That done, she reached over and flipped on the light.
15
Although Rachel’s path seemed clear, she didn’t rush to action. She took three days to pray before she even mentioned her idea to Lynn and Ann, and even that took more courage than she’d anticipated. The words came haltingly as she worked to explain, scanning their faces for reactions. She took their wholehearted and enthusiastic approval as confirmation that perhaps, finally, she’d gotten something right.
Not that she could take credit for the idea. The minute she’d silenced the alarm Wednesday morning, the plan had sprung into her head, much like Athena springing fully-formed from Zeus’s helmet, only less dramatic. But still, the plan was there—complete and whole. Even now, she heard herself speaking as a script unspooled in her head. Appearing like refrain lines through the impassioned speech were these repeated phrases: I’m sorry. I was wrong. Please forgive me.
Even with Lynn and Ann’s full approval, Rachel lacked the courage to contact Ian. Never before had she reached out to him without an external crisis driving her. That’s part of what made this next step so scary. When she called him, it would be for no other reason than that she wanted to see him.
No, she didn’t want to see him—she needed to see him. Not just because she liked and missed him but because if she was ever to demonstrate that she could own up to her mistakes, it had to start now.
If her students noticed that she seemed distracted on Friday, they didn’t let on. As she explained the difference between the past and the past perfect tenses and lectured on Act IV of The Taming of the Shrew, she worked in the back of her mind to perfect the exact wording of the text she would send.
That afternoon, before leaving work, she steeled herself to send it.
He must have been working, because his reply didn’t come back until late that night. Even then, it was only three words. I’ll be there.
But that was enough. He would be there. He would show up.
Rachel would have a chance to tell him she was sorry for her cluelessness and for her share of the misunderstandings between them.
Tomorrow at 10:00am, she would meet Ian face-to-face in Osceola Park, to straighten things out once and for all.
16
Rachel arrived at the park early—a questionable choice since she had decided to bring two ice cream bars as a peace offering. The ice cream had been a last-minute addition to the plan, driven by her desire to show Ian she was serious. But she hadn’t entirely thought the addition through. Her compulsion to ensure she wasn’t late meant she had fifteen minutes to kill while the ice creams slowly melted in the sun.
It may have been winter, but it was Florida winter.
While lying sleepless on her back the night before, she had decided the best place to meet Ian would be directly in the center of the basketball court. There she would wait, completely noticeable no matter which entrance to the park Ian decided to use. She would stand tall and straight in the sun, just at center court—perfect symbolism for meeting him halfway.
She arrived to find a heated pickup game ranging up and down the court. Clutching her plastic bag of melting ice creams, she scanned the area, partially panicking. Waiting in the parking lot was out of the question. It was completely unromantic. The center of the soccer field might work, but by the time she got mid-field, she’d be so far away that he might not see her immediately, and she’d have to jump up and down or holler at him to get his attention. That would be completely unacceptable.
To take advantage of the shade and calm her nerves in private, she ducked under the branches at the head of a nearby walking trail. Hearing steps approaching behind her, she paced down the trail and loitered near the informational sign post, pretending to read it as she weighed her options. She should go back and wait by her car. That made the most sense. But it was in direct sunlight, which meant the ice creams would melt faster. Besides, there was no romance in it. If, however, she waited in the shade of the gazebo, she might be hard to see. She could always text him so he would know where to look for her when he arrived, but that didn’t seem fitting.
In a book, they’d meet in the middle of a sunlit meadow, her fresh sundress flapping against her legs as the breeze blew her silky auburn hair across her face. She’d lift a hand to shade her eyes from the golden sun, and then she would see him, striding manfully through the swaying grass, hands outstretched, his eyes alight—
Behind her came the unmistakable sound of someone stepping on a dry palm frond. The crunch jolted Rachel back to reality. She was blocking the informational sign. Her skin burned, and she stepped aside and apologized, turning to stare down the trail as if she were mentally processing the map. She waited for the person to pass beyond her, at which point she would return to fake-studying the sign while deliberating her next move.
