back, which added fifty yards of rain and chill to her 72
RED 1–2–3
exposed travel. There was nothing she could do about this, so Mrs. Big Bad Wolf slid her car into the space, gathered her satchel, and maneuvered out of her door, trying to get a small umbrella raised before she got soaked.
She immediately stepped into a puddle, and cursed. Then she hurried across the lot, head down, making for the school administration building.
She hung her damp coat on a hook by the door and slid behind her desk, hoping that the dean wouldn’t notice she was a little late.
He emerged from his office—her desk guarded the entry—and shook his head, but not at her tardiness or at the lousy weather that was turning the school into a dark and dreary place. He had a file in his hand and he seemed dismayed.
“Can you send a message to Miss Jordan Ellis?” he said. “Have her come in this afternoon to see me during a free period, or maybe after her basketball practice?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf replied. “Is it urgent?”
“More of the same,” the dean said ruefully. “She’s doing poorly in every subject and now Mr. and Mrs. Ellis want me to referee their custody battle, which will only make matters significantly worse.” He managed a wan smile. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if some of these parents just left their children alone and let us deal with them?”
This was a familiar complaint and a prayer that never had any realistic chance of being answered.
“I’ll see that she’s here to see you today,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf replied.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding. He glanced down at the sheaf of papers in his hand and shrugged. “Don’t you just hate it when seniors throw their futures away?” he asked. This was a rhetorical question, and one that Mrs.
Big Bad Wolf understood didn’t need answering. Of course everyone hated it when seniors did poorly. They struggled in school and then got into lower-tier colleges, and that skewed the school’s Ivy League statistics. She watched as he retreated back into his office, still clutching the file, although eventually it, and all the confidential information it contained, would arrive on her desk for sorting away in a large black steel file cabinet in the corner of the room. It had a combination lock. 8-17-96. Her wedding day.
73
9
Sarah Locksley shifted about uncomfortably in her seat. She was dizzy, twitching, and felt both exhausted and energized, as if the two opposing sensations could happily coexist within her. Every second that passed was boring and exciting. She felt on the verge of something, whether it was passing out unconscious for twenty-four hours or taking aim and shooting the next person—who would be the first person in weeks—to knock on her door.
Over-the-counter NoDoz, Stolichnaya vodka and fresh orange juice, a large supply of candy bars, packaged donuts, and sweet rolls, and an occasional peanut-butter-covered banana had fueled her over the past few days. Fattening, calorie-filled, but she felt like she hadn’t gained a pound.
She wanted to laugh out loud. She imagined a cynical advertising copy-writer: The dead woman’s diet. Just have an anonymous someone threaten to kill you and watch the pounds melt away!
She had placed a stiff chair in a spot where she could cover both the front of the house and much of the kitchen entranceway in the rear, and she had arranged a few pillows and an old sleeping bag nearby, so that when she’d had to sleep, snatching a few hours from night, she’d been able to tumble 74
RED 1–2–3
half-drugged and half-drunk into the makeshift bed. She was avoiding her bedroom. There was something frightening about concealing herself inside the place she’d shared with her husband. The room seemed suddenly prison-like and she was determined that she would not allow herself to be murdered in the place where she had once known so much pleasure.
She knew this seemed totally crazy, but crazy was a
RED 1–2–3
exposed travel. There was nothing she could do about this, so Mrs. Big Bad Wolf slid her car into the space, gathered her satchel, and maneuvered out of her door, trying to get a small umbrella raised before she got soaked.
She immediately stepped into a puddle, and cursed. Then she hurried across the lot, head down, making for the school administration building.
She hung her damp coat on a hook by the door and slid behind her desk, hoping that the dean wouldn’t notice she was a little late.
He emerged from his office—her desk guarded the entry—and shook his head, but not at her tardiness or at the lousy weather that was turning the school into a dark and dreary place. He had a file in his hand and he seemed dismayed.
“Can you send a message to Miss Jordan Ellis?” he said. “Have her come in this afternoon to see me during a free period, or maybe after her basketball practice?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf replied. “Is it urgent?”
“More of the same,” the dean said ruefully. “She’s doing poorly in every subject and now Mr. and Mrs. Ellis want me to referee their custody battle, which will only make matters significantly worse.” He managed a wan smile. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if some of these parents just left their children alone and let us deal with them?”
This was a familiar complaint and a prayer that never had any realistic chance of being answered.
“I’ll see that she’s here to see you today,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf replied.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding. He glanced down at the sheaf of papers in his hand and shrugged. “Don’t you just hate it when seniors throw their futures away?” he asked. This was a rhetorical question, and one that Mrs.
Big Bad Wolf understood didn’t need answering. Of course everyone hated it when seniors did poorly. They struggled in school and then got into lower-tier colleges, and that skewed the school’s Ivy League statistics. She watched as he retreated back into his office, still clutching the file, although eventually it, and all the confidential information it contained, would arrive on her desk for sorting away in a large black steel file cabinet in the corner of the room. It had a combination lock. 8-17-96. Her wedding day.
73
9
Sarah Locksley shifted about uncomfortably in her seat. She was dizzy, twitching, and felt both exhausted and energized, as if the two opposing sensations could happily coexist within her. Every second that passed was boring and exciting. She felt on the verge of something, whether it was passing out unconscious for twenty-four hours or taking aim and shooting the next person—who would be the first person in weeks—to knock on her door.
Over-the-counter NoDoz, Stolichnaya vodka and fresh orange juice, a large supply of candy bars, packaged donuts, and sweet rolls, and an occasional peanut-butter-covered banana had fueled her over the past few days. Fattening, calorie-filled, but she felt like she hadn’t gained a pound.
She wanted to laugh out loud. She imagined a cynical advertising copy-writer: The dead woman’s diet. Just have an anonymous someone threaten to kill you and watch the pounds melt away!
She had placed a stiff chair in a spot where she could cover both the front of the house and much of the kitchen entranceway in the rear, and she had arranged a few pillows and an old sleeping bag nearby, so that when she’d had to sleep, snatching a few hours from night, she’d been able to tumble 74
RED 1–2–3
half-drugged and half-drunk into the makeshift bed. She was avoiding her bedroom. There was something frightening about concealing herself inside the place she’d shared with her husband. The room seemed suddenly prison-like and she was determined that she would not allow herself to be murdered in the place where she had once known so much pleasure.
She knew this seemed totally crazy, but crazy was a
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