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  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’ll sound stupid.”

  “That’s because it is stupid. The Memento Killer is not stalking you.”

  “But what if he is, though?”

  Lynn put up a hand. “Rachel, think about it. The FBI says that the Memento Killer’s gifts are highly personal.”

  “He got me a copy of Jane Eyre!”

  “And red roses,” Ann pointed out. “One of the most generic gifts of all time. You don’t have any particular love for red roses, do you?”

  Rachel crossed her arms. “Every woman loves red roses.”

  “Exactly. So…not personal,” said Ann. “I like daisies, and Lynn likes potted violets.”

  “That’s because you’re both weird. And I guess that means when you guys start getting anonymous daisies and potted violets in the mail, we’ll all start to worry.”

  “You like potted violets?” Alex said, turning startled eyes on his wife.

  “Yeah, Dad,” Ethan said, totally bored. “Everyone knows.”

  “You’re being irrational,” Ann said to Rachel, undeterred. “And also a moron.”

  “Ladies,” Alex said, covering Ethan’s ears. “Little pitchers have big ears.”

  “Mom calls you a moron all the time,” Ethan said.

  Alex removed his hands from his son’s head and shot Lynn a pained look.

  “I love you dear.” Lynn patted his hand. “Even though you have never once bought me potted violets.”

  “Focus,” Rachel said.

  Lynn poured herself more coffee. “Rachel. I understand your cause for concern. But honestly, I still don’t think it’s time to panic just yet.”

  “And what would you suggest I do?”

  “Well, first of all, the Memento gives four gifts, right?”

  “You know he does.”

  “Well, then I guess you still have some time to weigh other alternatives.”

  “Such as?”

  “You know what we think,” Ann said.

  “I already told you, Lee isn’t giving me presents.”

  “If you say so.” Ann slurped the last of her orange juice.

  Alex looked thoughtful. “I know how much you guys like to give Rachel a hard time for overreacting all the time—”

  “I don’t overreact all the time—”

  Ann gave a false cough. Rachel shot her a venomous look but didn’t rise to the bait. She quirked her eyebrows at Alex in a signal that he should continue.

  Alex cleared his throat. “As I was saying. Let’s not forget that there actually is a killer out there targeting women in her specific demographic and that he does, in fact, give anonymous gifts before killing.”

  Silence settled around the table.

  He reached out and picked up the check, waving aside all offers to chip in. He looked Rachel in the eye. “I’m not saying that you should hit the panic button just yet,” he said, “but in all seriousness—and I mean this for the three of you—you really should be careful.”

  19

  The last week of school arrived. Although it was an abbreviated work week for Rachel, it was jam packed. Monday was Memorial Day—and therefore technically a rest day, although Rachel spent it grading research papers—Tuesday morning the scheduled cast removal, Thursday the Arts Evening, and Friday the last day of school, with graduation to follow on Saturday.

  Cast removal. Rachel had been dreaming of it. Literally. One night she dreamt that she could slip off her cast and throw it in the washing machine for a quick scrub. As long as the cast was in the washer, she could walk around with no symptoms. Another night, she dreamt the doctor sawed the cast off and found a wolf’s leg underneath.

  “Which is probably closer to reality,” she confided to Ann, “since I haven’t shaved in two months.”

  Rachel could not remember ever having been this excited about anything before. “Your days are numbered,” she whispered to her cast as she cut the plastic bag from it after her shower on Monday morning. Now that cast-removal day was in sight, every hour spent lugging it around on her leg felt exponentially worse. She loathed its weight, hated how hot it made her leg whenever she was outside, and suspected that it may have begun to smell.

  With the end finally in sight, time began to slow. Monday passed with all the swiftness of continental drift. Without school to absorb her attention, Rachel was free to spend most of Memorial Day brooding over the dark possibilities of the mementos.

