Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1)

by Charlotte Raine

  Except I have no idea why I'm here, so the only pressure I feel is the plastic chair against my ass.

  The door opens and a man in black pants and a white button-up shirt walks in. He barely glances at me as he sits down across from me. When he does look at me, his eyes are a cold, steel gray.

  "Dr. Meadows, I am Detective Scott. I just have a few questions for you."

  "Why am I here?" I ask. "I haven't done anything wrong.

  "Did you know Mr. David Pattinson?" he asks, ignoring my questions.

  "Uh, yes." I treated his father for heart disease. Is this about the fire? Because I didn't know him personally. There's no reason I would have been over at his house."

  He pulls out an evidence bag with my class ring on it. The garnet clunks against the table as he sets it down.

  "Is this yours?"

  I pick it up. Examine it. Pretend that I had not noticed that it was missing.

  "Yes," I say, thinking about each word that comes out of my mouth. "I didn't realize it was gone. Did Pattinson find it?"

  Scott grimaces. "This ring was found in Mr. Pattinson's house. Do you know what happened to Scott's house?"

  "It burned down." My mind is racing. Why would my ring be in Pattinson's house? Did he find it and take it home? That doesn't make sense to me. Where would he even find it? In all likelihood, I'm the only person who went to the University of Maryland in the general area, which I'm sure is how the police knew the ring was mine. If Pattinson had found it, why wouldn't he return it to me? Did he find it right before his house went up into flames?

  "Yes, it did," he says. "Do you know what happened to Mr. Pattinson?"

  "He was shot."

  "He was murdered," Scott corrects me.

  I stare at him. I'm not sure why shot and murdered needed to be differentiated. "What does that have to do with my ring?"

  "Well, it's the only thing that was in the house that didn't belong to Mr. Pattinson," he says. "He graduated from Virginia State University."

  "I don't know how it got there."

  "So…to be clear…you're still denying that you've ever been to Mr. Pattinson's house?"

  "I've never been there." I insist. "He must have picked up my ring and never had the time to give it back to me."

  "Picked it up from where?"

  "I have no idea. The only time I take it off is at my office and before I go to…sleep."

  The hotel. The last time I had it was at the hotel. I had taken it off before I fell asleep next to Grace, but I hadn't put it back on. I had been distracted, basking in the afterglow of spending my night with a woman who set all of my emotions on fire.

  Scott clasps his hands together on the table. "Did you just think about something?"

  "I've been spending my nights with Grace Ellery," I say. "I don't know when the fire started, but there's a good chance I was either working or with her. And if I was with her, there's a police officer following her around because someone is trying to kill her. They could tell you if I was with her."

  He raises an eyebrow. "I will go check that out."

  He stands up and opens the door. He disappears, closing the door behind him.

