had been married, when she’d immigrated to Canada, how big her family was, and so on. Through it all, Striker kept reflecting on what losing Courtney would have done to him, had she been one of the fallen.
It was a thought that left him feeling sick.
They reached the end of the garden where a row of bare thornbushes surrounded a lone cherry blossom tree. The tree was large, easily thirty feet tall. Oddly, it was still in bloom, with many of the blossoms having fallen to the ground, mottling the half-frozen grass and bark mulch in pink tones.
Doris stooped to pick one up. She rubbed the petals between her fingers and murmured, ‘This was her favourite, the cherry blossom.’
‘I can see why.’
As she stood there, looking at the beautiful pink flower in her hand, all of a sudden Striker saw the other side of her. There was frailness there. Like a piece of rubber band that was stretched too far and trembling from the pressure. It pained him to push her any further. But it was necessary.
He turned to face her. ‘Mrs Chow, have you thought about why? Why Tina?’
She looked up. ‘There is no reason. Just evil kids with guns. They were shooting everyone.’
Striker met her stare, shook his head. ‘There’s more to it, I’m afraid. I think Tina was targeted.’
Doris’s face paled. ‘Targeted?’
‘Yes. Would you have any idea why?’
‘But there were so many kids…’
‘A lot of kids were shot, Mrs Chow, yes, I know. But from the evidence I’ve seen, three of those kids were targeted specifically. Tina was one of them. So was Conrad MacMillan. And Chantelle O’Riley.’
Doris’s face twitched, but she managed to answer and maintain her composure.
‘But my daughter didn’t socialise with those kids. I’d never even met Margaret before this morning.’
‘I know that, and that’s why this investigation is so hard. There’s a common connection here somewhere, and we have to find it.’
Doris looked away towards the mountains. The soft fall wind blew her hair back, but the scrunchie kept all but a few hairs tucked in place. She stood there for a long moment, and Striker allowed her the silence. When she spoke again, she seemed flustered.
‘I’m sorry, my mind is racing. I can’t seem to take it all in.’
Striker helped her out. ‘I’ve heard Tina was part of a Debate Club?’
This seemed to give Doris a jolt. ‘The Debate Club. Oh, yes. She loved it so much! She excelled at using her mind, and she made friends through it. Had some wonderful experiences. They took a trip, you know, last September. All the kids went. Twelve of them, I think.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘Hong Kong. Tina was so excited, she talked about it for weeks.’ The memory brought a weak grin to the woman’s lips, and she laughed sadly. ‘If there was one thing my daughter was good at, it was talking.’
‘What did they debate, here and in Hong Kong?’
She shrugged. ‘Normally, they would debate anything that was pertinent. And hot — they liked hot topics. Abortion. The death penalty. Assisted suicide. When they went to Hong Kong, the topic was freedom and world religions. National sovereignty. The debate was on China’s rule over Tibet. It caused quite a stir — they had to cut the tournament short.’
‘Why?’
‘They didn’t say.’
Striker thought this over. ‘Did Tina speak on the subject?’
‘They all did, as far as I know.’
‘But you weren’t there?’
She shook her head. ‘No, only Principal Myers went.’
Striker wrote this down in his notebook.
‘Do you have any children, Detective Striker?’ Tina Chow suddenly asked.
Striker thought of how Courtney had known Tina, a small fact Doris was obviously unaware of. ‘A daughter, yes. She goes to Saint Patrick’s.’
This seemed to shock the woman. ‘She is… okay?’
‘She was skipping class yesterday.’
Doris smiled, as if this was funny. She let out a soft laugh, then suppressed another cry. The pink petal fell from her hand and blew away in the gentle breeze. Blew away as easily as Tina Chow’s life had blown away just twenty-four hours ago.
Striker saw her face quiver, saw how she was slowly losing the battle with her composure.
‘I’m sorry,’ he offered quietly.
Doris nodded and the tears finally came, running freely down her thin, pale cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible.
‘Enjoy every day with her, Detective,’ she said. ‘Every minute, every second. And appreciate her. Appreciate all the small things.. you never know when they’ll be taken away.’
Thirty-Six
For the third time in ten minutes, the phone rang, and Courtney finally dragged herself out of bed to look at the call display. The bedroom drapes had blocked out the sun and kept everything dark, and the laminate floors were cold against the soft flesh of her feet as she lumbered down the hall into the living room.
She hoped the call was from Raine. Unlike everyone else, Raine understood her. How couldn’t she? They had a connection, a unique bond. Courtney had lost her mother just two years ago, and Raine had lost her dad last year when her parents broke up and he moved away to Hong Kong. It made their friendship like a kinship. Kind of.
Like sisters.
The living room was no warmer than the bedroom, though brighter with the sun pouring in. It smelled of woodsmoke and whisky and lemons. Courtney passed the coffee table where Dad and Felicia’s mugs still stood and picked up the phone. She stared at the small screen.
Missed call.
She hit the missed calls button and saw Dad Cell spread across the screen. God, he was stubborn. She scrolled down and found the same listing three more times. Totally stubborn. Stubborn as hell.
She put the phone back on its cradle, then spotted her cell phone lying in the middle of the room, just in front of the fireplace. The phone was flipped open, the grey casing cracked down the side from where it had slammed into the wall. It made her angry all over again because she hadn’t even finished paying off the damn thing, and she would never have reacted like that, were it not for Felicia.
She picked up the cell, powered it on, and was happy to see it still worked. There were nine missed calls. All but two were from friends she had at school. No doubt they wanted to talk about the shootings.
Courtney erased every one of them from the phone’s memory. She had no interest in talking about the shootings. Not now, not ever.
All it did was remind her of Mom.
The last two calls were the only ones she cared about. Both were from Raine. The first had come in late last night, at two-fourteen a.m. The last one had come in about a half hour ago.
Courtney called back, got the answering machine: ‘Leave a message, but don’t Raine on my parade.’
That always made Courtney smile. ‘It’s the Court,’ she said. ‘I’m up. Gimme a call.’
She hung up, hoped her message sounded cool, hoped her tag name wasn’t getting lame, and she linked her cell to the charger. As she tried to think up a new nickname — something cooler than The Court — thoughts of breakfast ran through her mind. She decided to skip it. Her stomach wasn’t ready.
She turned on the TV, and saw the shootings on every channel. Police, paramedics, teachers — all running and screaming, some crying. There were quick flashes of blood with every scene. Carnage. The sight made her heart race, made her feel sick.
Looking away, she hit Input 2, so there was no chance of catching any more news channels. As far as she
