Dismissing the extreme line of thinking, she focused her attention on taking out the papers she’d graded the night before and preparing for class to begin. And people thought the kids were the only ones who had homework.
In five minutes, the bell would ring and the school day would officially begin. Twelve sets of parents had entrusted her with not only the safety of their offspring, but also with the task of teaching the children everything they would need to know to begin their journey through the coming school years. Considering some of the headlines of late, that was saying something.
“Have you heard?”
Darby looked up to find Sandra Paige from the kindergarten classroom across the hall rushing toward her. Sandra had been the first person to make her feel welcome when she started here four years ago. They’d been good friends since.
“Heard what?” Every instinct warned Darby that she did not want to hear whatever her friend and coworker had to say but there was no way to avoid it. It was the bane of the white-collar world: gossip.
Her face pale and her eyes wide with worry, Sandra ushered Darby into the corner farthest from where her students still lollygagged around their storage cubbies.
“A third child has gone missing,” Sandra whispered, her voice as frantic as the worry in her eyes.
A peculiar stillness fell over Darby. Images flashed through her mind but she blocked them, refused to look. “Who was she?”
“Allison Cook from over at Isidore Newman.” Sandra frowned. “How did you know it was a girl?”
It had started with Christina Fairgate. In the three weeks since her body had been discovered, two more children had gone missing, one boy and one girl. So far, the police were stumped as to finding a connection among the three. There were no matching details whatsoever. Two were from wealthy families, the other from a single mother living in the projects. One black, two whites. Approximate age was all the three had in common, discounting the events surrounding their disappearances, of course. In each case, the child had been at home playing in his or her own backyard with one parent or both inside the house.
Darby swallowed hard, then shrugged stiffly. “Just a guess.” To stall her friend’s inquisition, she quickly asked, “They still don’t have any leads? No witnesses? Nothing?”
Sandra shook her head in weary resignation. “According to her mother, one minute she was there, the next she was gone. In broad daylight, just like the others.”
The scent of home-baked chocolate chip cookies abruptly filled Darby’s nostrils. The image of a little blond-haired girl skipping around in circles flashed before her eyes. Ring a-round the roses. Pocketful of posies.
Darby slammed the door on the other images and sounds that tried to intrude. She would not look, refused to see. From the moment Christina Fairgate’s body had been found, she’d experienced those images…the smells. She didn’t want to see. God, she didn’t want to know.
“Are you all right?”
The sound of her friend’s voice jerked her back to the here and now.
“Fine.” She blinked. “I’m fine.”
Sandra nodded, her expression thoroughly unconvinced. “Oookay,” she said, dragging out the syllable. “I have to get back to my classroom. I’ll talk to you later.”
Darby managed a nod. More like a twitch.
Another child had gone missing.
Two in the space of as many weeks.
Where are the others?
The question slammed into her brain, sent a wave of adrenaline surging through her veins.
There were others. The police just didn’t know yet. Five or six, more maybe. She’d sensed it from the beginning. Why were the sensations coming now? Why couldn’t she make it stop? Or learn something useful from it?
The bell rang, jerking her from the troubling thoughts and sending students scurrying for their seats. Darby moistened her lips and manufactured a smile. Using every ounce of strength she possessed, she directed her attention to her class. “Let’s get settled, girls and boys.” She paused long enough for two stragglers to make their way to their seats. “Today is Monday,” she continued when all eyes were focused on her. “Let’s talk about what makes Mondays special.”
Even at five, the children knew there was absolutely nothing special about Mondays.
AT 4:30 P.M., Darby slowed the momentum of her bike in front of an antebellum home in the Lower Garden District. She stopped on the side of the street, propping her weight against the curb with her right foot, keeping her left on the pedal to facilitate a hasty departure.
Corinthian fluted columns supported the home’s double gallery. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the last of the sun’s warming rays to tumble across its floors. She didn’t have to get off her bike and walk to the rear of the property to know that lovely gardens, bordered by brick walks with a bubbling fountain in the center, graced the backyard. Though sorely out of place in its nineteenth-century setting, a colorful metal swing set—red, yellow and blue—stood proudly in the middle of it all.
Yellow crime scene tape sprawled across the front of the property, flapping in the wind, its middle sagging and giving the appearance of a sinister smile.
This was the home where Allison Cook lived…the yard where she’d been playing when she disappeared.
A shadow moved through the lush shrubbery. Male, she knew, but she couldn’t see his face. Yet his voice was familiar. She heard that raspy, evil voice in her dreams. No one can save the children. They belong to me. One, two, I’m coming for you. Three, four, better lock your door.
Darby shuddered, pushed the voice away. She stared at the bushes where her mind had conjured the image of the shadow. Did the police