  On Tuesday, Rachel slept in. Forced to take a half day off work for the trip to Dr. Singh’s office, she determined to enjoy it. Rachel allowed herself an easy start to the morning with an extra cup of coffee and a few chapters of Jane Eyre from her own well-worn copy. The gift copy still sat on her night stand, taunting her. Although still half annoyed with Ann and Lynn for not taking her concerns seriously, Rachel determined to handle whatever may come without flying off the handle.

  Rachel arrived at Dr. Singh’s office right on time. On the drive over, she’d imagined the potential awkwardness of running into Matt, but thankfully, he was nowhere to be seen.

  Almost immediately after signing in, she was called back to the exam rooms. After sticking out her leg for yet another round of X-rays, she settled in for what she anticipated to be a long wait, but Dr. Singh appeared shortly, letting her gaze flit over the scans for all of ten seconds.

  “Looks great,” she said, shaking Rachel’s hand on her way out. “See you in a few weeks for your follow up.”

  A new, brightly-smiling tech swung through the door. “You ready to get this cast off?” she chirped.

  Things were really zipping along. Rachel’s heart gave a happy flip. Soon she would be walking!

  Then the girl produced what looked like a vacuum cleaner with a chainsaw attachment, and Rachel quailed. “What—”

  “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll be gentle.” She turned on the machine and moved in.

  The cast was swiftly sliced in pieces and pulled apart, revealing a white, shriveled husk of a leg. Rachel’s calf appeared wizened and dead, the skin ashy. The friction had rubbed some areas smooth, while in other places, long strands of hair snarled in ugly twists. The dead calluses on her foot appeared ready to slough off at the lightest touch. In all, it was a macabre sight, one not fit for the eyes of other human beings. Rachel determined that they would know nothing of this wizened husk, which she would hide under sensible dress slacks until it was presentable again. For all anyone knew, her leg had emerged from its cast stronger and better than ever—the Steve Rogers of legs—which was all very well until Rachel tried to take her first steps and practically fell on her face.

  After explaining to Rachel how to strap on her plastic air cast—which, disappointingly, had not actually been made of air—and recommending that she walk with a cane until her leg regained the strength it had lost over the months of inactivity, the tech began packing up the vacuum saw.

  Out at the front desk, Grace the receptionist looked up at Rachel over half glasses, pinning her with a disapproving look. “You’re the one who called here a few weeks ago asking about that other patient. You know. The cute one.”

  This Rachel had not expected. In all the flurry of the last few days, she’d completely forgotten about the cryptic and embarrassing phone call she had made when she’d thought that Call-Me-Matt had been sending her the presents. She flushed to the roots of her hair.

  “Sorry if I was rude,” Grace said, her face softening at the sign of Rachel’s discomfort. “I thought you were a reporter.” She sighed. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths they’ve gone to in order to get a quote. And that Helen Sopiro woman was the worst.” Grace’s eyes went watery. “Poor Elaine.”

  Rachel fidgeted.

  “Well, it’s no use asking us about him anyway,” Grace told Rachel. “Although from the way you two were chatting last time, I thought he was a friend of yours.”

  “Oh, well…” Rachel wasn’t sure what to say. Sh
e wouldn’t call Matt a friend. Not exactly.

  “Do you know if he’s been cleared?” Grace asked, her eyes sharpening as she looked up at Rachel over the reading glasses perched on the edge of her nose.

  Rachel’s heart gave one huge thump. “What?”

  Grace leaned forward, her voice lowering. “Such a nice young man, and so handsome. It really is a shame about his knee.” She leaned over and patted one of Rachel’s hands. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, dear. None of us thinks he had anything to do with it. I’m sure the authorities are just trying to be thorough.”

  20

  It was pointless to call while driving. Rachel didn’t even try. Instead, she limped across the parking lot at top speed, rolled down the windows to her car, opened the driver’s door, and sat in the baking-hot car while dialing Lynn with shaking fingers.

  “He’d been giving her presents before she was killed,” Rachel said as soon as Lynn picked up. “He’d been hanging around the front desk talking to her and hitting on her and giving her presents.”

