several people actually started answering his question, talking over each other about snow, sun, and sand before he abruptly silenced them with a cleared throat and raised hands.
“I hope it doesn’t hurt your feelings, but I’m not actually interested,” he said, and Cassidy couldn’t stifle a snicker. “I was just saying that as a social convention. Now that we’re all settled”—he looked significantly at Noah, who was for some reason still standing—“I have news.”
Cassidy leaned forward, realizing that half the class had just done the same thing.
Mr. Kelly settled onto his desk corner, waiting until the room fell silent.
“Yesterday, while most of you were undoubtedly winging your way back to O’Hare, the Lake County Sheriff’s Office took Curtis Royal into custody.”
The room erupted.
“I knew it!” said Noah, with an idiotic fist pump.
Two other students actually high-fived.
Cassidy couldn’t help feeling a rush of pride. After all, her dad had been the first one to mention Roy in relation to Dallas Walker’s death, and she had been brave enough to interview Roy herself—even if she hadn’t exactly cracked the case.
Across the room, Tate was giving her a discreet thumbs-up, the look on his face reminding her that it had been three weeks since they’d even managed to kiss.
“Everybody quiet down!” shouted Mr. Kelly, looking almost angry.
“Whether you want to grow up to be a real live investigative journalist or you just want to get an A in my class, you have to learn to avoid assumptions. To avoid rushing to judgment. First of all, I never said he was arrested in relation to this case. Remember, he has a record for other crimes. And just because someone has been arrested for a crime, it doesn’t mean they’ve done it. If you’ve paid the slightest attention to the stream of death-row exonerees in this state, you know that to be true. And it’s not just big cities like Chicago, either. Our very own Lake County Sheriff’s Office has a sordid history of extracting confessions through questionable means.”
Cassidy raised her hand, puzzled. “So are you saying he didn’t do it?”
Mr. Kelly sighed, stood up, and started pacing. “Here’s what we know: Roy was taken into custody yesterday. Within twenty-four hours, they’ll have to charge him or release him, so we should know more soon. I’ve got a call in to a source I’ve been cultivating, and I’m waiting to hear back. That’s it.”
“Do they have the death penalty in Illinois?” asked Noah.
Rolling his eyes, Mr. Kelly ignored him. “Clearly, Roy is a person of interest. They will be interviewing him—just as our own Cassidy Copeland did last month, though I’m guessing they will have their supervisor’s permission before doing so.”
Cassidy blushed, but she could tell Mr. Kelly wasn’t really mad. He was never mad if someone showed initiative. She stared straight ahead but could feel everyone’s eyes on her.
“They’ll be checking his answers carefully,” continued Mr. Kelly, “and while we should follow their investigation closely, I want you to continue to investigate all possible leads. Dig deeper. Where are we on the grades angle? You’ve all spent the last few months in the hell of college applications—now that they’re in, I want you to think about the pressure you’ve been under. Could that have been a motive? Where are we with that investigation?”
Hannah raised her hand. “I went through all the interviews of Walker’s poetry students and compiled a list of the colleges they applied to.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Kelly said. “Have you posted it on Google Drive?”
“Earlier this morning,” she said, nodding. “I compared it to the list of the schools the students actually attended, and two names stood out: Connor Cotton applied to only Ivies, but ended up taking a gap year.”
“Meaning he got wait-listed,” Rowan said as heads nodded around him.
“He eventually got into Cornell,” Hannah said.
Mr. Kelly tapped his chin. “Someone needs to look into what he did during that gap year and how he felt about it.”
“I will,” Liz volunteered. “I’ve talked to him before.”
“And then there was Tommy Harkins,” continued Hannah.
“What about him?” Mr. Kelly asked.
“He ended up at University of Illinois. His safety school.”
More than one person gasped.
Mr. Kelly shook his head. “I know it may sound shocking, but some successful people actually went to state schools. I survived four years at Penn State and went on to become a productive member of society.”
Cassidy had applied all over—ten schools in total. She wasn’t exactly dying to go to Mizzou, but if that was the only place she got in, she planned to make the best of it. Given her family name, their legacy at various colleges, and their long history of writing healthy checks to various alma maters, she suspected she’d have more than a few options. The Copeland name could be a burden, but it was also a blessing.
“Do we have any other leads or possible suspects?” Mr. Kelly asked.
“I don’t know if it’s a lead,” Liz said. “But, apparently, Sylvie Montgomery started going to Cue Sports Society because she had a crush on a guy in the club.”
“Who was it?”
“As rumor has it, Cassidy’s dad,” Liz said.
Noah catcalled and everyone laughed.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Kelly said.
“What’s her connection to Walker?” asked Cassidy, mortified and anxious to change the subject.
Liz shrugged. “Other than going to his club, none that I know of.”
“Where did you come up with this information?” Mr. Kelly asked Liz.
“Georgina Holt Fordham emailed me,” she said. “She also mentioned that we should look into faculty if we haven’t already. According to her, Dallas Walker didn’t totally fit in with the other teachers.”
