Ria's Web of Lies: A Ria Miller Urban Fantasy (Ria Miller and the Monsters Book 1)

by Nigel Henry

  Well, well. Foster is distracted and the classroom is empty. This is my chance to find whatever I can about him.

  I stop short and look down at my watch. "I completely forgot, I have to go meet the guidance counselor!"

  "What?" Ariana asks. "Why?"

  "I've...uh...you know, the usual new kid stuff. How are you fitting in, what do you see yourself doing? That kind of thing."

  Neither of them looks convinced, but I still give them a gentle push in the direction of the lunchroom. "I won't be long. Go ahead without me. I'll catch up."

  "All right, I guess," Will says. He and Ariana turn and start walking down the hall. "I guess you're the only one who'll listen to me talk about Ms. Birch's boobs, now."

  "Keep talking; I will kill you," Ariana shoots back.

  I watch them go before glancing down both ends of the hallway. When I'm sure I'm clear I grab the door handle and slowly push it open further. I slide in and close the door. Last thing I need is Principal Bowens catching me in here.

  I move over to Mr. Foster's desk and start searching for anything that looks remotely identifying. A business card, a nameplate. All Will needs is a full name.

  I'm striking out. All I find on the desk are textbooks, graded exams—hey, I got a B+ on Monday's surprise quiz!—and handouts. Nothing useful. Groaning, I look around for a closet. I spot one to the left of the desk and open it up. Inside is a tan overcoat and a brown messenger bag. I start digging through the bag, and I find a tablet computer, some notebooks, and a wallet.

  Score.

  I open up the wallet and pull out a New York State driver's license. That's where I see his full name: Carl Foster. Even better, I get an address on Second Place. Where the hell is Second Place?

  Questions are for another time. I snap a photo with my phone and put the ID and wallet back in the bag when I hear the door handle rattle.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Foster's back and I'm about to be caught red-handed. Can't be caught.

  I look around for a place to hide. Finding none, I step into the closet and close the door on myself, leaving it open just the tiniest sliver.

  I hear the door to the classroom swing open and heavy footsteps march toward the front of the room. I see Mr. Foster as he picks up an eraser and starts wiping down the board. He comes to within a foot of the closet and I'm holding my breath the whole time.

  I'm pretty sure that not even Inspector Perkins could get me out of the trouble I'll be in if I get caught.

  Foster sets down the eraser and sits at his desk. He picks up the stack of tests and starts thumbing through them, but stops suddenly. He glances around the desk, then he lifts his nose up in the air and starts sniffing.

  Shit. I smell my own armpit. Did I forget to put on deodorant? I thought I remembered. If I'm caught because of pit stank, I honestly think I'll die.

  Foster turns his head and sniffs in the direction of the closet, and I pull back from the door, careful not to make a sound. I'm nervous, but that doesn't mean I have to be careless.

  He gets up and starts walking toward me. I tense. I might just have to knock this man out quickly to avoid being seen. I don't doubt that I can do it, but I'm worried about bringing even more cops into the building one day after I narrowly avoided them.

  His hand reaches for the closest handle. I get ready to strike.

  "Carl!"

  Principal Bowens' voice sounds from outside. Foster turns his head toward the door. "Yes, Darlene?"

  "I need to speak with you for a moment."

  He sighs and moves away. I hear footsteps as they head toward the door. I take a deep breath, wait a moment, then slip out of the closet. The room's empty, so I use the opportunity to sneak out into the hallway. Mrs. Bowens and Mr. Foster are both walking back toward the stairwell. I let out a big sigh of relief and head in the opposite direction, toward the lunchroom.

  That was close. Too close. The whole thing could've been ruined just because I'm smelly. Can't make those mistakes.

  I find Will and Ariana sitting across from each other at the end of a long, white table. They're playing cards, and judging by the look on Will's face, Ariana's winning handily.

  "How'd it go?" Will asks as I slide down next to Ariana and lean my head on her shoulder.

  "What?" I say, my mind still stuck on how I almost had to give Mr. Foster a brain injury. I'm really going to need to get a mask.

