Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1)

by Charlotte Raine

  "Does Dad know yet?" Jake repeats.

  I shake my head.

  He laughs. Loudly. I can only assume that this isn't his first rum. "Oh. My. God. I have to be here when you tell him. This is amazing. This is the best thing that has happened in years."

  "I can't tell him," I say. "I just…not yet."

  "When are you going to tell him? After you've graduated?" he asks. "I can see how well that conversation goes. Hey, Dad, I still have two hundred more years of college to go through and when I'm done, I still won't have a dentist's license."

  "I just need some time to figure out how to tell him."

  "You know what I've learned in law school?" he asks me. "Preparation doesn't help shit. DAD! DAD! SAM HAS SOMETHING TO TELL YOU!"

  I launch myself at him, knocking over his glass as I tackle him to the ground. I try to hit him, but he grabs my wrist. I may have been in lacrosse for four years, but Jake had been involved in wrestling for six years. He jerks my whole body underneath him and pins me to the floor.

  "Sammy," he taunts. "You're still my little brother. You can't beat me."

  Footsteps approach. Jake and I look over his shoulder. Our father stares down at us. His hair has grayed, but it's still as full and thick as it's always been. Everything else about him remains the same, which is amazing considering he still eats at restaurants whenever he can.

  "What the hell are you two doing?" he asks. "You aren't boys anymore, you're grown men. Get up."

  Jake and I scramble to our feet. A few inches away, his glass is shattered on the floor.

  "I was just showing my little brother some love," Jake says. "It truly comes from the heart. I may need a cardiologist because all of this love is making it swell. Do you know any cardiologists, Sam?"

  Jake and our father glance at me.

  "No," I say.

  "Really?" Jake asks. "You didn't meet any in college? You don't plan to meet any in dental school?"

  "What's going on?" our father asks, looking between us. "I detect subtext. I hate subtext."

  Jake leans against the kitchen island, a smug smirk on his face. I glare at him.

  "Sam," our father snaps. "Tell me what's going on."

  "Yeah, Sammy," Jake says. "Spill your heart out."

  I take a deep breath. "I'm not going to dental school."

  He blinks. "What do you mean you're not going to dental school? It's what you've been planning to do for half of your life."

  "I thought it's what I wanted," I tell him. "But I was just feeding off of your dreams for me. I've never wanted to be a dentist."

  "You're just getting cold feet," my father says. "You're going to do fine."

  "It's not cold feet," I say. "I've done research. I know what I want to do. I'm going to be a cardiologist."

  His forehead wrinkles. "What? Who wants to become a cardiologist? They're pompous jerks."

  "I said the same thing," Jake interjects. "I mean, not the pompous jerk part, but that part was implied. Subtext."

  "Shut up, Jake," I say.

  "Go away, Jake." My father points toward the living room.

  "Well, there's my whole childhood in a sentence," he says. He nods toward the broken glass. "I'm not cleaning that up. That's not my fault."

  As soon as he leaves the kitchen, my father turns back to me.

  "How can you do this to me?" He demands. "I've been making calls everywhere, trying to set up a good life for you. I've been preparing this for you for your whole life. Why did you think I gave you a job working at my office? Now you're going to throw it all away? No. That's not going to happen."

  "You're also the one who gave me a stethoscope," I say.

  He throws his hands up in the air. "You were eight years old! I also gave you a screwdriver and you don't want to become a builder. Are you blaming this on me? It's my fault that you're throwing your life away on a whim?"

  "No!" I shout, anger rising in me. "I'm not blaming anyone because I don't think it's a bad thing. How is becoming a cardiologist throwing my life away?"

  "Because you've spent your life becoming a dentist!" he says. "Because all that's going to happen is you're going to change your mind again. Next week it's going to be a neurologist or a pediatrician. It might even be a construction worker. Who knows? You committed to this. You're going to dental school."