“I think we know that much already,” said Mr. Kelly thoughtfully. “This Sylvie seems like a stretch, but it can’t hurt to look into her and see what she has to say. As for the faculty angle, I assume your group is already on it, Hannah?”
“We are,” she confirmed.
“Sounds like this Georgina chick was keeping pretty close tabs on Walker herself, if you ask me,” said Noah out of the blue.
“An interesting observation, Noah,” said Mr. Kelly, seeming surprised. “Does anyone else find it interesting that she’s always right there with helpful, timely information?”
Chapter Thirty
Ian didn’t feel like going to Georgina’s fund-raiser any more than Andi seemed to, but it wasn’t as though either of them had a choice. He was attending because Georgina was Andi’s best friend, at least usually, and he’d donated the bar stock because he knew the event would be swimming with whales. He hadn’t been wrong. Three attendees had already made appointments to come down to the store for personal tours and tastings of Grape and Barley’s vintage spirits showcase.
As for Andi, she was doing a good job of concealing her lackluster enthusiasm for all things Georgina with a businesslike smile. While he mingled in the crowd, she oversaw the brisk sales of Lovely Ladue, featuring Georgina and William Fordham’s sprawling, overdecorated plantation-style mansion, with 20 percent of the profits benefiting the Missouri Botanical Garden.
Ian kept an eye on his wife, or more accurately the level of wine in her glass, noting how often she went back to the bar for a refill. Andi was always a picture of social grace, particularly when one of her publications was featured at an e
vent, but he worried about the potentially combustible combination of her growing distress and anger with an extra glass of wine.
Georgina was simply being herself, acting like she always had. Ian didn’t know if she was capable of behaving any other way. But Andi hadn’t been herself for months, ever since the ghost of Dallas Walker had come howling out of the past to shatter two decades of tranquility.
Fortunately, the two of them had been kept apart most of the evening, with Andi hovering near the sales table, making sure every guest saw the part of the book featuring Georgina’s house while their hostess with the mostest mingled with the crowd of well-heeled St. Louisans. Ian figured if things stayed that way, they could get home at the end of the night without any tipsy friction between the two longtime friends.
The evening proceeded more smoothly than he’d anticipated—until he happened to overhear Georgina in conversation with two random guests.
“It’s just so fascinating to have an inside view of a cold-case investigation, even if it is being done by high school students,” she said, pausing to sip some of the Mumm he’d told her to pour for the most promising donors. “I’ve got a lot of helpful information, so I’m in regular contact with one of them.”
Ian turned around. “Not Cassidy, I hope,” he said before he could stop himself.
“This is Ian Copeland,” Georgina said, introducing him to the others. “His wife was in the dead poet’s class, and now his daughter is investigating the murder. Isn’t that amazing?”
Suddenly furious, Ian nodded hello but ignored the guests, angling his body to cut them out of the conversation.
“No, Ian,” Georgina said, with cheerful exasperation, “I’m not working with Cassidy, much as I’d like to. The student they assigned to me is named Liz Wright.”
The two guests moved on, and Georgina gave them an apologetic wave.
“Has it occurred to you that it might be in bad taste to treat the investigation like it’s some kind of reality show?” asked Ian sharply.
“Sorry,” said Georgina, wounded. “I didn’t think—”
“Obviously, you haven’t been thinking. This is real. It touches real people.”
Ian saw a flash of anger in Georgina’s eyes, but she apparently possessed more self-control than he did.
“No, you’re right. I guess I’ve . . . forgotten . . . how real it is. It seems like such a long time ago. And sometimes I forget how closely the Copelands are identified with Glenlake.”
Ian let her think it was about that. “Just please consider what you’re saying, and to whom.”
Georgina nodded, giving her glass to a passing server and telling him she wanted a refill of the Mumm.
“Anyway, it’s all academic—pardon my pun,” she said brightly. “Now that they have a person in custody.”
“What? Who?”
“Some townie Dallas used to play pool with. Curtis Royal.”
Ian took a sip of his melting ice cubes just so he’d have a moment to think. Roy. He wished he’d heard it first from Cassidy. He’d tell Andi in the car.
“I’ll keep it quiet for you, Ian, but it’s only a matter of time before the story gets out. A groundskeeper kills a teacher and gets caught twenty years later? That’s national news!”
On the ride home, Ian was glad he’d limited himself to one drink and another he’d abandoned halfway. Andi wasn’t drunk, but he wouldn’t have bet money on her reflexes, either. After his encounter with Georgina, the hostess had avoided both of them, and Andi had ended the evening pleased by healthy book sales and somewhat less irritated with her friend. But she hadn’t, apparently, been oblivious to Ian’s encounter with Georgina.
“What were you and Georgina talking about just before she stomped off?” she asked, once they were on the street.
“Apparently, Curtis Royal, the maintenance guy, has been picked up by the Lake County Sheriff’s Office,” he told her, keeping his eyes on the road.
He heard her sharp intake of breath. “For?”
“The students don’t know yet, so she doesn’t know. It could be completely unrelated.”
“Could be.”
