piano lesson at five. But he couldn’t seem to make himself leave, and he thought maybe he wasn’t supposed to.
The light was fading in the thick woods. Somewhere out there was a mad dog, and maybe even a murderer. He didn’t want to walk home anymore.
The adults on the other side of the tape weren’t paying any attention to him or Wendy. Dennis hung around just outside the tape, trying to get a better look as the deputies did their jobs.
Cody Roache had run all the way back to the street and nearly got himself run over by Dennis’s father in his squad car. Tommy had heard the deputies telling each other. Mr. Farman had come straight to the scene, but Cody had not come back.
“I wonder who she is,” Wendy said quietly. She sat on the stump of a tree that had been cut down over the summer. “I wonder how she died.”
“Somebody killed her,” Tommy said.
“I think I want to go home now,” Wendy said. “Don’t you?”
Tommy didn’t answer her. He felt like he was inside of a bubble, and if he tried to move the bubble would burst and all sorts of feelings would wash over him and drown him.
People had come into the park to see what was going on. They stood up on the bank—teenagers, a mailman, one of the janitors from school.
As he watched them, Miss Navarre appeared at the edge of the group. She spotted him and Wendy right away and made her way down to them.
“Are you guys all right?” she asked.
“Tommy fell on a dead person!” Wendy said.
Tommy said nothing. He had started to shake all over. Inside his head all he could see was the dead woman’s face—the blood, the gash in her cheek, the ants crawling on her.
“A deputy came into the school and said something had happened,” Miss Navarre said, looking over at the place where the dead lady was. She turned back then and touched Tommy’s forehead and brushed some dead leaves out of his hair. “You’re really pale, Tommy. You should sit down.”
Dutifully he sat down on the stump beside Wendy. Miss Navarre looked as pale as either of them, but there was no more room on the stump.
“Tell me what happened,” she said.
The tale spilled out of Wendy like rushing water. When she came to the part where Tommy fell on the grave, Miss Navarre closed her eyes and said, “Oh my God.”
She bent down to Tommy’s level and looked him straight in the eyes. “Are you all right?”
Tommy gave the smallest nod. “I’m okay.”
His voice sounded like it came from far away.
“Wait here,” she said. “I’m going to ask the deputies if I can take you home.”
She walked over to the yellow tape stretched between the trees and tried to get the attention of Dennis Farman’s dad, who seemed to be the big shot on the scene.
The two exchanged words. Miss Navarre gestured toward Dennis. Farman’s father shook his head. They were arguing. Tommy could tell by the way they were standing—Miss Navarre with her hands on her hips, Mr. Farman puffing himself up and leaning over her. Then Miss Navarre raised a hand and ended the discussion.
She was angry when she came back, although she did her best to hide it. Tommy could feel it all around her like frozen air.
“Come on,” she said, reaching out her hands to them. “I’m taking you home.”
At ten Tommy generally considered himself too old to hold hands with an adult. He couldn’t remember the last time his mother had held his hand. Kindergarten, maybe. But he didn’t feel so grown-up now, and he took Miss Navarre’s soft, smooth hand and held on tight as she led them away from the terrible scene and out of the woods.
But the scene came with Tommy, stuck in his head; he felt sick at the idea that it might never go away.
4
Anne Navarre felt herself shaking inside as she walked away from Frank Farman and the crime scene her students had stumbled upon—shaking from the shock of what she had just seen, shaking with anger at Frank Farman. He was too busy to deal with her. He would take care of his own kid in his own time—as if he thought letting his son watch the exhumation of a corpse would be good for him. Asshole.
She had already encountered Farman at a parent-teacher conference. He was the kind of man who only heard the sound of his own voice and would likely have gone to his grave swearing the sun rose in the west rather than agree with a woman.
Just like her father.
For the moment she couldn’t examine the deeper cause of the trembling: seeing a murder victim—a woman killed and discarded like a broken doll—and knowing her students had seen it too.
She led Wendy and Tommy out of the park and back to the school, where she sat them down in the office and used a phone to call their parents.
Anne told Wendy’s mother as little as possible, just that there had been an incident in the park and that she was bringing Wendy home.
The Cranes’ phone was answered by a machine. She left the same message with as little detail as possible.
The children were quiet as Anne drove. She didn’t know what to say to them. That everything would be all right? Their lives had just been changed. That was the truth. They would be seeing a dead woman’s face in their dreams for years to come.
Anne scrambled through her memory for some kind of guidance. Her studies in child psychology seemed gone from her head now. She had never finished her graduate work, had never worked in a clinical setting. She had no frame of reference for this situation. Five years of teaching fifth grade hadn’t prepared her for this.
Maybe she should have been asking them questions, drawing them out, encouraging them to release their emotions. Maybe she was too busy holding on to her own.
Sara Morgan was waiting on the front step when Anne pulled into the driveway. Wendy’s mother was a tall and athletic adult version of her daughter, with cornflower blue eyes and a thick mane of wavy blonde hair. She was in a blue T-shirt and faded denim overalls with the legs rolled up to reveal white socks with lace cuffs. There were tears in her eyes and uncertainty in her expression.
“Oh my God,” she said as Anne and Wendy got out of the car. “My neighbor told me there was a murder in the park. He’s eighty-five and he’s in a wheelchair, and he listens to a police scanner,” she rambled. “Was Wendy there? Did she see what happened? Wendy!”
Wendy trotted into her mother’s arms as Sara Morgan dropped down on one knee.
“Are you all right, baby?” She scanned her daughter for any sign of damage.
“We were running, and then we fell down a hill, and then—and then—” Wendy gulped for air. “Tommy fell right on her! He fell right on a dead lady! It was so gross!”
“Oh my God!”
“And Dennis kept trying to touch her. He’s so sick!”
Sara Morgan looked up at Anne. “Who was it? How did she—Was she shot or—or what?”
“I don’t know,” Anne said. “I’m sure they won’t release any details for a while.”
“And there was this dog,” Wendy went on. “Like a wild dog. And he growled at us, and Dennis said maybe the dog killed the lady—”
“A dog?” her mother said. “What kind of a dog? Was it foaming at the mouth? Did you touch it?”
“No! It ran away.”
“It could have had rabies! Are you sure you didn’t touch it?”
“I didn’t touch it!” Wendy insisted.
Sara Morgan raked a handful of blonde mane back from her face and looked at Anne. “What’s going to