But the person did not pass. She heard a meaningful throat clear and her heart hitched. Had Ian been here the whole time, and she’d missed him somehow? Had he seen her entering the trail head clutching her ice creams and wondered what she would put him through this time? Straightening her spine, she turned to face him.
Instead of confronting the mild gray gaze of Ian Smith, she stared into the smiling eyes of Craig Crocker.
17
Rachel reeled. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” Myla’s dad shot back. “Come to have more sweets with your sweetheart?” The smile had a brittle edge. He gestured toward the bag dangling from her wrist.
“I fail to see how that’s any of your business.” Then a thought struck. What did he mean about her having more sweets here with her sweetheart? Did he know she’d had ice cream with Ian here before? “How did you know I was here?”
His lips pressed together, the smile thin. “You’re not that hard to track.”
Rachel backed down the hiking trail, her vision telescoping, wanting to put some distance between herself and Craig Crocker while she devised a strategy to deal with this.
Whatever this was.
Surely he wasn’t actually stalking her. Not for real. That had all been in her head—right? A product of her overactive and futile imagination.
Sure, she’d thought she’d had a stalker before. But that had been Call-Me-Matt, who was suspiciously smarmy; and at the time, her paranoia regarding the Memento Killer had eclipsed rational thinking. Which is why she’d been so cautious this time.
When Myla’s dad had started turning up random places, she had chalked it up to coincidence, determined not to let her imagination run wild and force her to break her resolutions. Now here he was, smiling that smile and backing her down the trail.
“You’ve been following me,” she said, retreating a few more paces. Her ankle turned as she stepped on a fallen pine cone. She stiffened her arms to keep her balance, and the ice cream bag swayed, knocking against her leg.
Craig Crocker flexed his lower back, looking suspiciously relaxed. “It’s not how I normally do things. But you didn’t seem very quick on the uptake. So I thought I’d have to get your attention.”
“I didn’t seem—wait, what?”
The smile sharpened. He advanced another step.
Ignoring her pounding heart, Rachel stepped back, thinking fast.
“Craig—Mr. Crocker, listen. This doesn’t make sense. We know each other. We’ve known each other for years.”
“Yes, we have.” He advanced again.
As uncomfortable as it made her, Rachel stood her ground. “You were so active in the PTA—so helpful—”
“And why do you think that was?” He stepped forward again.
It was either step back or be within touching distance. Rachel stepped back.
“But—but—Myla—”
“Myla lives with her mom now. I’m sure they’ll be very happy together.” His smile no longer touched his eyes.
“Myla left, and you didn’t have a reason to come to the school anymore.” To see her. Had it been about her the whole time? The volu
nteering and the helpful e-mails and the smiles and friendly chats in car line? He’d bought cheese for the Arts Evening last year. That had been stalker cheese?
“And you’ve been following me ever since?”
“There’s no law that says I can’t keep an eye on you.”
“Without my consent?”
His brows lowered. “You never return my messages.”
Of course. The messages. “You’re the one who’s been texting me.” She backed against a tree, realizing belatedly that the trail had curved away. She gripped the handles of the plastic grocery bag. Surely even half-melted ice cream sandwiches could do some damage if she swung the bag hard enough.
Then she laughed to herself—a laugh tinged with hysteria, perhaps, but a laugh all the same. What was she thinking? She didn’t need to resort to hitting people over the head with a bag of ice cream. Rachel released her grip and let the bag slide from her wrist. It dropped with a soft plop against the bed of dry pine needles.
Rachel slipped into fight stance.
Craig Crocker’s smile widened, and he mirrored her stance.
OK, maybe this was a bad idea. He looked as if he might know what he was doing. She should run. She wasn’t fast, but since training for that incomplete 5k Lynn had signed them up for last fall, she wasn’t completely useless. Besides, Myla’s dad was on disability—something about his back. She might actually have a chance. People with back problems couldn’t run. Could they?
