“All?”
“Me and my brother . . . and my mom was, too, before she died.”
“And she took her own life, just as your stepfather did?”
“Yes.” He finally manages to swallow. Hard. Remembering. “Exactly the same way. Exactly. She slit her wrists with a razor. Rick’s razor.”
The moment Ora Abrams told Rowan the snowflake was a piece of Victorian mourning jewelry and made of human hair—-red hair—-she knew it had to be from Rick. She has no idea how he got it to her classroom doorknob, but there isn’t a doubt in her mind that he managed.
“I’ve always had a thing for redheads,” he’d said on Saturday.
Not only that, but he’d remembered her passion for the Victorian era.
This is creepy. He’s gone too far. She’s got to talk to Noreen about it. Maybe there’s some legal action she can take against him.
That would mean Jake will have to be told, but she was already prepared to tell him tonight anyway. She owes him the truth, even if it is fourteen years late in coming.
As Ora steers the group from the front parlor to the back, Rowan whispers to one of the chaperones that she has to step outside for a moment. The kids will be so engrossed in the array of antiques beneath the tree—-tin soldiers and porcelain dolls, a rocking horse and an elaborate little theater complete with puppets—-that they’ll never notice she’s gone.
Out on the porch, she sees that snow has begun swirling in the air. A police car is parked down the street with its red lights flashing. The officer behind the wheel has his window open and is talking to a pair of pedestrians.
They must still be looking for the missing girl. Rowan had temporarily forgotten all about that. Now, well aware that it’s most likely one of her former students, she feels a renewed sense of concern. What if the girl didn’t just take off to visit her college boyfriend? What if . . .
No. Rowan shakes her head, pulling her cell phone from her pocket. One crisis at a time.
Waiting the few seconds for her phone to power up so that she can call Noreen, she gingerly unpins the brooch from her coat.
This isn’t a crisis. But it’s just as disturbing to think that it’s made from someone’s hair as it is to imagine Rick Walker violating her professional space the way he’s violated—-
Her phone buzzes to life and she sees that a text came in a little while ago.
Speak of the devil. It’s from Rick.
It’s about damned time.
As she reads it, her anger gives way to a new wave of concern.
We have to talk. I’m driving up there this afternoon. I’ll text you when I get there.
Mick shouldn’t have bothered going to class after seeing Brianna’s friends crying in the office.
He should have marched right in there and demanded that someone tell him what’s going on. Instead, his feet went on autopilot and carried him to the next classroom on his daily schedule. All he has to show for it now is a failing grade on a quiz that was handed back, a late slip that needs to be signed by his first--period teacher in order to avoid detention, and a pounding headache courtesy of staring unflinchingly at the teacher for the past forty--four minutes.
Brianna must be sicker than he thought. Maybe she has some kind of horribly contagious disease, or—-God forbid—-cancer.
Whatever it is, he’s certain she can get through it, and he’ll be with her every step of the way.
The moment the bell rings, he rushes out into the hall and heads toward the office, intending to burst in and demand some answers. Halfway there, his friend Van flags him down.
“Mick . . . did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Brianna Armbruster disappeared.”
“What?”
“No one’s seen her in a -couple of days. She’s gone.”
Gone . . . gone . . . gone . . .