An Invitation To Kill E-Book

Lorelei Bell

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Lainey is excited to begin college - until she finds herself in the middle of another murder case.

Only a few days into the first week, Mr. Taylor's body is discovered in a bathroom stall. Within an hour, news arrive that Mr. Taylor's wife has been killed in their home, that very morning.

The deaths are deemed by authorities as murder-suicide, but Lainey finds clues to the contrary. As she digs deeper into the case, dark secrets surface.

After Lainey receives ominous warnings, it becomes clear that someone really wants this case to stay closed.

Leseprobe

An Invitation To Kill

Lainey Quilholt Mysteries Book 2

Lorelei Bell

Copyright (C) 2018 Lorelei Bell

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgments

To Justin Pletsch for help on the use of rubber band slingshots and various projectiles.

Dedicated to Angela Landsbury aka Jessica Fletcher of “Murder She Wrote” (my mentor in mysteries) And to my husband of 30 years now.

Journal entry by Lainey Quilholt

I woke from a dream one morning—maybe it began as a dream, but turned into a nightmare. Anyway, the dream began with me in the back seat of a car with my parents (now dead), driving. I don't know where we were, or where we wound up, but I had a sense of traveling, much like when we were on that fateful trip in Colorado. The beginning portion I couldn't remember very well, but the ending I could remember with great clarity. I was in swift water, struggling to keep my head up, trying to get to shore when a dark hand reached down to pull me up to safety.

I didn't understand the meaning of this dream until weeks later.

Chapter 1

“This is not rocket science, folks, but it's close,” Mr. Taylor said as he paced the front of the class, black marker in hand, ready to pounce on the white board as he had during the last forty-five minutes to jot down basics of writing. “Writing a novel isn't like writing that essay for English in fifth grade where you fill in a lot of bullshit description just to fill pages.”

Some of the students around me chuckled, as did I. There was a certain energy which Mr. Taylor threw off like a Yorkshire Terrier in a room full of people. I grew fond of him within the first five minutes of my seven o'clock class in my first ever-college course. Everything he said I agreed with and he said a number of new things that had me excited about starting that novel of mine.

He stepped up to the white board where he'd written out several headings with a number beside them. He'd been going through these for the first portion of the hour, pausing to make a point, questioning us for our ideas and input, and to add his own to each sub-heading.

His marker poised at “Describe Character's Physical Appearance”. He wrote blue eyes in an almost illegible downward scrawl.

“Now, I don't know about you, but if a writer goes into great detail about what a character looks like, what they're wearing, that they have a mole on their right cheek, green flecks in their otherwise brown eyes, I'm outa there,” he said. He turned to us. “Jane Austen's description of Elizabeth Bennett was that she had 'fine eyes'. It's up to the reader to figure out the meaning of that and use their own imagination. If your character has brown eyes, or blue eyes. Fine. Write that, but don't waste a whole frigging page on the color of their eyes. Unless you've got a vampire with all black eyes, of course, I'd like to know that.”

More chuckles.

He turned back to his list on the board and tapped Protagonist & Characters. “No one is perfect. And if your protagonist is perfect, then, they're boring. Saints are nice, but, I'm sorry, their boring. Unless you behead them, of course, then you have a story.” Laughter. “A new writer makes a lot of glaring mistakes, and this, I can say, is one of my pet peeves. Give your protagonist a trait that might be considered a little wacky, or off. He, or she, can have a scar, or a tattoo that stands out, just to make them memorable. In any case, make them marred, on the inside, as well as outside. No one is perfect.” He gave everyone the eye. “And don't give your detective a drinking problem. That's old hack.” Chuckles all around the room. “Find some other maladjustment. Maybe he's OCD, you know, like Monk.” This was met with a few chuckles from the older students. The rest of us just stared. Leaning on his desk, he shook his head and sighed. “Once again, I'm dating myself.” He smiled at those who knew what character he'd meant. There were older students—over thirty—sprinkled throughout the twenty-five or so students. For the most part, all were sophomores, around eighteen or nineteen. I was the only freshman in the class. I'd gotten special privilege because of recommendations from my English teacher in high school. I'd been so excited about this class, and happy it was the very first class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Stopping at his desk Mr. Taylor grabbed a pile of papers. “Let's see a show of hands. Who's writing what genre. How many of you are writing suspense?” He held up his own hand. A few hands went up around the classroom. “How many are writing science fiction?” Again about four hands went up. One guy who reminded me of the character Hagrid, held up a hand as big as a catcher's mitt. Shaggy hair and beard obliterated his features, and he seemed to take up a large amount of Real Estate at the table behind me.

“Horror?” More people raised their hands. I counted six hands. “Okay, good.” He counted and then handed out the stapled sheets as he went from row to row in the room. “How many are writing romance?” There were a few timid hands. “Don't worry, if you aren't sure about it. If you like to read that sort of genre, raise your hands.” He looked down at the girl second from the front and smiled at her. “Writing romance has big rewards. It's got a huge audience, and usually a writer worth her salt can net six figures, especially if she gets a good agent and they can get her into one of the bigger publishing houses.” The girl's face turned bright crimson and she turned to her friend next to her. Both giggling with hands to their mouths.