  "Your thing with the guidance counselor."

  "What?" I repeat.

  "The whole reason you're late," Ariana says. "You were talking with the counselor?"

  "Oh, yeah," I say, remembering my lie. God, I'm out of it today. "It was...okay. Apparently, I've got a bunch of feelings stuck in an emotional closet."

  Will looks up from his cards. "What?"

  "Nevermind. Hey, listen; do you remember that thing we talked about at the pizza shop?"

  "Which thing?"

  "The thing with the computer magic, and finding information about anyone."

  "What about it?"

  Ariana plays a hand and Will groans. She pumps her fists in the air triumphantly as she collects his cards. "She wants you to find information about someone, stupid," she says.

  "Sure, who do you have in mind?"

  I slide over to his side and pull out my phone. I show him the picture of Foster's license and he nearly pops out of his seat. "Are you fucking kidding me?!"

  Everyone in the lunch room turns and looks at him. Will's face turns red as Mr. Collins, the lunch chaperone, shouts from across the room. "Archer, watch your mouth and stop being such a sore loser!"

  "Sorry, sorry," Will says as he slides down.

  Ariana's giving us both a stunned stare. "Okay, what the hell was that about?"

  "Where did you get that?" Will asks me, ignoring her question.

  "Don't worry about where I got it," I reply. "I just need to know if you can find information about him."

  "About who?" Ariana asks. Will snatches the phone from my grasp and passes it over. Her jaw drops. "What the fuck, Ria? Where did you get that?"

  "What did I just say? Don't worry about where I got it from. Will, just tell me whether you can find info on him."

  "Sure I can," he says. "But you need to tell me why I'm looking in the first place. Are you planning on stalking him? Because I won't go to jail for being an accomplice."

  "No, it's nothing like that." I lean in and whisper. "My father's looking into investigating Emilio Castro's disappearance. I'm trying to help him."

  "And what does Mr. F—"

  I cut him off. "How about we leave names out of this?"

  "Fine. What does he have to do with this?"

  "We're looking into all of the staff. I'm just starting with him because he's a dick to me."

  Ariana pouts. "Leave my bae alone!"

  "I'm sorry, but your bae hates me, so I'm starting with him first." I turn back to Will. "Listen, don't you wish you could do something to help find the missing kids?'

  "Well yeah—"

  "Then pull up details on him. That's all I'm asking. Just this one thing and you're out."

  He takes a deep breath. "Fine. But this is it."

  "Totally," I reply. I've got my fingers crossed under the table.

  SEVENTEEN

  "OKAY, Ria, remember why we're here. Pay attention, don't get distracted, and stay focused."

  I smirk at Dad from the backseat of Inspector Perkins' squad car. "You know you just told me to stay focused like four different ways in one sentence, right?"

  Dad loves to tell me to stay focused right before we start a mission. As if I'm going to think about anything else at that moment. Normally, when he says that, the night tends to devolve into violence, so it's not like I'm going to slack off.

  But tonight is different. Tonight shouldn't involve any fighting. It's a simple information gathering mission, one we should have run ages ago.

  The car pulls into a parking spot on Fort Washington Avenue in fr
ont of a big apartment building with fancy, old-timey movie lettering for the address and brass doors.

  "This is the place," Perkins says.

  Dad takes in the building and scoffs. "This? If they can afford this, why were they sending their kid to public school?"

  Perkins smirks. "Isn't Erica an executive assistant?"

  "Yeah, but I'm a reporter. And in our defense, we spend all our money on weapons."

  I hop out of the car before I have to listen to any more of their old-person banter and stretch my legs. The drive from Midtown back up to Washington Heights wasn't long, but the back of a police car isn't exactly the most comfortable place.

  I take another look at the building. Kian Ford's parents live here. I convinced Dad and Perkins to let us go talk to them. It only made sense; there were plenty of things that linked Camila, Marcela, and Emilio together. But Kian was different. As far as I knew, he didn't hang out with Emilio or Mark Bell or date either of the girls. That makes him the one break in the pattern. If you were convinced Bell was behind the disappearances, Kian Ford was the one you had to explain. And if, like me, you believe that something else is targeting the students, you need to know what put the bullseye on him.

