by Pamela Tracy
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ART STUDENTS signed in quickly and nervously. They didn’t usually have to sign their names to anything, except their paintings. But Detective Nathan Williamson wasn’t usually at the front of their class. As they passed, a few whispered to each other and Janie heard disjointed words, phrases, questions.
“Did you see the drawing on TV last night?”
“Scary.”
“You think she’s dead?”
“Bad news.”
Janie was scared, too, and she well understood their discomfort. At one point early this morning—usually her favorite time of day—she’d sat in front of the bear’s habitat, a half-finished wall mural waiting in front of her, paintbrush in hand. But she had no idea where to begin, no idea how to continue, and the thought of what to do next terrified her.
Lately, memories of her childhood were tapping her on the shoulder quite often, reminding her that she still owned them. They hadn’t gone away as she’d pretended they had.
She was dry, empty. And this time, there was no one to run to. Katie was pregnant. And as for Rafe...
Well, she shouldn’t be considering running to Rafe. The trust still wasn’t there.
It wasn’t even six yet, but her whole class was in place. Instead of standing before their easels, they were sitting still at their desks. Gone were the smells of fresh paint, the sound of brushes dabbing on canvas and the quick intakes of breath as creations developed.
No one complained about the weather or not having enough time to get things done or the price of gas. No one made plans for the weekend. Typically, Amanda’s two interpreters would be joking with each other and watching something funny on their iPad. But they were silent, too. Two of her students, who’d quickly become a couple, should be comparing notes by now, debating whether to use watercolor or acrylic. Instead, they were far away from each other.
From the emails they’d sent her, she knew they all were aware of what was going on. Her re-creation of Derek’s art book was now both local and national news.
Janie no longer answered her cell without checking caller ID. She’d had eight people call to hire her as a muralist. Only one was serious. Six had been thrill seekers wanting gruesome details. One had suggested something Janie still blushed about.
The blinds were closed, per Detective Williamson’s order. Janie could hear the wind outside. It was the only sound in the room.
The detective stood at the front, a stern, silent, imposing man. He wouldn’t recognize a smile if it tapped him on the shoulder. She got the sense he wanted to believe that Derek’s art book was a hoax.
Detective Williamson cleared his throat and her students went still. Then, he began. “I’m Detective Nathan Williamson, and I’m investigating the death of Derek Chaney. Because of his participation in this class, we’re hoping you can help tie up a few loose ends. We’ll be doing interviews with all of you during tonight’s class. If you have something to share, don’t hesitate.”
Janie looked to the back of the room at Rafe. He probably didn’t realize that he could almost pass for a student, one sitting perfectly still and paying attention. Except Rafe’s attention was on her instead of Nathan.
He didn’t glance away when their eyes met.
Something fluttered in her stomach. He was too powerful, too in control. He was unlike any cop she’d ever met. He didn’t shy away from doing what he considered right, and he didn’t care what people thought of him. He tried to keep his word.
So far.
Because of him, his commitment to Brittney and to Janie’s own safety, she was willing to help. Detective Williamson, however, didn’t inspire her at all. He reminded her too much of the cops she’d run into in the past. The ones who believed that a twelve-year-old runaway didn’t know what was best for her.
Williamson was nothing like Rafe. The detective was by the book, impersonal. Her students, almost as one, leaned back in their seats as if distancing themselves from the man.
He started by mentioning Derek’s death and the concerns surrounding it, and no one seemed surprised. He segued into Brittney’s murder and Derek’s connections to it, and finished by mentioning Derek’s personal art books, including the one Janie and Rafe had found in his bedroom.
Everyone stared at Janie. The media hadn’t shared that.
Before he could continue, Janie’s youngest student, Amanda Skinley, who was also from Scorpion Ridge, let out a cry, followed by loud, hiccupping sobs.
Amanda’s interpreter stopped signing for a moment and glanced at Williamson before scooting closer to Amanda, signing to her frantically. Janie left her seat and knelt by Amanda, saying to the interpreter, “Tell her it’s okay. They’ll find who did this.”
That only made Amanda cry harder.
A few students started to leave their seats, with whispers of “Can I help?” and “Do you need a tissue?” Finally one of the interpreters escorted Amanda out of the room.
Her best friend in class, Max Carter, shrank into his chair.
Looking at Rafe, it dawned on Janie how closely the threads of a small town were woven. Amanda—and Max, too—would have known Brittney from high school. They were close to the same age, so they probably went to the same church, public pools, movie theater.
Slowly, Janie lowered herself into the seat Amanda had just vacated and she reached over to pat Max on the hand. He didn’t look at her, just blushed red.
Her fingers brushed against the blank sheet of paper Detective Williamson had passed out. He was giving the class the option of writing, anonymously, any information they had.
As if the drama had no effect on him, he passed around photos of both Derek and Brittney. He also taped a few to the dry-erase board. Then, he added, “I’d also like your art books so the Adobe Hills Police Department can look at them.”
