Hildie watched only long enough to be certain that he had disappeared into the sea, then turned away. Hurrying to the Honda, whose engine was still idling, she put it in gear, released the hand brake, and moved it toward a spot where the low stone wall gave way to nothing more than a rusty chain anchored to crumbling concrete posts. Keeping her right foot on the brake, she worked herself halfway out of the car, then released the brake as she stepped free of the slowly moving vehicle.
Empty, the driver’s door open, the Honda moved across the pavement, struck the chain and kept going.
Two of the old concrete pilings broke under the pressure of the car, and then the car was gone, too, leaving only the broken posts and the dangling ends of the chain.
Leaving Amy’s sweater lying on the ground as if it had landed there at the end of a struggle, Hildie finally climbed back into the Acura. As she left the viewpoint and started back to the Academy in the brightening morning light, she was once again alone.
It was, she reflected as she wound back up into the hills, a pity that Steve Conners had had to die.
He’d seemed like a good teacher.
On the other hand, he’d also seemed much more interested in the children than he should have been.
Perhaps she might mention that to the police, she decided, if the matter ever came up. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a teacher had proved to be dangerous to a student.
And given the new circumstances of Amy’s death, there would no longer be any need to adjust her records to show a tendency toward suicide.
Hildie sighed contentedly. At least Steve Conners had had the decency to kill himself after whatever he might have done to Amy Carlson.
At nine o’clock that morning, Jeanette Aldrich sat staring at her computer, almost afraid to turn it on. And yet what was she afraid of? she wondered. What had happened yesterday had been no more than a stupid prank, no matter how tasteless it might have been. And at least Jeff hadn’t been involved in it.
Indeed, last night as she and Chet sat over dinner at Lazio’s, the incident had slowly reduced itself in her mind to more normal proportions.
What, after all, had really happened?
One of the kids — and neither of them thought they’d ever know which one — had pulled a stunt.
And she had overreacted, undoubtedly just as the perpetrator of the joke had hoped, allowing herself to become overwrought simply at the sight of her son’s name popping up on a computer screen.
She and Chet had lingered at the restaurant, enjoying a bottle of wine as they watched the sun drop into the ocean and the sky turn crimson as the darkness gathered. By the time they crept home, she had been almost able to shake off what had happened, and the thesis she had taken from her office that afternoon was easily left for tomorrow.
For the first time since Adam had died, they’d made love.
It had been slow, tender lovemaking, and as she’d lain in bed afterward, safe in Chefs arms, she’d begun to think for the first time that perhaps she was going to be able to put her life back together again after all.
But this morning, in the harsh light of day, and without the numbing support of that extra glass of wine, her grief had come crashing in on her once more. She’d put it firmly aside, determined that she would not come apart yet again, and insisted to Chet that she was going to be all right, despite the fact that her voice carried a brittleness even she could hear. Now she was in her office, and as she gazed at the blank screen that hovered on its articulated arm a few inches above her desk, she started to shiver.
Don’t be stupid, she told herself. It’s only a computer. Even if someone hacks into it again, it can’t hurt you. It can only make you upset if you let it, and you won’t let it.
She turned the screen on. After a few seconds it brightened.
Words came into focus.
Words that shouldn’t have been there.
This time, the message wasn’t typed.
Instead, it was written out in longhand, in the neat, precise script of which Adam had been so proud.
Jeanette recognized it instantly.
For almost a full minute she did nothing at all. She simply sat still, staring at the familiar handwriting, remembering the other times she’d seen it.
On notes, held to the refrigerator door by the ladybug magnet that had been Adam’s favorite ever since he’d first been able to reach up and pull it off the enameled metal, looking surprised that it wasn’t alive.
On valentines that he’d cut out of red paper, and the short stories he’d written in the last couple of years.
Stories that she’d always found vaguely disturbing, for they’d always shown a maturity that Adam’s years belied.
Always written in longhand in the same distinctive script that now filled her computer screen.
Her eyes focused on the words then, and she read them slowly:
Jeanette read the note through twice, her eyes blurring with tears even as cold fury welled up inside her.
Whoever was doing this to her had not just copied Adam’s handwriting. They’d even figured out how to make the note sound as if Adam himself had written it.
It made it sound like killing himself had been a reasonable decision, one he’d thought about carefully, that, in the end, had been nothing more than a way of ridding himself of inconveniences.
Like parents who sometimes told him to go to bed when he wanted to read all night long.
Or teachers who gave him assignments he didn’t always feel like doing.
So he’d decided to kill himself, not really worried about what it might do to her.
“I don’t want you to be sad anymore.”
“I hope you’re not mad at me.”
And, worst of all, “Tell Dad I love him.…”
Her fury at the callousness of it grew steadily. For a moment she had an almost uncontrollable urge to pick up the monitor, and its horrible message, and smash it to the floor.
Then she took control of her churning emotions.
She was reacting exactly as whoever was doing this wanted her to.
But not this time.
This time she would deal with it rationally.
Her fingers shaking, she reached out and pressed the Print Screen button on her keyboard, and a moment later the printer next to her desk came to life, spitting out a copy of the handwriting on the screen.
Then, refusing to give whoever was at the other end of the linkup to the computer in her office the satisfaction of even knowing she’d seen the message, she reached out and switched the monitor off again. As the screen faded back into darkness, she picked the single sheet of paper out of the tray on the printer and stared at it once more.
This time, though, she didn’t read the words.
This time she studied the handwriting.
Who could have done it?
But of course she already knew.
There was one person whose handwriting was almost a perfect match for Adam’s.
One person who knew how Adam had thought, and how he had expressed himself.
When she faced Jeff this time, she would have the proof of what he’d done, and dare him to deny it while she held it in front of his eyes.
Her anger growing, she left her office and started toward the Academy, on the other side of the campus.
Jeanette strode along the path, almost breaking into a run in her rush to find Jeff, tears of rage streaming down her cheeks. She was oblivious to the strange looks she was subjected to by everyone she passed, and it never occurred to her that the message clutched in her hand might actually have come from Adam himself.
