by Kathryn Shay
Praise for Promises to Keep
“A wonderful work of contemporary romance, with a plot ripped straight from the headlines. Kathryn Shay never disappoints.” NY Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner
“Kathryn Shay’s storytelling grabbed me on page one and her characters held me until the very last word.” Barbara Bretton, USA Today bestselling author
“Kathryn Shay is a master of her craft. Promises to Keep will hold you on the edge of your seat with an ending you’ll remember long after you turn the last page.” USA Today bestselling author Catherine Anderson
PROMISES TO KEEP
Kathryn Shay
Published by Kathryn Shay
Copyright 2002 The Berkley Publishing Group in New York
Copyright 2010 Kathryn Shay
Copyright 2017 Kathryn Shay
Cover art by Rogenna Brewer
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
To Jerry, my real life hero. None of this would have happened without your support and encouragement. Thank you for that and a million other things! I love you.
Prologue
The sun shone in a crystal-clear blue sky, beating down on the heads of the mourners. Mocking us, Joe Stonehouse thought bitterly, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He closed his eyes because he didn’t know where to focus them. He couldn’t look anywhere without almost losing it. Beside him, his sister Ruth gripped his hand like a lifeline, though she leaned heavily on her husband’s arm, too. Joe just held on to her. His gaze traveled to his niece and his nephew, both on their father’s left. Both openly sobbing, as were Ruth and Al.
After all, they were standing before the coffin of their older daughter. Josephine “Josie” Callahan. Named after Joe. But when push came to shove, her beloved uncle—hotshot United States Secret Service agent that he was—couldn’t save her. How ironic; he’d spent his entire adult life protecting others and he couldn’t keep his own family safe. Of course, he’d been hundreds of miles away when a sixteen-year-old kid pulled out a Glock and gunned down Josie and four other students, then turned the weapon on himself. God, would his sister have to attend those funerals, too?
While birds chirped in the quaint cemetery’s trees, teenagers wept around the grave site. Preppy types cried alongside goths and rabble-rousers. Grief knew no boundaries, and Josie’s friends had come together today to show respect for their popular classmate. He could still hear the excited lilt in his niece’s voice, still see her green eyes, so like his own, sparkle with news. Uncle Joe, I made cheerleading...Uncle Joe, I was voted homecoming queen...Uncle Joe, I got into Stanford, just like you. He’d planned to pay her tuition.
He sucked in a breath, struggling to contain the grief that ticked inside him like a bomb, ready to explode. Though he’d spent his life squelching his feelings, a necessity in his job, today he was losing the battle. His hands shook with the effort.
Concentrate on the mechanics. Say prayers. Hold on to your sister. Place a yellow rose on the casket. Josie loved them, and he sent her one for each year of her age on the birthday they shared. Do not let the emotion out.
Finally, the burial service ended. A tapestry of voices broke the quiet. As they walked to the cars—he and Al had to drag Ruth along—Joe prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that he could do something to ease his family’s grief and his own. As a certified clinical psychologist, who happened to work for the Secret Service, he should be able to do something. Maybe he could use Josie’s death to help others. His niece would have liked that.
One way he might do that had been on his mind for a while now, even before Josie was shot. On the short walk to the cars, that plan crystallized. He glanced at his watch.
“You’re not going anywhere, are you, Joey?” Ruth asked. The tree cast her grayish face in shadows, and she swayed like one of the branches.
He remembered so many times in their childhood and adolescence when she’d begged him, Please, don’t leave me alone. Then, it was to protect her from their parents.
“No, Ruthie. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You were on assignment when...” She couldn’t finish the statement.
He tugged her closer and kissed her hair, emotionally ambushed by his sister’s grief. “I’m here for as long as you need me, honey.”
A bleary-eyed Al, still holding on tight to what was left of his family, threw him a grateful look.
Joe would stay in this sleepy Connecticut town for as long as they needed him. But when he was done, he and his boss at the United States Secret Service were going to have a talk.
He slid into the car after his sister. As he slammed the door, he vowed he’d do something in Josie’s name.
It was a promise he intended to keep.
Chapter One
Three years later
“Mrs. Quinn, look at this.” Heather Haywood thrust a flyer in front of Suzanna face, while students rushed around them in the hall to get to class on time. “Everybody wants it. Can we do it? Will you participate?”
As high school principal, Suzanna would have to approve the plan.
After she scanned the paper, she smiled down at her son’s girlfriend. “Yes, Heather, we can do it if the after-prom Senior Bash Committee writes it up formally, gives it to your adviser, Ms. Cunningham, and she says yes.”
The young girl pushed dark bangs off her forehead. “I know that, Mrs. Q. What I really wanna know is if the idea’s okayed, will you sit in the dunking booth?”
And let four hundred members of the senior class take literal potshots at me? Oh, God.
At her hesitation, Heather added, “You want kids to come to the Bash, right? You want them off the streets after the Senior Ball, right? If the principal goes in the dunking booth, everybody’ll come.”
