But then Theo Burton walked through the door, and the tension drained from my shoulders. On the way to his desk, he stood in front of the class for a beat. “The cops are crawling the front office,” he said, like he was in charge. His collar popped up, his shoes unscuffed. Too civilized, Theo Burton in real life.
If this were my second-period class, they’d tell me what had happened, unprompted. They were all freshmen and treated me like a confidante. Third period would welcome any excuse to veer off-topic, so I could ask them without feeling at a disadvantage. But my first period had decided at the start of the year to rebel, and I’d never recovered. If I thought they were either bright enough or organized enough, I would’ve given them credit for planning it together. A coordinated attack.
But the mistake had been of my own making, as was the story of my current life. My first day of teaching, I’d introduced myself and told them I had just moved from Boston. I thought kids in a place like this—living in a town on the downswing suddenly given a jolt of new life—might be impressed. I thought I had them all figured out.
A girl in the back row had yawned, so I’d added, I worked as a journalist, thinking that might lend some authority. And that girl who’d been yawning, her head snapped up, and she grinned like a cat with a canary dangling between her front teeth. Her name, I soon learned, was Izzy Marone, and she said, “Is this your first year teaching?”
I had been here three minutes and I’d already made a mistake. There was no reason for them to think I was a new teacher at thirty. That I was starting my life over, having failed at the first half.
There were four ninety-minute blocks in the school day, but first period still felt twice as long as the rest.
Izzy Marone was currently holding court around her desk, chairs pulled closer, boys leaning nearer. Theo Burton reached across the gap and placed his fingers on the ridge of her cheekbone, speaking directly into her ear. Her face was grave.
I decided to try for Molly Laughlin, who was on the outskirts, both physically and metaphorically, hoping everyone else was too wrapped up in the whispers to notice. “What happened?” I asked. I prided myself on finding sources and getting them to talk, and she was an easy pick. I think I got her with the shock of it—that I’d asked her outright.
She opened her mouth as my class speaker crackled on.
“Ms. Stevens?” The assistant principal’s voice silenced the room.
“Yes, Mr. Sheldon?” I responded.
It had taken me a few weeks to catch on to this quirk, that teachers spoke to each other like this, whether it was over speakers where students could hear or out in the halls, alone. I couldn’t get used to adults going by last names like this, all antiquated formality.
“You’re needed for a moment in the office.” Mitch Sheldon’s voice echoed through the room.
I became aware of the stillness and the silence behind me, the twenty-four pairs of ears, listening, wanting.
The police were in the office, and they needed me.
I raised my hand to my mouth, was surprised to notice my fingers were trembling. I went for my purse in the locked desk drawer at the side of the room, taking my time. Realizing they all knew something I didn’t.
The lock stuck twice before the drawer slid open.
Izzy turned to me, frowned at my shaking hands. “You heard?” she asked.
“Heard what?” I said.
For all the pretense of gravity she was trying to interject, it was obvious from the quirk of her lips that she was about to take great pleasure in telling me this. As if she knew I had no idea. I steeled myself once more.
“Coach Cobb was just arrested for assault,” she said.
Oh. Shit.
She got me.
CHAPTER 4
Davis Cobb was the reason I’d begun leaving my phone on silent at night. I ignored his calls every time they came through—always after eleven P.M., always after I assumed he’d been down at the bar and was walking back home. Always the same thing, anyway.
Davis Cobb owned the Laundromat in town and moonlighted as the school’s basketball coach, but I didn’t know either of those things when I first met him while filling out paperwork down at the county office.
I’d thought he was a teacher. Everyone seemed to know him. Everyone seemed to like him. They said, Hey, Davis, have you met Leah? You’ll be working together come fall, and he’d smiled.
He’d offered a drink at the nearest bar—he had a ring on his finger, it was the middle of the day, You can follow me in your car. It seemed like a friendly welcome-to-town offer. He seemed like a lot of things—until he showed up at my door one night.
I passed Kate (Ms. Turner) on her way down the hall in the opposite direction. Her brow was furrowed, and at first she didn’t notice me. But then she stopped, grabbed my arm as we brushed by each other, passed a quick secret: “They want to know if Davis Cobb has ever done anything inappropriate toward us. It was quick. Really quick.”
My stomach twisted, thinking of what evidence they might already have that might drag me into this. The recent calls. His phone records. If that was the reason the overhead speaker had crackled my name.
“You okay?” she asked, as if she could read something in my silence. After the last few months of working across the hall from me, she had become a friendly face throughout the chaos of the day. Now I worried she could see even more.
“This whole thing is weird,” I said, trying to channel her same perplexed expression. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
Inside the front office area, Mitch Sheldon was posted outside the conference room door, arms crossed like a security guard, feet planted firmly apart, even in khaki pants, even in men’s loafers. He dropped his arms when he saw me approaching. Mitch was the closest thing I had to a mentor here, and a friend, but I didn’t know what to make of his expression just yet.
The door was open behind him, and I counted at least two men in dark jackets at the oval table, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups. “What happened?” I asked.
“Jesus Christ,” Mitch said, lowering his voice and leaning closer. “They picked up Davis Cobb for assault this morning. First I’m hearing of it, too. The calls from the media and parents started as soon as I got here.”
The reception area with the glass windows that faced the school entrance was crawling with cops, like Theo had said. But there were no other teachers roaming the area up front, or in the hallway with the offices behind reception, where we now stood. Just Mitch, just me.
Mitch nodded toward the door. “They asked for you.” He swallowed. “They’re interviewing all the women, but they asked for you by name.”
A question, bordering on an accusation. “Thanks, Mitch.”
I shut the door behind me as I entered the room. I had been wrong—there were three people in the room. Two men in attire so similar it must’ve been department protocol, and a woman in plainclothes.
The man closest to me stood and did a double take. “Leah Stevens?” he asked, his badge visible at his belt.