  "You can't force me to go to dental school," I tell him. "And I didn't commit to anything. You put me on this track before I was in middle school. Your practically brainwashed me into this."

  "I care about your future," he says. "I can help you in the dental field. I can't do anything for you in cardiology. The medical industry isn't just about curing people. There's politics. You have to fight for positions and having a veteran in the field helps. You can't do anything without me."

  "I don't need you," I say. "And this was never about me. You just wanted a trophy son."

  He shakes his head at me. "Watch your tone. Nobody talks to me that way."

  I take a step closer to him. "I'm an adult now. You should watch your tone with me."

  He shoves me so suddenly, I don't have time to brace myself. I stumble backward, but manage to stay on my feet. Every muscle in my body tenses and every thought in my mind is retaliation, but I manage to control myself, standing up straight and looking at my father coolly.

  "I'm not going to dental school," I say, his anger strengthening my resolve.

  "You said you don't need me," he says, his breathing slowing as he calms down. "Do you really believe that?"

  "Yes," I say.

  He points to the front door.

  "Then get out of my house. Walk out that door and don't come back."

  His words sink in and a fleeting feeling of uncertainty flickers in my chest. But I can't back down now. I've stood my ground for this long. I cannot show any sign of weakness by conceding.

  "Fine," I say. I feel my father's and Jake's eyes on me as I walk down the hall to the door. I leave without any of my possessions.

  I leave without saying good-bye.

  ~~~~~

  Sam, 2014

  FIRST, MY FATHER'S FINGER twitches. I remember his hands picking me up as a toddler when he came home from work.

  Then, his arm raises in order to scratch his chest. I remember when I was about six years old—I laid my head on his chest and heard his heartbeat. It reminded me of ocean waves. He was the first person to explain to me how the heart works.

  His eyes open, slowly, as if his eyelashes had become too attached to each other to part. I remember the disappointment and rage in them when I told him I wouldn't be following in his footsteps.

  He turns his head to look at me. For the first second, there's a look of joy—as if he just discovered Maryland Terrapin football tickets on the bedside table. Then, his mouth forms a straight line and the spark of happiness disappears from his eyes.

  "Why are you here?" he asks.

  "I came to see you."

  He turns his head so he's staring up at the ceiling.

  "What was that…a four-hour drive?" he asks. "Aren't you supposed to be saving people with heart problems?"

  "Apparently, there's someone like that right here."

  "I'm sure it's nothing," he says. "Besides, you said the next time you would see me was at my funeral. I ain't dead yet. I'm sorry to disappoint you by being alive. You shouldn't have taken the time to drive here."

  I frown. "Dad…I was angry before. You can't think that I want you to be dead."

  "Why wouldn't you want that? All you've done your whole life is try to get as far away from your family as possible," he says. "Even as a kid, you spent more time at other people's homes than your own."

  "We didn't have a home!" I say. "We had four people living under the same roof who barely knew each other. Mom was always painting, you were always busy with your model ships, Jake had football and track…I could have run away and nobody would have noticed!"

  "We would have noticed." He scowls. "Don't be melodramatic."r />
  "When I was fourteen, I didn't come home for five days," I tell him. "When I did come home, nobody even said anything to me."

  "We thought you needed space!" he snaps, sitting up. I take a step back, surprised by his sudden passion. He lies back down, rearranging the tubes looping around his face. "Of course I noticed. Every couple of nights, I would check in on you before I went to work while you were sleeping. Of course, I saw that you weren't there. But I knew you had a good head on your shoulders and you would return when you thought it was the best time to do so."

  "You never checked on me when I was sleeping," I tell him. "I would have noticed."

  "Half the time you had those medical books on top of you," he says, lying back down. "I suppose you fell asleep while reading them."

  I did used to read medical books. Obsessively. And fall asleep with them on my chest. There's no way he could have known that unless he really did check on me while I was asleep.

  "Why didn't you ever tell me this?"

  He shrugs. "Why would I tell you about it? I was just being a father. I know our family isn't how you picture a family, but it doesn't mean that I didn't care."

  I fold my arms over my chest. "I didn't know."

  He shrugs again. "I didn't tell you."

  We sit in the hospital room, silence settling between us. It's not familiar, but it's not uncomfortable either. When I reach forward and put my hand on top of his hand—the hands that held me when I was a baby and fed me as a child—he doesn't pull away and that is good enough for me.