  I open the evidence bag and take out the class ring. I'm absolutely certain that I'm not supposed to be touching it, but it's the only familiar item in this place. I slide it on. It feels different than it used to. Maybe the fire distorted it or maybe I realized that an inanimate object can't bring me any sense of peace or connection.

  ~~~~~

  Grace, 2014

  HOW WELL CAN YOU really know a person? You can know their middle name, their favorite color, learn their secrets, and make an exact sketch of the way their nose crinkles up when they are amused. But how do you know when they tell you their deepest secret that it is truly their deepest secret? How do you know when they take off their mask that you're not simply looking at another mask?

  Officer Larson leads me into the police department. As I follow, I keep watch of my feet. I'm wearing red flats with a tiny silk bow on the side. It makes me think of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. If I click my heels together, will I return home? Where is home? Because it's not where I was stabbed, it's not where I live in a basement with a family who hates me, and it's not in a hotel.

  Officer Larson takes me past the desks, which are occupied by police officers who seem bored and disinterested in what they're working on. It's a bit disillusioning to see that nobody is solving murders or even has ambition to solve a murder. The policemen have the same exact expression as most students do in their classrooms.

  Larson stops at one of the desks. A man in a white button-up shirt sits there and Sam sits beside the desk. The man is sipping coffee while Sam is staring at his hands.

  "Steven, this is Grace Ellery," Larson says. The man glances at me before standing up. He offers his hand and I shake it.

  "Miss Ellery, I'm Detective Scott," he says. "My apologies for dragging you down here, but it seems that we have a situation."

  "I thought you already confirmed that Sam was with me while Pattinson was being killed."

  "Yes, we did confirm that, but there is still the question of why the killer would try to frame Dr. Meadows, and you seem to be the sole connection for this whole thing," he says. "I heard that you had been attacked by a student in the past."

  I send a withering glance at Sam. He avoids my gaze.

  "I was attacked," I say. "But that was back in Ohio and my attacker is in prison."

  "Yes, we know," he says. "But maybe…there's something you did or said that possibly triggered these men?"

  "The first shooting was before my first day at the high school," I tell him. "So, I don't think I said anything to any of them."

  "You didn't talk to any of your students before the first day of school?" he asks.

  I shake my head. "None of them. Except the Schneider children."

  He jots down the last name. "Do you know if either of them know how to shoot a gun?"

  "I doubt it. They're the kind of kids that spend all day on their phones."

  "Have you checked into what kids have a gun permit?" Sam asks Scott.

  "Yes, we have," he says. "It still leaves about a quarter of the students she has been in contact with. We live in an area that is surrounded by woods. There's a lot of hunters."

  Scott turns back to me. "You need to think hard, Miss Ellery. Dr. Meadows believes his ring was stolen from your hotel room. This killer is clearly focusing on you. Did you say anything to one of your students that would upset them?"

  "No!" I say, angrier now. Angry that this detective would imply that I would anger one of my students—that it's my fault for getting stabbed after I spent a year in therapy trying to convince myself that it wasn't—and angry that Sam let this stranger know that he was in the hotel with me, and—implied by his ring—stayed the night. "All I do is what I'm told to teach. I barely interact with the students at all, except to tell them if they're doing something right or wrong."

  "Well, did you tell a student he was wrong and embarrassed him in front of the class?" Scott asks.

  As I open my mouth to lash out at him, Sam slams his fist against the desk.

  "That's enough," Sam growls at Scott. "She has answered all of your questions. She doesn't know who is shooting at her or trying to frame me. It's not her fault that she can't do your job for you. Why don't you try figuring out who the murderer is before he kills someone else?"

  Sam grabs my hand and pulls me up from the chair. I let him lead me out of the police station, and nobody tries to stop us. Once we are outside, Sam releases my hand, takes a deep breath, and turns around to face me.

  "I hope that was okay. That guy was being an ass and I thought—"

  "Why did you tell him about the attack?" I interrupt.

  "What?"

  "I told you about Tate attacking me in a private conversation," I say. "Why would you go and tell some detective I don't even know? Why would you tell anyone?"

  "I thoug
ht he should know," Sam says, his shoulders dropping and his whole demeanor losing confidence. "He's solving a murder. He probably would have found out sooner or later if he took a second to look into you. He might have already known if he was watching the news…"

  "That doesn't matter," I say. "I told you that in confidence. It wasn't your business to tell anyone."

  "This is a multiple homicide case."

  "You don't think I realize that? He wants to kill me, too!"

  "Then why would you hold back information from the police?"

  "Because it's none of their damn business!" I shout. Some pedestrians glance at us, the tension between us thick enough to tear apart the asphalt. "That was the worst moment of my life. Do you think I want other people to know about it? Do you want to know the real reason I moved here from Ohio? Because I wanted to get away from a town where everyone knew me as the 'girl who was attacked by her student.' I wanted to reinvent myself, disengage myself from my past. And now I can't do that. Now everyone is going to know me as this pitiful victim."

  As I feel the tears building up, I spin around and walk away from him. I don't have a way to get home, but since I don't know where home is, it doesn't particularly matter.

