for Mark. Suspicion now followed him everywhere. He was marked with a scarlet letter. P for Predator. All because of Tresa Fischer.
He pounded a fist against his palm. Sometimes his fury overwhelmed him. He didn't blame Tresa; she was just a girl in love. But the others — the teachers, the parents, the police, the school board — they had ignored his denials and picked apart his life, leaving him with his career destroyed. He wanted revenge for the injustice. He wanted to hurt someone. He wasn't a violent man, but sometimes he wondered what he would do if he met the principal of the school in a deserted county park, where no one would see them and where no one would ever know what he'd done.
Mark stopped on the beach. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply until his anger washed away. The waves came and went, and he felt the sand eroding beneath his feet. The peace of the water calmed him, which was why he was here. He smelled the briny, fishy aroma of the Gulf. The mild, damp air was like a tonic compared to the cold weather back home, where it was March and temperatures were still in the thirties.
He could have stayed here forever, but nothing lasted. He knew it was time to go back to the hotel. Hilary was alone, and she'd wonder where he was if she awakened. He'd slipped silently out of bed when he couldn't sleep. He'd shrugged on swimming trunks and a yellow tank top and walked out their patio door, which led directly down the flat stretch of sand past the palm trees to the water. The sea had helped clear his head, but the relief was temporary, as it always was. Things never changed. They only got worse.
Mark heard the voice again. 'We Didn't Start the Fire.'
The teenage girl in the bikini wandered closer to him. She had a wine bottle in her hand, and he watched her drink from it like Gatorade. Watching her swaying motions on the beach, he realized she was drunk. She was only thirty yards away now, her skin bronzed and damp. She tugged at the bottom of her swimsuit and adjusted it without self-consciousness. Her wet hair had fallen across her face, and when she pushed it away, their eyes met. Hers were wild and unfocused.
He knew who she was.
'Oh, son of a bitch,' he murmured under his breath.
It was Glory Fischer. Tresa's sister.
Instinctively, Mark looked up and down the beach. The two of them were alone. It was almost three in the morning. He eyed the tower of the hotel, and in the handful of rooms where he saw lights, he didn't see the silhouette of anyone looking out. Even in the moonlight, it was dark enough that no one could see them here. He hated the idea that his first thought was self-protection, but he felt guilty and exposed being this close to a young girl. Especially this girl.
She took a long time to realize who he was, but then she offered him a teasing smile as she recognized him. 'You,' she said.
'Hello, Glory. Are you OK?'
The girl ignored the question and hummed to herself. 'Did you follow me here?' she asked.
'Follow you? No.'
'I bet you followed me. That's OK.'
'Where'd you get the wine?' he asked.
'You want some?' She looked at the bottle and realized it was empty. She overturned it, and a few red drops sprinkled on to the sand. 'Shit. Sorry.'
'You shouldn't be out here,' he said. 'Let me take you back to the hotel.'
Glory wagged a finger at him, and her torso swayed unsteadily. 'Tresa wouldn't like that, would she? Seeing you and me together. Troy wouldn't like it either. He gets so jealous. If you want to do it with me, we should do it right here. Do you want to do it with me?'
Mark's body tightened with anxiety. He knew he shouldn't be here. He had to get away before this got worse, before anyone saw them together.
'Come on, let's go,' he told Glory. 'I don't want you on the beach alone. It's not safe. You've been drinking.'
'What's the problem? You'll keep me safe, won't you? You're big and strong. No one's going to mess with you.'
He reached for her arm, but she spun out of his grasp. He ran a hand back across his short hair in frustration. 'I'm not going to leave you out here by yourself,' he said.
'So don't leave. Stay. I like being here with you.'
'It's late. You should be in bed.'
Glory grinned and stuck out her tongue at him. 'See, I knew that's what you wanted.'
'You're drunk. I don't want you hurting yourself.'
She hummed again. The same Billy Joel song. 'Tresa saw you on Friday, you know.'
'What?'
'She saw you and Hilary in the auditorium. That's why she choked. She was really upset. She couldn't concentrate knowing you were there.'
'Not winning isn't the end of the world.'
'Yeah. I know.' Glory didn't look distressed by Tresa's failure. Her face had a drunken brightness to it, as if she was drowning her sorrows. 'Hey, I read a poem once that said the world would end in fire.'
'Robert Frost,' he said.
'You know it? Oh, yeah, duh, English teacher.' She looked at him like a broken toy. 'I mean, you used to be. Tresa felt bad about what happened.'
'Let's go, Glory.'
'Tresa never thought they would do anything like that.'
'We should get back to the hotel.' He put his hand out.
Glory took his hand in hers, but then she slid a damp arm around his waist. Her face came up to his neck. She tilted her chin toward him. Her breath smelled of alcohol, and her white teeth were stained darker by the wine. 'Kiss me.'
He reached round to his back to disentangle himself. He looked over his shoulder toward the hotel again and felt an uncomfortable sensation, as if he was being watched from the darkness. Or maybe someone was testing him.
'Stop it.'
'Tresa says your lips are soft,' Glory whispered.
Mark pried her hands away from his body. He took an urgent, awkward step backward in the sand to separate himself. When Glory reached out to hold him, she was too far away, and she stumbled and sank to her knees. Her stringy brown hair fell across her face. Her skin was pale, and he saw disorientation in her eyes.
'Are you OK?' he asked.
Glory didn't say anything.
He squatted in front of her. 'Glory?'
She looked up at him. Tears streaked down her face. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. On her knees, crying, she looked like a pretty, lost girl again. A typical teenager with blemishes on her forehead. A kid pretending to be an adult. He reached to touch her shoulder but pulled his hand back, as if her skin would be on fire.
'What's wrong?' he asked. 'Why are you out here by yourself?'
'I don't want to go home,' she said.
'Why not?'
She shook her head. 'I don't know what to do.'
Mark started to press her for details, but he realized he was letting himself get sucked into this girl's life and problems. That had always been his weakness. He was a fixer.
'I'll take you back to the hotel,' he murmured. He took her elbow and helped her to her feet. Her legs were rubbery, and she grabbed him for balance, clinging to his neck so tightly that her nails dug into his skin. He guided her into the dry sand with an arm around her waist, but she yanked free and skipped unsteadily back into the water. Trails of sand clung to her knees and thighs. She held her arms out to him.
'Let's swim,' she said.
'I don't think so.'