  ~~~~~

  Deke, 2014

  THE HARDEST ASPECT of getting rid of a body is not being seen around the body or in the same area as where the body disappeared from. This is problematic for someone who doesn't have a car.

  It's less problematic if you're in a house with gasoline and a lighter.

  I grab the gasoline from his garage, which is attached to the house. I drag David to the couch, his body strangely light compared to trying to move the deers I've shot for years. I drench his Pottery Barn furniture and him with the gasoline.

  I strike the spark wheel of his lighter. There is a moment of hesitation, but I let the lighter slip through my fingers and drop onto the couch. For a second, nothing happens. Then, the living room seems to become a sea of fire. I have to back away as flames shoot up. I watch as the flames lick around David's body and then cover over him like a blanket.

  I set Dr. Meadows class ring on the floor.

  I slip out the back door of his house before the flames become high enough for any of the neighbors to see. I jump over his white picket fence and run until I'm two streets away. As I slow down, I feel the first few drops of rain. I'm not concerned. Nothing can stop me now.

  ~~~~~

  Grace, 2014

  I SIT ON my hotel bed, watching the cartoon channel on the TV. I don't watch any other channel because anytime there is a knife or the chance of someone being attacked, tension courses through me so intensely that I get stomach pains. There's an inordinate amount of violence in cartoons as well though, so I'm stuck watching the ones for preschoolers. This is why I don't own a TV.

  There's a knock on the door. I jump up to answer it. Sam is on the other side, holding a pizza box. He gives me a sheepish smile.

  "Hey," I say. "Come in. How's your dad?"

  "Good," he says. "I mean, as good as he can be."

  He sets the pizza box on the counter and turns around to face me. He runs his hand through his hair. "Grace, I just want you know I'm sorry for how I was rude before I left. There really isn't an excuse for how I acted."

  "Sam, it's fine. You were stressed out. I would be, too, if one of my parents were at the hospital."

  "It's still not a good excuse. He sits down on the bed. "I'm just terrible at communication. It must be something I get from my father."

  "Maybe," I say, sitting down next to him. I lean against him and kiss the side of his neck. His fingers slide up my neck and into my hair. He kisses me, soft and slow. I smile. "So, how long are you back now?"

  "He gets out of the hospital in a couple days," he says. "I'll probably go visit in a week. Maybe sooner. I tried to convince him to come move down here, but he's attached to Maryland." He glances over at the television. "Why are you watching cartoons?"

  I grab the remote and shut the television off.

  "I was bored. There was nothing else on."

  He raises his eyebrow. "All right. Do you want to eat?"

  "Yes, I'm starving. I've been eating out of vending machines."

  He opens the pizza box, and then we both grab a slice. The hot sauce drips onto my hand. I lick it off. Sam watches me with an amused smile.

  "I think you're great," he says.

  I grin. "You're not so bad yourself."

  We kiss. My heart flutters, but it's okay because I'm with a cardiologist.

  ~~~~~

  When Sam drives me to work the next day, we both notice a crowd of people, cars, and policemen crowding a street. It's not until we get closer that we notice the remnants of a burned-down house.

  Sam stops and parks his car on the side of the road.

  "Do you think anyone was hurt?" I ask.

  "I don't know." He opens his door and gets out, as I do the same. He walks up to a man in a firefighter uniform.

  "Paul, what happened?" he asks.

  "House burned down."

  "I see that," Sam says. "Was there anyone in there? Was it a fireplace or a faulty heater?"