Her safest bet would be to get out of the trail as soon as possible, but since he blocked the exit, she knew her only hope lay elsewhere. If that meant running the entire trail with a middle-aged ex-school parent chasing her down, then so be it. She didn’t see that she had that another option.
Executing a swift pivot, Rachel pushed away from the tree, angling around the curve. She heard a grunt, and then the uneven pounding of Craig Crocker’s pursuit. Back or no back, he was coming up hard and fast. Even as she ran, she pulled her cellphone from her pocket.
Smart phones were not designed for use while running—especially not while running and dodging palmetto branches and up-thrusting tree roots. Gaze flicking between the trail and her phone, Rachel punched in her access code and swiped her thumb across the screen in a frantic attempt to open the call function.
Just as she dialed the first 9, Rachel’s toe hit a protruding root. She executed an unintentional somersault in midair, tucked instinctively into a roll, and flipped three times down the trail before coming untucked. In a move that would have brought tears to Coach Donovan’s eyes, she came out of the roll smoothly, using its momentum to propel herself forward, gaining her feet as Myla’s dad skidded up beside her. Before she even had a chance to react, he’d flailed forward, the back of his hand cracking hard against her knuckles and sending her phone spinning into a palmetto head.
With a yowl of anger as much as pain, Rachel shifted her right leg back and bounced on her toes.
“What is your problem?” she panted, cradling her hand against her chest. She couldn’t believe this was happening. It was the most ridiculous thing ever.
Myla’s dad leaned forward and braced his palms against his knees. He winced. The run had obviously been hard on him. He extended a hand, palm out. “I just want to talk to you.”
Oh, sure. He just wanted to talk to her. “That’s why you’re chasing me through the woods and hitting me?”
But he didn’t seem to be listening. “I tried with you, Rachel. I really did. I liked you. I thought I made that very clear. I gave you plenty of chances to reciprocate. And what did you do in return? You ignored me.”
“I ignored you?” Stalling, hoping he would continue to monologue like a movie villain, she flicked her gaze around the trail edge, looking for something—anything—she could use against him. “You were married.” Not the whole time, but that was hardly the point.
“I came to your church, I visited you at school. I arranged to bump into you casually around town. No matter what I did, you never gave me a second thought. I was just ‘Myla’s dad’ to you.”
He wasn’t wrong. Rachel couldn’t help it. She actually laughed.
The laugh was a mistake. Craig Crocker’s expression darkened. He stepped forward. This time Rachel wasn’t letting him crowd her personal space. Having found what she needed, she nudged a toe under a fallen pine bough, kicked it upward into her hand, and slashed it into the space between them, scattering long, brittle needles. Although it looked serviceable enough, its bark felt soft and crumbly in her grip. Not a good sign.
“Stay back.” She brandished the branch, hoping for the best.
To her horror, a flame kindled in Craig Crocker's eyes. He was actually enjoying this. He dropped into a half-crouch, grunting at the obvious pain in his lower back. Rachel knew that stance. From it, he could easily push off from his back leg, dive in, and take her down. It was now or never. She took two quick steps forward and swung the pine bough with all her strength.
The branch more or less disintegrated in midair. It crumbled from Rachel’s hands and dropped with soft pats onto the carpet of pine-needles at their feet.
“That,” Craig Crocker said, tone hard, “was uncalled for.”
He was so close she could feel the whuff of his breath.
What had Donovan once told her and Ann? Predatory men single out women who aren’t likely to put up a fight.
She lifted her hands and pushed outward with her palms. “Step back. You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“Oh?” He edged closer. “This makes you uncomfortable?” His pushed his chest against her outstretched palms.
“Stop touching me.”
“Says the woman with her hands against my chest.” His hands came up to grip her hips, fingers sliding toward the small of her back. The heat of his palms radiated through her shirt. He jerked her forward.