  Dad gets out of the car and straightens his tie. I smooth out my suit. We're both dressed up for the visit. It was Perkins' idea. He figured the Fords would be more willing to talk to us if they thought we were government agents investigating the disappearances. And they'd be more likely to believe we were government agents if we dress the part and had an NYPD Inspector in full uniform with us.

  I fix my glasses as we make our way to the front door. I don't really need them, but I don't get to wear eyeglasses often, and these have a cool tortoise shell pattern.

  Perkins rings the bell for apartment 3B. "Hello?" A voice says through the intercom.

  Inspector Perkins answers. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ford. This is Inspector Steven Perkins of the New York Police Department. We spoke on the phone earlier. We just want to ask you a few questions."

  The door buzzes and we enter an ornate lobby that has a freaking sculpture chiseled into the wall. It's of a naked man and woman sitting at under a tree. Dad tries to shield my eyes.

  "Really?" I say in disbelief. "You're okay with me stabbing trolls in the heart, but a penis on a sculpture is too much?"

  "They grow up so fast," Perkins says with a laugh.

  The elevator takes us up to the third floor, and I'm guessing that the black man and woman waiting for us in the hallway with the grim expressions are the Fords. They look like your average, all-American family. Mr. Ford is clean-shaven, and his hair is closely cut. He's wearing an orange sweater over a white collared shirt and gray slacks. Mrs. Ford has her hair permed and in a bob. She's wearing a dark blue dress that comes down to the knees. I wonder if they dressed up for the appointment, but then I think about the building we're in and I imagine this is just how they spend their Wednesday nights.

  Perkins takes off his hat and offers Mr. Ford his hand. "Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Ford. These are the specialists I mentioned, the ones from the FBI. This is Special Agent David Towns, and this is Special Agent Marie West."

  Mr. Ford looks at me like I'm from Mars. "Isn't she a little young?"

  "I get that all the time," I say. "Yes, I am young. I graduated from Quantico last year."

  Mr. Ford looks unconvinced, so I figure it's time for me to act like one of those douchey FBI agents you see on television.

  I roll my eyes and sigh like I can't be bothered with them. "Three point one-four-one-five-nine-two-six-five-three-five-eight."

  "Did you just recite pi?"

  "To the eleventh digit," I say as if it's no big deal. In truth, you have no idea how long it took me to remember that. It always comes in handy when I have to sound incredibly smart. "Now, do you want to question my age or do you want to find your son?"

  "Mr. Ford," Perkins intervenes, "if we could begin. I promise we won't take up too much of your time."

  Mr. Ford gives me a wary look, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he opens the door and motions for us to follow them in.

  The Fords have a NICE apartment. It's big and open, with framed black and white photographs hanging on dark blue painted walls. Their furniture is black leather, and they've got a big flat-screen television in the living room. There's a big window that overlooks the street, and the waterfront park beyond it, Fort Tryon Park. I can only hope to have a place this nice when I get older.

  Mr. and Mrs. Ford take a seat on the sofa, I sit next to them while Dad and Inspector Perkins pull up chairs. The Fords are holding each other's hands, and Mrs. Ford looks like she's going to be sick.

  The sight of them triggers a memory for me, a vision of my parents huddled on a couch in pain, talking to police officers after Patrick was killed. I recognize their agony, and suddenly I feel nothing but sorrow for them.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Ford," Dad begins, "we're going to do everything we can to find Kian and bring him home. We won't rest until that's done."

  "Thank you," Mrs. Ford says, offering a pained smile. Tears well in her eyes, and she grabs a tissue from the coffee table.

  "We were hoping you could answer a few questions we had about Kian," Dad continues. "Things that might help us determine if there's a pattern of some kind."

  "We told the police everything we knew when he vanished," Mr. Ford says. "Hell, we told them twice."

  "We know," Dad counters, "but we're trying to go over every lead again. Just in case there's something we missed."

  "Something like what?" Mrs. Ford asks.