  Paul shakes his head. "The fire moved way too fast. The chief thinks it might be foul play." He pauses. "There was a body. We had to send it to the city to have it examined. It's burned beyond recognition."

  Sam glances toward the mailbox, which has the numbers 14266.

  "Who lived here?" he asks.

  "The principal," Paul says, "David Pattinson."

  My stomach lurches. I didn't know Pattinson well, but he seemed like a good and reasonable man.

  "Do you think the body was Pattinson?" Sam asks Paul.

  "I don't know anything about identifying people by their charred bodies," he says.

  Sam turns to me. "This is crazy. I treated Pattinson's father for heart disease. He was a soldier in the Army. I can't even imagine how he would die in a fire. He must have been asphyxiated or—"

  "Nope," Paul interrupts. "He had a gunshot wound in the head."

  Sam's eyes widen. "And you just think it's foul play?"

  Paul shrugs. "He could have been shot and the fire was a natural occurrence. We don't jump to assumptions at the fire department."

  "That's not an assumption," Sam says. "That's an obvious conclusion."

  "Do you think it's the shooter?" I ask Sam.

  "Why would he kill two people from car repair shops, try to kill you, and then try to kill the principal?" he asks.

  "Maybe it is a student," I say.

  Sam shakes his head. "This body was burned…it has to be more personal than that." He crosses his hands over his chest. "Somebody has to stop this. These are good people."

  I take his hand…and he squeezes it.

  "Come on," he says. "For all we know, the shooter is still here. You shouldn't be out here where he could try to take another shot."

  ~~~~~

  Sam, 2014

  I RETURN TO my apartment after work to collect my book on rare heart diseases. I think one of my patients has Eisenmenger Syndrome, but I needed to refresh my memory on the symptoms. As I take the book off my shelf, I stare at my hand. Where's my class ring? I try to remember the last time I had it on. I didn't have it on at the hospital—I can picture my hand reaching toward my father and there wasn't a ring on it. When did I lose it? Did I leave it at the office?

  I take the book down. Everything has been so crazy lately. I'm sure it will pop up eventually. I must have taken it off after an appointment with one of my patients and left it in my office. I didn't wear it because I was overly proud of being a Maryland graduate—it was simply the last
thing I had that connected to my family. My father and my brother attended the University of Maryland at one point and it felt good to be connected to them in one way when everything else felt disconnected. I should call my father.

  As I scroll to my father's name in my cell phone, there's a knock on the door. I answer it. There's two uniformed police officers standing on the stone steps, which lead up to my front door.

  "Dr. Meadows?" the one closest to me asks. He has red hair that seems plastered to his forehead.

  "Yes?"

  "I am Officer Linden," he says, flashing his badge. "Did you attend University of Maryland?"

  I'm puzzled at how he knows this, but then I remember that my diplomas are in the patient's room at the office. Anybody who had been in there would know that.

  "Yes," I say. "Did something happen there? I graduated from there over a decade ago. I went to Virginia Commonwealth University after that."

  "No, sir, but we will need you to come down to the station." He puts his hand on my elbow. It's a bizarre action, but then I realize he thinks I might try to run away. And I don't understand why.

  "You're not going to tell me what happened?" I ask.

  He shakes his head. Both he and the other officer are eyeing me warily. This is bad.

  Officer Linden leads me toward the police car. I can see one of my neighbors, Mrs. Cavoukian, watching from her yard. As I duck into the backseat of the car, I think about my class ring and the feeling of being disconnected. Officer Linden gets into the driver's seat while the other officer gets into the passenger side. As Linden drives down the street and I see all my neighbors' houses pass by, I realize I never really let myself feel connected to anyone, and even if I had, those bonds are certainly broken now.

  ~~~~~

  I stare at the mirror in the interrogation room. Of course, I know it's not a mirror. There's probably someone staring back at me on the other side. Maybe there is no one there and the police are simply waiting for me to crack under the pressure.