  “What? Hello? Rachel? What are you talking about?”

  “Call-Me-Matt. He’s been going to my orthopedic doctor’s office for a long time and he’d been hitting on this Elaine woman for months before she was killed, and Grace, the receptionist, says she told the police that he’d started sending her roses and other stuff, and the police told her they’d follow up and that he was under investigation and oh, oh, oh, I just—”

  “Rachel. You need to calm down. Start at the beginning.”

  Rachel started at the beginning.

  ~*~

  She called Ann next.

  “You’re overreacting,” Ann told her. “Think about it. If Matt were the Memento Killer, would he really be giving her presents in broad daylight and in front of her coworkers?”

  “No. I don’t know. Probably not. But—still…”

  “If the authorities have investigated him and he’s still out walking around, I’m sure he’s been cleared,” Ann stated.

  “Not necessarily. Maybe the police still need to gather enough evidence to hold him. That happens all the time. Maybe they really think it’s him, but they can’t prove it, and meanwhile, he’s—he’s—”

  “Rachel. Think about it. Aren’t all serial killers middle-aged white males?”

  “No! Ann. That’s the thing. Everybody thinks that, but it’s just not true. African American males actually account for twenty percent of the whole group of known serial killers.”

  “Well, Matt’s not black, so there you go.” Ann sighed. “And who even knows stuff like that? When do you find the time to memorize this stuff?”

  “Will you take this seriously, please?”

  “Rachel, listen. If you’re really worried, call the police. Isn’t that your main complaint about girls in mystery novels? That they don’t call the police the minute things start seeming fishy? Here’s your chance to rise above the cliché. Now if there isn’t anything else, I need to get back to work.”

  Rachel hung up. She wiped her sweaty face against her sleeves and started the ignition.

  If you’re really worried, call the police.

  If you’re really worried, call the police.

  If you’re really worried, call the police.

  Rachel felt like one of those women in a movie, the kind who wanders alone into abandoned buildings instead of waiting for help. The kind of woman who makes you yell at the screen because she clearly has no idea what is going on. This must be how they felt. It wasn’t that they didn’t feel an impending sense of doom. It was that they didn’t know where intuition ended and paranoia began.

  Rachel leaned forward and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. What she needed was some air-conditioning and some lunch. She could not think clearly with an overheated brain and an empty stomach. She would pick up lunch on the way to school, give her exams, finish the work day, and then decide what to do.

  ~*~

  When Rachel arrived at school, Lee intercepted her halfway across the parking lot. This proved fortunate, since she wasn’t sure she was going to make it without falling down. Once the adrenaline had worn off, she found walking acutely painful. Lee jogged to where she had paused to regain her balance, the art supplies in his dorky fisherman’s vest jingling cheerily.

  “Here,” he said, extending a plain wooden cane. “I dug this out of the drama supplies this morning.”

  Rachel did not even care if he meant this as a joke or not. She reached out and clutched the cane, wobbling. Lee reached for Rachel’s free arm and circled her elbow with one of his hands while his other braced under her forearm to provide balance and lift.

  He smiled down at her through his ridiculous man beard. “Why didn’t you get someone to drive you to the doctor, you over-controlling freak?”

  Rachel looked around the parking lot to ensure that no students were close enough to have overheard his rudeness. “Be respectful,” she told him. “We’re at work.”

  “I give respect where respect is due,” Lee informed her. “And refusing to admit that you need help is not a trait worthy of respect.”

  “I don’t need help. I’ve finally gotten my cast off. I’m better than ever.” Rachel took a mini step forward and tottered. Lee tightened his grip on her arm and laughed. “Shut up,” she told him.

  “You should have just taken the whole day off.”

  “Says the teacher who doesn’t have to grade any exams. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “My students’ final projects are their exams.” They reached the door leading to Rachel’s wing, and Lee thumbed in his code and swung open the door for her. “I’ll grade them tomorrow afternoon before the Arts Evening.”