Unbelievably, Rachel’s mind cleared. Her heartbeat slowed. She took a deep, long breath.
Use the teep kick to create space.
She didn’t have the flying version down yet, so she simply dropped back, twisting her hips to break his grip. She planted her left foot, lifted her right knee, threw all her weight forward, and drove her foot straight into his chest.
Craig Crocker grunted and staggered back, catching his heel against the same root that had brought Rachel down. He half turned, falling heavily, letting out a high, tight groan as his hips twisted.
At the sound of feet pounding up behind her, Rachel whirled, instinctively dropping into fight stance and lifting her fists in a tight guard.
Demetrius Washburn skidded to a stop, his white sneakers spraying mulch. His left arm windmilled cartoonishly, and his right hand clamped a cell phone to his ear. “Hold your fire, Shakespeare,” he panted. “I’m on your side!”
A groan from Myla’s dad had Rachel spinning to face him. He’d rolled onto his side, both hands twisted behind him to grip the small of his back.
Rachel stepped in front of Demetrius and threw out an arm. “Stay behind me.”
“It’s all right,” he told her, reaching his free hand to clasp her outstretched one in a steady grip. He pulled the cell from his ear and waggled it directly in front of her face. “I called 911. I’m supposed to stay on the line until the cops get here.”
“Good work,” Rachel squeezed his hand and let her head drop forward.
“You should call Five-Oh,” Demetrius said seriously. “I’d do it, but I’m not supposed to hang up until the cops get here.”
It took Rachel a moment to realize that he meant Ian. She released his hand and pushed sweat-soaked curls from her temples. She gestured toward the tightly-packed palmetto head. “My phone’s somewhere in there.”
Demetrius peered over her shoulder and panted into his phone. “Yeah, I’m still here,” he told the dispatcher. “He’s on the ground. No, it’s fine. If he tries to get up, I’ll kick him in the head. OK, OK, not the head. But I’ll kick him.” A pause. “She’s fine. I mean, I think.” He tapp
ed Rachel on the shoulder. “You’re fine, right?”
Rachel nodded. Amazingly enough, everything seemed to be intact. Demetrius frowned and pointed toward her forehead. She swiped at a trickle of sweat and her hand came away streaked with pink. Come to think of it, the entire right side of her face stung. Had a palm frond whapped her in the face? Had she scraped it during her fall? She couldn’t remember.
Groaning, Myla’s dad rolled to his stomach and pulled in his knees as if preparing to stand.
Pushing Demetrius back, Rachel stepped forward and planted a foot on the small of Craig Crocker’s back. “Stay down.”
From this position, he could easily flip over, grab her leg, and take her down, but somehow with Demetrius standing behind her and the sound of sirens echoing in the distance—not to mention the hurt little animal noises he was making as she pressed down—she didn’t think he had it in him.
She was right.
Craig Crocker stayed down.
~*~
Rachel sat in the open doors of an ambulance in the parking lot of Osceola Park, surrounded by a swarm of uniforms. The dark blue police shirts paired nicely with the lighter blue of the EMT’s, which in turn contrasted with the brown of the on-duty park ranger. Cutting through the chaos was the smooth voice of Detective Garcia.
“Mr. Crocker will be given an NTA,” she was explaining to Rachel, “which stands for Notice to Appear. It means even though he’s being transported to the hospital to have his back checked, this still counts as an arrest.”
“He’s really being arrested?” This was so surreal. Rachel tilted her head sideways as an EMT swabbed the blood from the side of her face. “I sort of feel bad,” she admitted. “I mean, he’s a school parent. And I kicked him really hard.”
“He committed battery. According to what you told us, which has been corroborated by evidence provided by young Mr. Washburn over there,” she indicated Demetrius, who stood chattering animatedly amid a cluster of amused-looking officers, “your actions were clearly warranted.”
Rachel’s brows shot up. “Battery?”
Unbreakable Page 12