Janie saw aghast expressions on some of her students’ faces. For many, the art books were as private as diaries. Others obediently gave in their art books with no qualms at the thought of starting anew.
“Where’s Patricia?” a student asked. The older woman had taken this same class a dozen times, each taught by Professor Reynolds, and was clearly agitated by the idea of parting with her art book.
“She’s at the station going through some pictures,” Nathan said. “She’s doing all she can to help us find whoever killed Derek.” The admission caused most of the holdouts to retrieve their books and hand them over. Then Rafe made his way to the front of the room.
With just a few words, he owned the room.
“Many of you know me as Sheriff Salazar. I’m the one you hear on television talking about what we’re doing to strengthen our borders, or talking about the pitfalls of drunk driving. You probably read about me in the paper, especially in regards to our battle with drugs.”
He ran a hand through his black hair, mussing it slightly. It made him appear older, worried, sincere.
When Williamson did the exact same thing, it just made him seem older.
“When people ask me why I want to be sheriff,” Rafe said, “I tell them the truth. I want to make my corner of the world a better place, a safer place. I do that by battling everything I just mentioned—borders, drugs, drunk drivers.”
He gazed across the classroom, and Janie got the sense he was seeing beneath the students’ appearances. Instead of an older man whose fingers shook from all the medications he was on, he saw a Vietnam serviceman who missed his late wife and his comrades, and who took art at a community college as a way to keep living. Instead of a woman who’d already had her cell phone out twice and who’d dropped both her purse and her notebook on the floor, he saw a single mother who’d left her children with a new babysitter and who’d only gotten five hours of sleep the night before.
She was aware of all of this because being a teaching assi
stant had its perks. She wasn’t in charge of their grades or the classroom curriculum, so sometimes they confided more to her than they would with the real teacher. They viewed her as a peer.
Rafe continued. “Brittney Travis is the first young person to go missing since I took my oath as sheriff. This class and that art book of Derek’s is the first break we’ve had in months. I want to establish open communication with all of you, and I want to eliminate, as much as possible, any false leads. With your help, I can do that. Please do as Detective Williamson has asked. While you’re writing down information, he and I will be calling you into the next classroom one by one to speak to us privately. As this is going on, I ask that you not talk to one another so I hear what’s on your mind first, before anyone else has had a chance to comment.”
With a few more words, Rafe made Derek almost seem a victim; he made Brittney seem a saint. He didn’t mention that Janie might now be in danger, as well.
When he finished, he leaned against her desk, managing to appear both in charge and approachable. Not an easy balance.
Amanda had returned and was now sitting in the back. She had calmed down and was quickly writing. Her interpreter was doing the same. Janie wished she could get a peek at what they were working on. Amanda, who had known Brittney and Derek both, might actually have a lead. The only other person in the art class who might have something to add was Max Carter.
Tall, shy Max wasn’t writing a word. He mostly glanced at what the others were doing, a bewildered expression on his face. Janie watched as Rafe did one last sweep of the classroom, his gaze lingering on Amanda and Max.
In alphabetical order, student by student, he and Nathan pulled them out of Janie’s class and into a room across the way where a table and chair waited. They’d cull any memory the students had of Derek or Brittney, no matter how minute.
The room felt somewhat empty, and a little eerie, without Rafe’s presence.
She watched as the different personalities dealt with the assigned task. Most were more than a little hesitant, some determined, but a few seemed angry.
She didn’t blame them. They were remembering Derek. How he got too close to them when he wanted to argue about comments on his art. How he interrupted them and even cursed. Petty things, somewhat typical of a young man his age, but for some reason, a degree more sinister.
The first student returned, packed her bags and left. Rafe was right behind her, already calling the name of another student. Then Detective Williamson did the same.
Eventually, Rafe and Detective Williamson neared the end of the alphabet. The handful of students remaining were getting antsier by the minute. Janie hoped none of them had to go through the hours of questions that she had this last week. Some were single mothers, others just kids. The rest were people who worked hard during the day and used this class as an outlet, a way to escape.
Janie was in a situation she couldn’t escape.
She gazed down at the blank piece of paper in front of her. Last week, she’d re-created Derek’s art book pages, but surely there was something else she could do.
Closing her eyes, Janie tried to remember the drawing of the car—it was an older model, four-door. For the last week, she’d been focused on the tiny jagged lines that had made up the license plate numbers, as well as on the words, those life-changing, life-ending words. She had to accept that she wasn’t suddenly going to rearrange her memory and figure out the numbers or change the ending to the story.
So instead she pictured the tiny drawings of the car’s passengers. She didn’t need to draw Derek or Brittney; everyone was very familiar with what they looked like as well as where they were in the vehicle.
The front passenger driver...that’s where she’d start.
The white piece of paper in front of her was clean, pristine, and she picked up Amanda’s stubby pencil. Derek’s drawing had given her a side view of the passenger. He’d sketched a head of spiky hair behind the closed window—it couldn’t be rolled down, she remembered from what she’d read.
