Amy read Hilary's status on Facebook, which had been posted from a cell phone only a few minutes earlier. Hilary had written:
She didn't have any trouble understanding what Hilary meant. The previous year, she had followed the trail of events on Hilary's page as her husband faced accusations of having an affair with a student. Now it was deja vu.
Amy clicked on one of the photos on Hilary's profile, which showed Mark Bradley painting on a Door County beach. Amy had barely known Mark in Chicago, but the girls who had had him as a substitute teacher had all fallen for him. He was the kind of teacher who inspired crushes. The strong, sensitive type. Handsome. Creative. He had it all. You wanted romance, but you also wanted someone who would make you feel safe in a dark alley. That was Mark Bradley.
Amy thought about what her roommate had said. You can't judge people just by looking at them. She hated to think that her head was upside down about Glory's death. Gary Jensen might be nothing more than an innocent man whose wife had died in an accident, leaving him alone and bereft. Mark Bradley, solid, sexy, married to Amy's idol, might be the evil one. The killer. That was the obvious answer, and the obvious answer was usually the truth.
You can't trust your instincts. Katie was probably right about that, too. Amy didn't have anything except her instincts to tell her what to think. She knew Hilary. Through her, she felt as if she knew Mark. She knew Gary, too.
Instincts.
Amy thought about sending Hilary a message on Facebook, to let her know that she was thinking about her and Mark. She wondered if she should mention her suspicions, but she didn't. Instead, she closed her computer and picked up her cell phone from the desk. She hesitated before dialing. Her breathing came faster. She felt the way she did before stepping out on to the floor of the arena for a performance.
'Amy, what the hell are you doing?' she asked herself aloud.
Rather than answer herself, she punched the buttons on the phone and waited. When he answered, she heard the slippery charm in his voice, and her skin crawled.
It was Glory Fischer I saw you with. I know it was.
'Gary? It's Amy Leigh.'
Gary Jensen had no problem picturing Amy's face and body when she called. She was one of the girls he most enjoyed watching during her workouts in the gym. He liked it when her face glowed with the sweat of her routines and her legs and arms bulged with strength. She had full breasts, which were usually the enemy of a dancer, and even a tight bra couldn't stop them from swaying seductively. Her blonde hair would grow damp and paste itself to her skin. She was very attractive.
He knew she didn't like him. She'd never made a secret of it. She listened to him and followed his instructions as a coach, but she was cold whenever he talked to her. Most of the girls played the game with him and flirted back at him when he made his advances, but Amy never did. He was surprised and curious to get her call.
'Hello, Amy,' he said. 'What's up?'
'I have some ideas for new moves,' she told him. 'Some really hot stuff. I figure we're going to have to take it up a notch to win next year, right?'
'That's true,' he said, listening to the pitch of her voice. She spoke haltingly, which was unusual for Amy. She was typically among the most confident girls on his team.
'I was thinking, maybe I could talk to you about it,' she went on. 'Maybe we could get together.'
'Of course,' Gary said. 'I'd like that.'
'Could we meet somewhere tomorrow?'
'I wish I could, but tomorrow's not good for me. I have a meeting outside the city. What about Thursday night? I'm going to be reviewing videotapes of the dance performances from the competition. Why don't you come by my house, and we'll look at them together? I'd like your input.'
He heard hesitation on the other end of the line. Then she said, 'Yeah, all right. I'll do that.'
'You know where I live, don't you? It's near the end of Bay Settlement across from the county park.'
'I know it.' He expected her to hang up, but she added after a long pause, 'Hey, Gary, I know I should have asked this before, but how are you?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, it hasn't been very long since you — you know, since you lost your wife, and I know how hard that was. I felt really bad for you. I just wanted to make sure you're OK.'
'That's kind of you to say, Amy. I wouldn't say I'm OK, but I'm dealing with it.'
'Good.'
'I'll see you on Thursday.'
He hung up the phone. He stroked his chin with two fingers, thinking about the girl's nervous manner and wondering about her real agenda. Part of him was suspicious at the timing, coming so soon after Florida. She'd mentioned his wife, too. He didn't like that.
He was in the master bedroom of his turn-of-the-century house, which he had bought five years ago when he moved to Green Bay. The wallpaper was a heavy pattern of burgundy and gold. The bedroom set, which came with the house, was made of walnut, with imposing four-poster columns on the queen bed and a matching ornate bureau that stood beside the window like a grim soldier. Michelle had nagged him to sell the furniture, so they could redecorate the room and make it lighter and happier. They'd never had the chance.
Gary peered out through the floor-to-ceiling curtains at the empty road beyond the yard.
He still had flashbacks of Michelle falling. He could see the terror in her eyes as she screamed. He'd cried, seeing it happen, watching her die. At that moment, he'd thought about throwing himself after her. There were still days when the pain and loss were almost impossible to bear.
If only there had been another way. If only she hadn't learned the truth.
Gary dialed his phone and watched the road, which grew darker as dusk fell. When he heard the familiar voice, he said, 'It's me. We may have a problem.'
Chapter Seventeen
Mark Bradley wore a white mask as he repaired the damage done to their house by the vandals. He wished the cowards had come while he was home and given him a chance to fight. On Tuesday, while Hilary was back at school, he'd swept up the glass and debris, hauled the broken furniture out to the street, and scraped down the walls. By late Wednesday, he had torn out the carpet and covered the living room in two coats of fresh paint. At least he no longer had the word staring him in the face.
While the paint dried, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and took it out to the screened three-season porch at the rear of the house. He sat down in the wrought-iron chaise, which squealed under his weight. Before he drank, he realized he was still wearing the white painter's mask. He peeled it from his face. He tilted the bottle and took a long swallow. His neck was tired and sore, and he rubbed it with his fingers.
That was when he felt the small bump of two scabs on his skin. Scratches.
Mark closed his eyes and felt a cold sweat of fear form on his body. 'Son of a bitch,' he murmured.
He remembered Glory on the beach and felt the girl hanging on to him as she wrapped her hands around his neck. Her long nails drove into his skin, hurting him. Leaving a mark.
He knew what that meant.
The police in Florida had gathered skin cells from inside his mouth with a cotton swab and bagged the
