Immediately slowing to a stroll, Casey forces a smile and a casual “Morning.”
“Morning.” Bearded and burly, albeit much younger than he looks from afar, the man nods and goes on his way, apparently unaware that he’s just encountered a trespasser.
Heart pounding, Casey follows the hallway to the end and turns, passing the gym, the auditorium, and the music room. All is shadowy and still. A window overlooking the back parking lot reveals Mr. Wholesome & Hearty rolling a fresh load of supplies toward the door as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.
Casey stays and watches until he returns again, this time to load the hand cart into the back of the truck and secure the doors. Then he climbs into the cab and drives away, obviously none the wiser.
Safe. For now, anyway.
Casey moves on to the stairwell and ascends to another deserted hallway lined with lockers and classroom doors. This is where Rowan’s room is located, marked by the cardboard pencil cutout. Noting with interest that something is hanging from the doorknob, Casey walks closer and sees that it’s a small gift bag imprinted with snowflakes. The matching gift tag is filled out in round, perfect penmanship.
To: Rowan
From: Your Secret Santa
A second golden opportunity.
Casey seizes it, opening the bag and finding a tube of almond--scented hand lotion—-Rowan’s favorite. She’s been using it for years.
But I’ve got a much better gift for you.
Out of Casey’s pocket and into the bag it goes.
A few minutes later, Casey is back in the van, weaving through the still quiet streets. Here a dog walker, there a jogger, and another, and another . . .
Driving past a female jogger on Prospect Street, Casey spots a long red braid dangling beneath the rim of her backward baseball cap. Belated recognition comes courtesy of the rearview mirror: the cute redheaded waitress from the restaurant where Mick works.
Brianna. Beautiful Brianna, with the long red hair and the fair, freckled skin. A perfect stand--in.
The hunger gains a stranglehold on Casey’s soul.
If something were to happen to her now, Mick would be crushed with grief. And then to lose his mother on the heels of it . . .
Hmm. Casey circles back around the corner to drive by her again, this time slowing the van to a crawl.
Plugged into headphones, the girl is oblivious.
Casey clenches the steering wheel, running through possible scenarios.
A third golden opportunity in one morning shouldn’t be taken for granted, and yet . . .
Mundy’s Landing is supposed to be off limits until it’s time. Time for Rowan.
It would be so easy, though, to pull up at the curb just ahead of the girl and then pull her into the van when she passes. So easy, and so perfect . . .
“Wow—-I thought I smelled bacon but I figured I must be dreaming!”
Standing at the stove, Rowan turns to see Jake walking into the kitchen, black suit coat slung over one arm as he expertly knots his red necktie.
“Meatloaf for dinner last night and bacon for breakfast? Are you trying to kill me?”
She turns over a sizzling strip in the frying pan. “Eh, a little meat never killed anyone.”
“Liar. But since you’re dishing up hot breakfasts, I might throw in a -couple of eggs to go with—-wow,” he says again, spotting the second skillet. “What’s that?”
“An omelet.” She gestures at the cutting board, still littered with the remnants of all the vegetables she’d chopped. “Scallions, red and green peppers, mushrooms, and cheddar.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. I just thought you and Mick deserved a real breakfast for a change.”
“Mick left.”
“He left? What do you mean?”
“While you were in the shower. He said he had to be at school early today. I told him I’d drive him but he had a ride.”
“From who . . . m?” she amends. Noreen would say whom.