While the hand-outs were passed back, I looked over mine. I loved hand-outs. He'd already handed two out before this. One was called How to Write your Novel, in which were xeroxed pages from writing magazines and was at least thirty pages in length. Another was called Goodbye Writer's Block. I decided I had a lot of reading to do later on, and happy about it. In fact I couldn't wait, I became slightly distracted by some of the subjects in the most recent handout. From the sound of pages being riffled through, others were just as itching to learn what was inside as me.

“You'll find that each genre has sub-genres. Take for instance mystery.” He looked around the room. “Anyone here writing a mystery?”

I raised my hand half-heartedly. I hadn't committed anything to paper. My summer had been too busy, what with graduating, my aunt getting married to Sheriff Weeks, and moving in with us. Oh. And the murder that occurred, in which I played some minor part in solving, working to unravel who had, and who had not murdered Arline Rochelle. Admittedly, I wanted to write about that, but worried about lawsuits. I was strongly advised not to.

Mr. Taylor stepped over to engage me. “What type of mystery are you writing? Or do you know?”

“I guess I hadn't thought about it,” I said, clueless.

“Do you have any favorite authors?”

“I've just switched over to murder mysteries, so I don't actually have anyone.”

“I'll give you a list, next time. But you'll see under Murder Mysteries in your handout—” he tapped the paper he'd just handed out in front of me “—you've got the Classic Whodunit, Cozy, Courtroom Drama, Espionage, Historical, etc.” He had stepped away from me with long legs and walked back to the front of the room and chose a blank area of the white board. “Let's take the cozy mystery. Normally, they take place in a small town, where all the suspects are present and familiar with one another, except the detective, who is usually an outsider, but not always.” He wrote out the general headings.

In my case, Weeks hadn't been as much an outsider as he wasn't quite yet a family member. But I reminded myself I would have to change the whole story, as well as names.

“And then there's the amateur detective. This is like the Jessica Fletcher character, or Agatha Christie's Miss Marple. Those are both interesting characters to read.” He turned and our eyes met. “The trick of writing a mystery is knowing who did it, how, why and then write backwards.” He smiled and amended, “Well, not literally backwards.” Chuckles again rose from our classroom. I smiled, enjoying the fact he wasn't dry as a November leaf like my past English teachers had been.

I thumbed through the hand-out. Finding my genre and the sub-genres, I pressed the pages open.

“At the end of this handout there are some questions I'd like you to answer in the space provided. I'll ask for these back. Just tear out that sheet and hand it in on Wednesday. And, I see that it's time to let you guys loose, so see you all next time.” As he said this, he shuffled papers and tapped the edges on the desk, and putting them into his briefcase, getting ready to leave himself. I couldn't believe the time was already up.

The whole class stood, and like someone had shot a starter's gun, everyone filed out and were all gone in 5.3 seconds. My movements jittery, I tried to gather my notebooks, pens and multiple hand-outs, and kept dropping things on the floor. I always had trouble getting out of the room in as quick fashion as my classmates.

Mr. Taylor held the door open, waiting for me with a smile while I pulled the backpack onto my shoulder and felt suddenly weighted down with fifty pounds.

“You might want to check out our library for some books in the mystery section,” he suggested.

“That might help,” I said. “I was writing romance before this, but I just couldn't get into it.”

“So, murder holds your interest. I can get behind that.” I placed Mr. Taylor at mid-thirties with not too short-cropped, coffee-colored hair, and stood about six-two. He towered over me and was about the same height as Weeks. I smiled and was too shy to look into his handsome face or into his eyes for more than a few brief seconds. I couldn't say what color his eyes were. My gaze fell on his left hand where a wedding band rounded his finger. I don't know why that disappointed me.

“My aunt owns a bookstore, too. I should just check out what she has as well,” I said.

“By all means! One of the things I stress in my class is read as much as you can.”

I nodded. “Well. I enjoyed your class. Have a good day,” I said in parting.

“Thank you! See you on Wednesday, Ms Quilholt.” Wow. He remembered my name. We had filled out 3x5 cards with our names and interests on them at the beginning of class. He'd filed it into his memory so quickly. Impressive.

I waved, and watched his tall, somewhat athletic body turn a corner. Face warm, I turned away, trying to curb my thrill over this first class under my belt in something I hoped I would excel in. What I would not excel in was my next subject. Math.

I looked over my syllabus, found the line for this subject, which would begin in less than ten minutes.

ROOM 335 - LEVEL 3 – EAST WING

I puzzled on this for a moment. For the life of me, I actually didn't know where I was. East Wing, or West Wing? Before seven o'clock this morning, I'd stepped into this gigantic, sprawling white cement and windowed building known as Whitney College for the very first time. I had found this class only by asking around. I had gotten here early in order to make sure I got to it on time because I didn't want to miss my first creative writing class. I couldn't miss my next class, however.