Ian signaled a turn, stopped carefully at a stop sign, and looked both ways before pulling out.
“And she’s spreading it around?”
“I told her not to,” said Ian, omitting Georgina’s remark about national news. Which was in all probability correct.
“I wish Dallas Walker had never fucking come to Glenlake,” said Andi quietly.
It was twenty years too late, but he was glad to hear her say it.
Chapter Thirty-One
ANDI BLOOM’S GLENLAKE JOURNAL
Monday, January 6, 1997
I had to stop myself from rushing straight to Dallas’s cottage the second I got back to school last night. I mean, it’s been three freaking weeks. Other than the postcard he sent thanking me for my Christmas gift, signed Mr. Walker, it’s like the two of us never existed.
For all I know he sent the same three lines to everyone, whether they gave him a coffee mug filled with candy, a plant, or a braided metal bracelet they’d spent an entire semester trying to get just right. Lovesick dummy that I am, I kept rereading the generic poem for a secret message.
My poem is just to say
I’m glad you did not overlook
This festive holiday.
“Overlook,” as in our secret spot overlooking the lake?
I missed talking to Ian, too. He came back to school in a cast and on crutches. A skiing accident on a double-black run, according to Georgina, who of course knew the whole story. I saw him on my way to French class.
All I got was thanks when I said I was really sorry, and yeah when I said I knew it had to be awful for him to miss his senior basketball season, but hoped he’d be okay in time for baseball.
It’s killing me that he hates me so much.
The welcome-back dinner was an excruciating exercise in repeating that I’d spent part of break at home and the other half in Mexico, and pretending to be interested in where everyone else spent their vacations. Mostly, I scanned the dining hall for a certain salt-and-pepper head of hair.
Dallas was nowhere to be seen.
By bedtime I felt like an idiot for wearing my new jeans and sweater so I’d look sophisticated yet casual for him. Even though I knew there was no way we’d be able to say anything more than hi when we ran into each other, I’d still sprayed perfume behind my ears, hoping we’d find ourselves alone long enough for a kiss.
Instead, I threw the jeans, which smelled like airplane, into my laundry basket and spent the night tossing and turning. By morning I had no choice but to hope my winter tan contrasted with my dress-code drab and the dark circles under my eyes.
I wanted to sprint over to Copeland early, run up the stairs, and rush into Dallas’s arms before anyone else arrived in class. Instead, I spent an extra minute checking my hair and makeup, then timed my entrance with the bell so I was the last person to walk into the room.
The last student, anyway.
“No sign of Dallas yet,” Georgina said, reading my puzzled expression as I entered the classroom.
“He must be on Texas time,” Tommy said to laughter that was mostly from Georgina.
“Not that I care if he ever comes back,” Connor said.
“Did you get a shitty first-semester grade, too?” Philip asked.
“So shitty.”
“I literally cried thinking about the schools I’m not getting into now,” Jules added.
“My parents called to complain,” Lola said. “I’ve never, ever gotten a B minus.”
I didn’t say anything. Neither did Crystal. I couldn’t tell whether it was because she also had an A or she didn’t want anyone to know how bad her grade really was.
Ten minutes later, Dallas still hadn’t shown up.
“Maybe someone should tell Mrs. Kucinich or someone that he isn’t here,” Crystal finally said.
No one volunteered.
Another ten minutes passed, all of us watching the clock or the door.
“I don’t know about you guys,” Philip said, picking up his backpack, “but I’m out of here.”
“Me too,” Tommy said. Georgina shrugged and went with him.
The rest of the class filed out in twos and threes.
I waited another ten minutes before I finally gave up, too.
Wednesday, January 8, 1997
There was a note taped to the classroom door, and it wasn’t in Dallas’s precise, compact handwriting:
Poetry class has been canceled today. Please use your free period wisely and read three poems by Langston Hughes in preparation for Friday.
Like I could focus on Langston Hughes, or any poet, not knowing where Dallas is and why he hasn’t contacted me.
I decided to use the time to do something nice for Ian. It’s been awful seeing him hobble around campus. Worse, the Sunday outing is a trip to an indoor water park. There’s no way he’ll go just to hang out, and I can’t stand the idea of him moping around his dorm room. I know he doesn’t want sympathy or anything else from me, but I walked to the town drugstore and made him a care package of M&M’S, Bugles, Bubblicious gum, a Sports Illustrated, and the movie Rookie of the Year—to get him looking forward to baseball season. I put it all in a gift bag and left it at his dorm with a card that read, “Heal fast! XO.”
If we were still together, I would have also included a Bit-O-Honey since we both love them and we always shared one when we watched movies. I know he’s going to think the get-well gifts are from Sarah Ann, who Georgina says he’s kind of “with” now, or some secret admirer in the sophomore or junior class. What can I do, though?
Friday, January 10, 1997
I walked into class and there he was—jeans, chambray shirt, scruffy beard, and crooked grin. FINALLY!
“I presume you all enjoyed the unexpected extra days of break?” Dallas said to everyone but me.
He had to know I’d been dying—not just to see him but to know where he’d been for the past four days.