  ~~~~~

  Grace, 2012 (Two Years Ago)

  MY FAMILY OWNS a small house and a Dutch barn. The barn has a broad gable roof and bright-red walls. We also have a coop for chickens, six cows, four pigs, and two horses. In comparison, the house is lackluster. It's made of southern yellow pine. It was painted white when my parents married, but the paint has peeled and it's the color of decaying teeth. My father passed away three years ago—after he spent two years struggling with intense abdominal pain and withered away from a strong farmer to a frail man. It's as if the house is dying in the same way that my father did.

  I watch my mother knit a scarf. She always makes a scarf for everyone in the family—including my father, which she leaves in front of his gravestone. It keeps her mind busy in between her shifts at the hospital.

  "Mom," I say, as I sit across from her. She looks up, her eyes wide as if she had forgotten I had been cleaning out her gutters.

  "Gracie Jane," she says. "How is it out there?"

  "Just a little bit chilly," I tell her. The yarn she is using is a dark blue and bright yellow. The colors clash together, but I suppose during the winter, nobody will care as long as they're warm. "Is there anything else you need done?"

  "I don't know…" She glances around the house, her hands no longer moving.

  "Are you ready for winter?" I ask. "Is the wood chopped and everything?"

  She frowns. "No. I thought I would get one of those electronic heaters—"

  "Mom, that's not going to keep you warm. You'll have to carry it around with you, and you don't have that many plugs in this house."

  "Hmm." She stares out the window. I lean over to look out the window, too. The only thing that you can see through the window is a hammock that hangs between two apple trees. The hammock was just big enough to hold her and my father, but now my mother doesn't seem to even try to use it.

  "Mom…do you want to talk about Dad?" I ask. She turns her head, but seems to look straight through me.

  "No…" she says, "I have to get ready for work."

  She stands up, dropping the half-finished scarf on the table. She passes by me without saying a word, without touching me, without even acknowledging that I am still there. Her grief is heavier than any winter clothing she could knit, and it makes me feel like my own grief is drowning within it.