She drew the figure, bigger than the original, remembering the way his nose had been shaped, how he’d had straight hair that flopped over his forehead and was long in back. Derek’s sketch had been in black and white, so she wasn’t sure of the color, but her gut instinct said black.
Somebody set a sharpened pencil next to her. She took it without hesitation.
The passenger had had the barest hint of whiskers on his chin, a chin that had been more pointed than round. He’d fit solidly in the window, not overly tall or overly short. His shoulders had been of a size that suggested strength, not bulk.
“You’re good,” someone whispered in her ear.
Janie turned to find Rafe kneeling beside her, his eyes on her drawing and a look of appreciation on his face.
She wanted that look to be aimed at her instead of the drawing.
“I’m glad he was wearing a T-shirt instead of a jacket or a hoodie. A simple T-shirt lets me pinpoint his size.”
“I’m done with my interviews and all your students have left. You were so involved I didn’t want to disturb you. Wow. I had no idea you could do something so precise. We enlarged the drawings you made that first morning, but they weren’t as sharp as this. Can you draw the driver?”
“No, in all of Derek’s sketches, the driver always appeared next to the passenger, so the passenger blocked the view of him.”
“Suggesting that Derek was more scared of the driver.”
Detective Williamson joined them, appearing just as he had at the start of class: angry and annoyed. He glanced down at the re-creation and frowned.
“Recognize him?” Rafe asked.
Williamson shook his head. “He looks like a million other kids.”
One sentence took her all the way back. She’d been a twelve-year-old runaway with a story the cops didn’t have time to hear. After all, they’d heard it from a million other kids.
She’d like to believe that Rafe was different.
But she was already very aware of how many directions he was pulled in, of his full calendar that he’d compromised because of Brittney, because of Janie. How long until he had to switch his priorities?
“I was about to ask Janie what happened in class while we were busy interrogating,” Rafe said. If he sensed the effect of Detective Williamson’s words on her, he didn’t let on. “Anything surprising happen while we were out of the classroom?”
“Like someone disappearing?”
Rafe shook his head. “Like someone acting out of character.”
“Just Amanda, and you were here for that. May I go now?” Janie took a step toward the door.
“Wait a minute, Miss Vincent.” Detective Williamson blocked her way. He shot Rafe a glare that clearly read “Back off.”
Behind her, Rafe tensed.
“There a problem, Nathan?” he asked.
Janie’s cheeks grew warm. Rafe—no, she had to think of him as Sheriff Salazar—was acting like her protector.
But her earlier gushy feelings about him were gone, thanks to the reminder of her past. She could take care of herself, thank you very much. “Do I need someone on my side, like a lawyer, detective?”
“Maybe you do,” Detective Williamson said. “You said you didn’t know Brittney Travis.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, three of your students wrote about seeing the two of you together.”
“What?” Janie was so surprised, her knees almost gave out. “They’re wrong.”
“No, they’re not. I verified the connection.”
Detective Williamson pulled a piece of paper from a folder. Janie squinted at it.
“A copy of an appointment calendar from the tutoring center?”
Detective Williamson nodded. “And according to this, you met with B
rittney Travis quite a few times.”
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS AFTER midnight when Janie let herself into her cottage. She hurried to the front window, waving at the sheriff to say she was safe, and then watching as the rear lights of his vehicle grew dimmer and dimmer before disappearing.
He’d wanted to come in, stay awhile, make sure she was okay.
But one way or another, all her life, she’d been trying to find that elusive “safe.” For a while, she’d believed she’d had it here, in Scorpion Ridge, with her sister.
She didn’t believe that any longer. And, once again, it was because of her experience with the police. It had taken Rafe, Janie and the supervisor from the tutoring center a good hour to convince Detective Nathan Williamson that Janie’d helped an average of ten students a day, and that average doubled during midterms or at the end of a semester.
Janie only remembered the students she tutored if there was something about them that stood out. The kids who came, asked questions, listened and then went away weren’t so easy to remember. There were too many of them, marching in a line, always one to take the place of the one before.
Janie let the curtain fall from her hand. One light blazed from the living-room lamp, but suddenly one wasn’t enough. Janie went through the whole house and turned on every light.
Then she changed from her school clothes—blue dress pants, white blouse, blue-and-white smock, for once not covered with paint—into pajamas. She was an oversize-T-shirt-baggy-shorts kind of sleeper.
Though tonight she wouldn’t sleep at all. It wasn’t even worth trying, so Janie headed for the kitchen, poured herself a glass of tea, and sat at her round table with a sketchbook open to a blank page. She spread out colored pencils in front of her, all newly sharpened.
She’d already re-created Derek’s art book twice.
Tonight she wanted to do something else: the actual crime scene. Derek hadn’t drawn it. Maybe he hadn’t been able to.
Since the age of ten, there’d barely been a day when Janie hadn’t drawn something, be it places, things or an animal. The one thing she’d never drawn was people.