  “Just how long will that take?” Rachel complained. “During finals week, I basically do nothing but grade papers and exams from the time I wake up until I go to sleep. I grade exams while students are taking more exams, and then I take those exams home and I grade them some more.”

  “If you hate grading so much, you should have become an art teacher instead of an English teacher.”

  “Which sounds good except that I can’t even draw a stick figure correctly.”

  “There’s no wrong way to draw a stick figure,” Lee told her. “Just many different ways, some of them more socially acceptable than others.”

  While joking around with Lee, Rachel’s fears about Matt receded, making it impossible to imagine that a little less than an hour ago, she’d been on the verge of hysteria. She shook her head at her own foolishness. When would she learn to slow down and evaluate situations rationally?

  Once they were both inside, Rachel shrugged Lee’s hand from her arm. The last thing she needed was for the students to see the two of them strolling arm-in-arm down the hallway. She reached out a hand to brace against the wall. With one hand gripping her cane and the other palm-flat against the wall, she inched toward her classroom. With some dismay, she realized that she’d actually moved faster on crutches.

  Lee walked along slowly beside her. “I can see how leaning on the wall would be much more convenient than letting me help you.”

  Rachel straightened her spine and slanted him a narrow glance. “Classes are about to be let out, and I will not be found in the halls clutching at you like a character from a Brontë novel.”

  “Gothic heroines only clutch at dark, broody types,” Lee said, “so I think we’re safe. And technically, you weren’t clutching me. I was clutching you.”

  “That’s hardly better,” Rachel said primly.

  Lee chuckled.

  “And you do brood,” she informed him. “It’s basically all you do. It’s just that no one can tell because you hide behind all that hair and those absurd hipster glasses.”

  “What is it I’m supposed to be brooding about?” Lee sounded interested.

  Rachel bit her lip and pretended to concentrate on walking. The possibility of saying the wrong thing felt very high. Heaven forbid that she mention graduate school
or his mother. Or herself. “The price of acrylics,” she said.

  “If the kids would put the caps on correctly before they stored them, I wouldn’t have to brood about it.” Lee’s voice darkened to a tone that even Rochester would have envied. “But why are you back so soon? You still have fifteen minutes before the end of the period, and I know your substitute’s here through lunch. You could have stopped for a coffee or something.”

  “Too much to do. Papers. Exams. Besides, as you’ve mentioned, there’s been a substitute in there all morning.” Rachel gestured toward her classroom, and then slapped her hand back against the wall before she fell on her face. “Who knows what’s happened by now.”

  “As long as your plans are clear and detailed, you have nothing to worry about. Our roster of substitutes is filled with competent professionals,” Lee rolled his r’s in the perfect imitation of Yolanda Martinez.

  Rachel gave a delicate snort. “The last time I let a sub administer tests, she confused the tests and the keys, which means not only did she give the wrong tests to the wrong classes, but she graded them with the wrong answer sets. Not that the grading mattered in the end, since I had to re-administer all the tests anyway.”

  “That high level of incompetence must be hard to match on a regular basis. So, the odds are in your favor that maybe the sub slipped up and did something right for a change.”

  “Maybe. Honestly, I don’t care how well-trained these subs are on paper. They might have secondary teaching certificates, but I wouldn’t trust them to teach anything—not even kindergarten.”

  Lee frowned at this indirect aspersion on Sharon Day’s intelligence, but Rachel lifted her hand from the wall and held it up to stop him. “I don’t want to have this argument,” she said. “I’m too tired.”

  They had reached Rachel’s classroom door, but Lee stepped in front of her to block her entry. He leaned against the doorjamb. “Let me ask you something. Have you ever really talked to Sharon Day?”

  “Have you?”

  “Sure I have. But that’s not the point.”

  “Of course I’ve talked to her. I work pickup line with her every afternoon. We talk every day.”