Suzanna chuckled. That was true.
Suddenly Heather looked away, staring blindly at the rows of lockers facing her. “Zach would have loved this idea.”
Suzanna’s laughter disappeared at the mention of one of the most popular boys in Fairholm High School, who’d spearheaded this year’s Bash. No one, including her, had had any idea he’d been carrying around a heart full of sadness until he’d downed a whole tumblerful of pills and died alone in his basement just weeks ago.
Faculty and students alike had been stunned by his death and poleaxed by the sensitive, witty suicide note he left, which included messages to many of his teachers. And to her. Suzanna suffered with the knowledge that she’d failed him; they all had.
Briefly squeezing Heather’s slender arm, Suzanna whispered, “Yes, Zach would want it.”
Heather shook off her sadness. Mischief replaced the gloom on her face. “Maybe even Max Duchamp would come to the Bash.”
“Now that’s a stretch, Heather.” But Suzanna wished it was true. Though he was one of her hard-core cases, she sensed a little boy in him that was still salvageable. Unlike his friend Rush Webster, whom counselors, administrators, and teachers alike thought was a lost cause. She glanced at her watch, shoving Webster’s sneering face out of her mind. She also banished Zach’s choirboy look, which was hard to think about these days. “I’ve got a meeting at the Administration Building.”
Heather’s big blue eyes pleaded with her. Suzanna could see why her son Josh was so besotted, which was just something else to worry about.
“All right. If it goes through the
channels, I’ll sit in the booth.”
Heather threw her arms around Suzanna and hugged her. “You are awesome, Mrs. Quinn.”
It was at moments like these that Suzanna knew she’d made the right decision to take the principal’s job at Fairholm five years ago. Even if she had questioned every single thing she’d done after Zach died. She hugged Heather, and said good-bye.
Hurrying down the hall and out the door, she tugged her leather coat closed over her suit, and tucked in the wool scarf her husband, Lawrence, had bought her in Paris just before he died. The biting late-February wind was arctic cold; midwinter in upstate New York always was. As she walked the short distance to the district offices, she reaffirmed the good she’d done, and thought about what she’d yet to accomplish.
She needed to reach some of the outsider groups like Duchamp and his friends. Max was interested in the military and often wore camouflage to school; his father had been a Vietnam vet. She wondered if she could capitalize on that. And Ben Franzi and his friends were into the Wiccan religion, so other kids tended to ostracize them. She made a note to get some information on that group. Then there were the dyed-in-the-wool geeks, the kids everybody picked on. She’d been hearing some rumors about bullying—especially in gym classes—and had given her assistant principal a directive to investigate them. Since Zach’s death, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t give up on anybody.
She was thinking about how to proceed with these on-the-fringe kids as she signed in at the Ad Building, greeted the receptionist, and made her way to the superintendent’s office.
Dr. Maloney met her at the door. “Hello, Suzanna. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
She smiled. “This summons is unlike you, Ross. What’s up?”
“Let me take your coat,” he said as she entered his spacious office overlooking the track. Scanning the airy room with its oak furniture, rows of bookcases, and a Syracuse University poster on the wall, she caught sight of the other occupants.
Two men. One was slouched over in the chair, his chin buried in a leather bomber jacket, his hands stuck in his pockets. She revised her assessment. This was a student. Ah, probably a new student, despite the fact that it was a month into the semester. A difficult new student, if she’d been called over here to deal with him. Across the room was most likely his father. The boy had dirty blond hair and the dad’s was dark brown, but both had the same square-cut jaw and big build. Though the older man was clearly Wall Street in his Brooks Brothers suit—and his kid would blend right into the Village—they looked related. There must be fireworks at their house.
For a moment, she remembered the quiet harmony of her husband and son, playing chess in front of the fire, laughing over an A&E special, and Lawrence cheering loudly at all of Josh’s basketball games. They’d been so lucky as a family.
“Suzanna. Sit down.” Ross had hung her coat and returned to his desk. His kind brown eyes were troubled and his face wearier, more lined, than usual.
She sat in a comfortable leather chair across from the boy.
“Dr. Stonehouse?” Ross said.
The man at the window had been watching her. “Hello. I’m Joe Stonehouse.” Crossing the short space, towering over her, he held out his hand. Moss-green eyes stared down at her. Up close, she could see some gray in his hair, though not as much as in Ross’s. “Nice to meet you,” he said in a neutral tone. Cold, really.
Grasping his hand, she smiled. “Suzanna Quinn. Nice to meet you, too.” She nodded to the boy in the chair. “Is this your son?”
Something flickered in his eyes. “Ah, no. My nephew.” He glanced across the room. “Stand up and greet your principal.”
The boy shuffled to his feet, obviously against his will. He wasn’t as tall as Stonehouse, about five-ten, but was stocky for a teenager, with weight-lifter muscles. Maybe she could get him into spring sports. His hair was shaggy and in his eyes, so she couldn’t make out their color. “Hey. I’m Luke Ludzecky.”
Everyone sat, Stonehouse a good distance from Luke.
