Lie in Plain Sight by Maggie Barbieri Page B

field. The last year Rebecca had played, a new coach had joined the coaching staff, a young guy—too young as far as Maeve was concerned, a little too close in age to her almost-eighteen-year-old—who ran the girls ragged at practice and demanded nothing less than perfection, both on the field and off. There had been curfews and grade minimums, uniform checks—more than one of which Rebecca failed because Maeve was incapable of getting grass stains out of white shorts, no matter how hard she tried—and a host of other requirements. Team dinners. Big buddies. Study partners. Running drills. Maeve could never keep track of what was required and what was optional, and apparently neither could Rebecca, because she did everything he asked and more, going so far as being the equipment manager in her senior year, long after she should have been saddled with that responsibility.
    She had to say this for the guy: He was good-looking. Running around in his baggy soccer shorts, a loose Arsenal jersey on his thin frame, David Barnham was the all-American boy type that every woman found attractive, even Maeve, even though she was dating a meaty Germanic type who looked like he would be just as comfortable behind the counter of a butcher shop wearing a white apron as in the sport coat and dress slacks he wore to his actual job. Barnham ran up and down the field with the girls, blowing a whistle every now and again to stop the play, to instruct the girls on the field.
    Maeve pulled out her phone. It was the rare occurrence when she called one of her girls and she answered the phone; today, she was in luck. Hell must be freezing over, she thought as Rebecca answered, breathless and on her way somewhere, the sound of cars in the background.
    â€œCan you talk for a minute?” Maeve asked.
    â€œThat’s exactly what I have,” Rebecca said. “I’m almost to the library. I’m behind on a paper.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll make it brief. I don’t know if you saw the news, but—”
    â€œYes. Taylor.”
    â€œRight. You played soccer together, didn’t you?”
    â€œShe was a midfielder.”
    â€œAnything else you remember?”
    â€œI’ve gotta go, Mom. What are you asking?”
    â€œAnything else? Happy? Sad? Popular? Unpopular?”
    â€œNot sure ‘popular’ is the right word,” Rebecca said, but there was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “And one of Mr. Barnham’s favorites.”
    Maeve detected a subtext. “What do you mean?”
    â€œHe had parties. Invitation only. She was on the list.”
    Maeve felt that familiar tingle in her gut, her mouth going dry. “Parties?” She wondered why this was the first time she was hearing about this, and then wasn’t surprised that it was. That last year Rebecca had played soccer, Maeve had been preoccupied a lot of the time, her father the lead suspect in a murder investigation despite his failing faculties, her attempts to keep him out of jail alternately ham-fisted and brilliant. “Did you go to these parties?” Maeve asked, her eyes zeroing in on Mr. Barnham, her mind whirling with thoughts of just how she would kill him, how she could isolate him and remove him as a threat once and for all.
    â€œNo!” Rebecca said. “Even if I had been invited, I wouldn’t have gone.”
    â€œWhat happened at the parties?” Maeve asked, not sure she wanted to know.
    â€œNothing that I heard of.”
    â€œTell me the truth.”
    â€œI am telling the truth,” Rebecca said. “I would have heard. I would have known. But I still thought it was weird. He’s single. No wife. Just weird that he would have girls over.”
    â€œNo assistant coach?” Maeve asked.
    â€œNope.” Rebecca had reached her destination. “I’ve gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
    But Maeve knew she wouldn’t and she would have to track Rebecca