  I leave the house and walk to the barn. I grab the axe, which lies against the wall. I walk into the woods until I find a large tree that has fallen down. If it's no longer connected to its roots, the wood becomes dry enough that it will burn well. I slam the blade into the log, splitting the wood in half.

  ~~~~~

  Grace, 2012 (Two Years Ago)

  WHEN I RETURN to my family's house—even with my father deceased and my brother gone, I can't bring myself to say it only belongs to my mother—my hands are stiff from gripping the axe's handle so hard. I sit down at my mother's dining room table. It's starting to get dark. I don't know when she was supposed to be home from work, but I should make her something to lift her spirits.

  I put on a white apron with the words Smells Delicious, Tastes Delicious across the chest. I take out the flour, shortening, sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, sticks of butter, and apples. The apples are from the trees out front. I used to collect them with my parents, and then we would spend the day making everything we could think of with apples. My favorite was always apple pie.

  I mix the flour, shortening, and water to make the crust. As I roll the crust flat. I hear a knock on the door. I wipe my hands on the apron. I stroll over to the front door and open it.

  A young man—in his late teens or early twenties, stands in front of the doorway. He's tall, maybe a few inches taller than me, with muscles that seem too large for his structure. His head is shaved, but I can see the specks of dark hair beginning to grow. He's holding a bouquet of red roses out to me. I carefully take them, unsure of what is happening.

  "It's me, Grace," he says. "Francis Tate."

  "Oh," I say before I have completely processed the information. The cold breeze from outside hits me. I realize he's only wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He must be cold. I gesture for him to come in, stepping aside. He walks in, his eyes glancing around the kitchen.

  I set the roses down on the dining room table, next to my mother's knitting.

  "How…are you?" I ask.

  "Good, good," he says. He looks over at me, his eyes wide with excitement.

  "I'm sorry…but how did you find out I was here?" I ask. "This isn't my apartment."

  "No, I went to your apartment," he says. "I talked to your landlord. I told him I was delivering divorce papers to you on behalf of your husband."

  "I don't have a husband."

  "I know. Pretty smart of me, right?" He grins. He sits down at the table and pulls one of the roses away from the bouquet. "Do you like these? I wasn't sure if you would like them. You don't seem like the kind of girl who likes the classic romance stuff."

  "Romance?" I ask.

  "You haven't answered my last few e-mails," he says, continuing the conversation without acknowledging what I'm saying.

  "What e-mails?" I ask. "If you kept e-mailing me at the Bishop e-mail, it wouldn't have worked. I'm working at Washington School now."

  "Oh?" he asks. "Is that why you never replied?"

  "I guess," I say, as I look over him. His physique has clearly changed over the last two years, but his whole attitude seems different as well. Confident. Arrogant might be a better word. "Didn't you used to have a stuttering disability?"

  He smiles. "You remember! Yes. I spent weeks practicing famous speeches to get rid of it. I owe you for that as well. You gave me the courage to better myself."

  "I'm glad," I say, though I'm not sure if happiness is the emotion I'm truly feeling. He glances over at the kitchen cabinets.

  "What are you making?"

  "Pie."

  "Apple?" he asks, standing up. He walks over to the counter. He glances at my ingredients.

  "You know, my grandma has this recipe that used cream cheese for the crust," he says. "We should try to make it sometime."

  "We?" I ask, walking over to him. "Francis…you do realize that, as my student, nothing could ever happen between us?"

  "But I'm not your student," he says. "I stopped being your student about two years ago."

  "You're still my student to me," I say. The corner of his lips drop. I squeeze his shoulder. "Look. You're a great kid. You'll find a great girl. I promise."

  "I'm not a kid," he scolds. "I'm a man."

  "Of course." I try to soothe him. I reach out for him again because he looks like he's about to cry. He knocks my hand away.

  "Do not patronize me," he snarls. "Like I said, I'm not one of your students anymore. You can't trick me
with your fake kindness and your slutty clothes."

  I feel my cheeks heat. "Francis, it's not nice to use that word."

  He pushes me so suddenly that I can only fling my arms back to stop myself from slamming against the counter. When I look back at him, fury burns in his eyes.

  "I'm so sick of you bitches," he says. "You always end up with those bullies like Tom Rifter and wonder why you're miserable. You could have been with me. I'm your intellectual equal. I could have given you everything you ever wanted. But no. That's not how life works for me, is it? I'll always be the kid named Francis. Francis, the nerd. Francis, the loser. Francis, son of a devil and a whore."

  "Francis…" I say, but I know it's too late. Rage radiates off him, and I'm trapped between his body and the counter.

  I glance to my side and spot my mother's knife block. As Francis takes a step toward me, I grab the paring knife. As I slash downward, he grabs my wrist. He slams my hand against the counter and my grip on the knife loosens. The knife falls out of my hand and onto the counter.

  Francis grabs it. I barely see the glint of the silver before he thrusts it into my abdomen. I can't process the pain before he jabs it into me again.

  As he pulls the knife out, I feel the warmth of my blood sliding down my stomach and soaking into my jeans. He thrusts the knife into me two more times. His body is pinning me against the counter, so I can't fall down, but my vision is getting blurry.

  There's a bright light. The thought of an afterlife brings me a flicker of hope, but then I realize it's the headlights of my mother's Ford Edge.

  I hear the knife clatter to the floor and Francis's footsteps as he runs away. I slump to the floor. The last thing I remember is the deep crimson red of my blood.

  ~~~~~

  Sam, 2014

  JOHN SHAKES HIS HEAD at me, taking a sip from his beer.

  "It's a good thing that you've stayed single for so long," he says. "Or else there would be a line of broken hearts behind you. How could you be so stupid?"