Ross turned to Suzanna. “Dr. Stonehouse and Luke just moved into the district. We asked you to meet with them before Luke starts at the high school for a couple of reasons. One is that he’s had some trouble adjusting in school in the past, and we want to do everything we can to help him be successful this time.”
Like a man accustomed to being in charge, Stonehouse straightened. “Actually, his mother sent him to live with me because he’s been kicked out of every other school he’s attended. She thinks I might be able to help him.”
Luke snorted. Stonehouse glared at him.
Interesting dynamics here, ones Suzanna had seen numerous times. “We’ll look after Luke.” She gave the boy a warm smile, to which he responded with an insolent stare. “I’m sure we can help you be successful this time around. What are your interests?”
“I dunno. Guitar, I guess.”
His uncle put in, “The subjects he does like are history and government.”
“We have great Social Studies electives. And a terrific music program. We might be able to get you some individual lessons on your guitar.”
Stonehouse closed his eyes briefly and sighed. Suzanna hid a smile. The kid probably played an electric guitar that split his uncle’s eardrums and scraped his nerves raw.
Luke stood. “Fine. Thanks.” He turned to his uncle, his demeanor still surly. “I’m goin’.”
Stonehouse gave Luke the look of a drill sergeant assessing his recruits. “All right. Just be careful driving. One more incident and—”
“I know!” Luke snapped. He nodded to Suzanna. “Ciao.”
“See you Monday, Luke,” she called out to his retreating back.
When the boy was gone, Ross shifted in his seat. “Suzanna, I have something else to tell you.” His tone was strained. “Joe Stonehouse has been hired by the district as a temporary crisis counselor for the next few months.”
“Our district?” Usually principals were consulted on the implementation of new programs. They were at least asked for their needs. “Is he assigned to one of the elementary schools?”
“No, he’ll be working in your building, though he won’t be under your supervision. I’ll evaluate him, but his main responsibilities will be at the high school.”
Her spine arched. “Then why wasn’t I consulted on the position?” She nodded to the man. “No offense, Dr. Stonehouse, but I’m always part of the decision-making process on whom we hire. This is highly unusual, Ross.” And the antithesis of what Suzanna believed in and how she ran her school.
Ross seemed uneasy. “Normally we operate that way. But the school board has been tossing around the idea of a position like this since the Riley boy’s suicide.”
“Understandable. Still, you’ve never hired someone to work in my building without my input and a teacher committee’s evaluation of the candidate.”
“I’m sorry. We decided to act fast.”
“That’s obvious.” It doesn’t quite fit, though. And why wouldn’t she supervise this man, as she did the two other school psychologists and the social worker?
Steepling his hands, the superintendent nodded to Stonehouse. “Dr. Stonehouse agrees with us on the need for expediency.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I want all the help I can get. I just wish I’d had some say in whom we chose.”
Stonehouse interrupted. “You’ve had a great deal of loss in your school, Mrs. Quinn. Zachary Riley’s recent suicide, for example. I understand many students were close to him, that he bridged the clique lines. Then there are the hundreds of kids who’ve suffered from the death of a parent, divorce, or broken boy/girl relationships. I agree with the school board that you need more help ASAP.”
“Of course we have those problems. But I don’t understand the rush to get someone without input.” Mine, especially.
Stonehouse glanced at Ross. It was one of those Can’t you control your troops? looks.
Alarm prickle
d inside her. Years of listening to her educator’s intuition kicked in. “Is something going on here I don’t know about?” Suzanna asked bluntly.
“No, of course not. In any case,” Ross said dismissively, “it’s a fait accompli. Dr. Stonehouse starts on Monday.”
Irked, Suzanna stood. “Well, then.” Calling on every ounce of professionalism she had, she extended her hand. “Welcome aboard.”
As Stonehouse stood and shook hands, she tossed Ross a meaningful look. It said, We'll deal with this sometime.
Then she turned and left the office.
Chapter Two
The National Threat Assessment Center, or NTAC, was located on H Street in D.C. Joe remembered when he’d taken Josie here to see where he worked. Because the memory pricked, he shoved it away. He reached the Secret Service building and headed inside. Though it was Sunday night, they had business to take care of. A guard was on duty and he was cleared to enter.
The route to the conference room was familiar, and the smell of lemon wax, cleaning fluid, and leather accompanied him. He’d worked at NTAC, a division of the Secret Service that, among other things, analyzed potential assassins in order to preclude their attacks, for five years before Josie’s death. Afterward, he became part of the Safe School Initiative, which addressed school shooters. Then, at his instigation, and with him at the helm, the School Threat Assessment Team, or STAT, was formed. They collected information about past school shootings and the shooters themselves for the purpose of preventing targeted school violence. They also monitored developing situations in high schools across the country. Toss in the chaos on the global scene and school kids were even more messed up and needed help from adults.
Also, in the event of a serious potential risk, Joe’s team went undercover in the buildings. Which was why he was here tonight. He pushed open the conference room door.