  "Well, for starters, who were Kian's friends? Who did he hang out with?"

  "Kian has lots of friends," Mrs. Ford says. "He's the most outgoing boy. But his best friends are two kids from his middle school."

  I notice that Mr. Ford's still talking about Kian in the present tense.

  "Did they follow him to Technical Innovation."

  "No," Mr. Ford answers. "He went there by himself."

  "Well, what about girlfriends? Was he seeing someone?"

  She pauses as if conflicted. I lean forward and put my hand on theirs. "Anything you tell us, no matter how trivial, might be what helps us find your son."

  She takes a deep breath. "Kian's no stranger to girls. Hell, his phone was almost always ringing off the hook with some girl trying to reach him."

  Wait, did phones ever have hooks? Why do old people keep saying that?

  Inspector Perkins presses the issue. "But..."

  "We think he was in some kind of online relationship the past few months."

  "With who?" Perkins asks.

  "We don't know," Mrs. Perkins says. "I'd go to his room, and he would shut down the window on his laptop. But he was always on his computer or his phone, and in the last few weeks, he seemed...happier."

  "Happier?" I repeat.

  "Don't get us wrong," Mr. Ford interrupts, "Kian is by no means a bad kid. But you know how teenagers are."

  I bite my tongue.

  He continues. "But the last weeks before he vanished, he was more cheerful, more upbeat, he'd even started doing even better in class as if that was possible."

  "What was his best subject?" I ask.

  "Math," Mrs. Ford says. "It wasn't always, but he really bonded with the teacher at Tech, Mr. Foster."

  My eyes go wide as surprise flashes across my face. I try to get it under control as Dad and Perkins continue the questioning.

  Boom. I think I found my link. Foster and Kian were close. And I'd be willing to bet my life that Carl Foster, the teacher that everyone thinks is a hunk, is the one that Camila was sleeping with.

  Mr. Foster is the one behind the disappearances. I'm sure of it. Now I just need to find out whether he's a psycho killer or some kind of inhuman monster.

  I get a ring on my phone. It's Will. "Pardon me," I say as I excuse myself and head into the hallway. "Now's a bad time. Can I call you back?" I say when I'm clear.

  "Sure, but
I figured you'd want to hear about that thing you made me look into."

  Well, that certainly changes things. "Go on."

  "I thought it was a bad time?"

  "Not if you're talking about that. Go ahead."

  "Well, I looked into Mr.—"

  "No names," I reminded him.

  "What? We're not in school. What are you—"

  "No names. Get to the point."

  "Fine, sheesh. I looked up his history. Teaching certificate three years ago, college diploma five years ago. That kind of thing."

  "And?"

  "And I couldn't find anything from earlier than college."

  "What?"

  "I can't find where he went to high school, his childhood address; nothing. It's as if he came into this world when he graduated from college."

  I pause. Shit, not having official documents is usually a tell-tale sign that we're dealing with a monster.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Ria, I've looked. Trust me."

  "Okay, thanks," I say before hanging up. I turn back to Dad and Perkins. "Can I talk to you two outside?"

  Dad looks concerned. "What happened?"

  "I'll tell you outside."

  He nods. "Will you excuse us for a moment?" He says to the Fords before following me out to the hallway.

  "What's wrong?" He asks.

  "It's Mr. Foster," I say. "The math teacher. I'm sure of it."

  "How do you know?" Perkins asks.

  "Because every girl at Tech thinks Foster is the sexiest man alive, and Camila was sleeping with a teacher."

  Perkins' face lights up with surprise. "Wait, what?"

  "That's not all," I say. "Foster broke up a fight between Emilio Castro and Mark Bell last year. He knew they hated each other."

  "That's a lot of guesswork," Dad says.

  "I just had a friend check his records. There's nothing before high school."

  "You did what?!"

  "Hey, easy," I say defensively. "I just made him do a couple of searches. Nothing illegal, and nothing that should get anyone's attention."

  Dad purses his lips, but this time I lean in. "Maybe you didn't hear the part about him having no records before high school."

  My father goes quiet. I turn to Perkins. "I thought you said that he was clean."