A rotund man in a dark suit and pink shirt and dark tie approached down the hall. Smiling, he said brightly, “Morning!” to the few people he passed. Balding with a fringe of dark hair over the ears and back of head, he had the air and look of a man who owned a Fortune 500 company. I put him in his fifties, his suit looked expensive. Shoes—wingtips—immaculate with a high shine on them I didn't doubt would show his reflection, that is if he could bend over to see himself.

“Excuse me,” I said, moving into his path.

“Yes, young lady?” His cologne assaulted me, but it was pleasant enough at maybe a football field away. I always wondered if people who smelled this strongly of cologne were covering up bad BO and maybe I should buy stock in the company that made it.

“I'm looking for the East Wing,” I said, holding out my map of the building. The print was really small, and I couldn't really discern one wing from another. The numbers printed on it would require a magnifying glass. This map was a joke.

The balding man looked down at my map briefly. “Ah. East Wing. It's east, of course.” He chuckled at his little joke. I sort of knew that, thanks. But I didn't know which way was east from where I stood. He pointed over my shoulder and said, “It should be down to the end there, and take a left. What class?”

“Math.”

“Third floor. You'll find the elevator or the stairs at the end.” He still pointed and I noted a large gold watch on his wrist as well as a diamond ring on his ring finger of the right hand.

I thanked him and headed in that direction. Of course, this was Level One, and looking around I found a sign on a wall which announced WEST WING. This should be easy, but it wasn't. The way the building was set up was like spider legs growing out from a central main section. Plus, the hallways were placed on the outer sides of the classrooms with a lot of glass. Looking out, their various sports fields filled my view on this end. Beyond that were corn fields, and the small town of Cedar Ridge in the distance. Interesting concept, and the view was spectacular, but I had to wonder what the cost would be to heat the thing during our ferocious Iowa winters.

Heading back toward the center of the building where a series of balconies and staircases descended or ascended, I paused. Below where I stood, I looked down on the commons, which was situated in a sort of large oblong pit. A number of students sat, or moved through taking breaks between classes, some of them studying or eating. Music from some speaker eddied up from this subbasement break room. Taking the stairs, I moved up two levels to find myself on Level 3. As I moved along the hallway, classes were filling up. Doors were being shut. I glanced at my watch, thinking it couldn't be that late. It was now five minutes before the hour. Five minutes and I hadn't even found the east wing yet.

Panic setting in, I rounded the end of the hallway, and found myself in the Arts Building. Wonderful. Where was the Arts Building on my map? Unfolding my map I studied it. Everything looked confusing on the map. I turned it around and around, trying to find the Arts Building. It was at the end of a wing and in its own square building called “Fine Arts Building”. Finally looking up and locating another one of those signs I hissed.

SOUTH WING.

Great. If only I'd taken art next, I'd be fine. But that wasn't until this afternoon. I'd decided to take an art class as an elective.

Moving along, I came to a juncture and found the bathrooms. Convenient. But where was I? I referred to the map once again. At this rate I might make it to my next class by Christmas.

Screams burst from down the hallway ahead of me. I looked up to see three girls running toward me, screaming something inaudible because their voices overlapped. They flew down the hall in my direction like the Devil himself were chasing them, long hair flying behind them. I saw nothing at all in the hallway that would invoke such behavior.

Maybe they were late for class, like me.

Their loud screams made me cover my ears as they fast approached me.

“Clown! Evil Clown!”

What the hell? I didn't get a chance to ask them directions.

Did they say “clown”? Or was it something else? Surely they weren't screaming about a clown. Here? Unless the theatrical studies were somewhere down here. Fine Arts would include everything from music to theater to art. But why were they frightened?

I moved back toward the juncture again and finally found a small sign showing an arrow pointing to the East Wing. Finally!

Looking down through the glass I spied a nice little outdoor courtyard with trees, small pond with a central water fountain, benches and flowers growing in large pots, and professionally landscaped with tall grasses and wild flowers. Immediately, I thought of having lunch there later on. If I could find it again.

I heard a very solid door shut and paused to listen. Clown or not, I needed to get to class. The sound wasn't from a wooden door, it was more like a solid one made of either glass or metal. In pausing to take in the sound, I tried to figure out what it meant in relationship to what those girls were so frightened about. In today's world, one never knew when someone might be wielding a gun or machete.

Below where I stood, down in the little courtyard, movement pulled my gaze. A man strode to the bench near the pond. He paused and pulled something off his head. It looked like a sort of wig of wildly curly hair—not unlike what a clown wears—in a rainbow of colors. I made out a mask with clown white and a red bulbous nose. He stuffed it into a backpack. The man looked around as though making sure he had not been seen. But he had been. By me.

That's when he looked up. Startled I stepped back from the window, but I wasn't about to run. If he had just scared a bunch of girls with a clown mask, I wasn't going to let him intimidate me. I fully expected him to run. He was the one up to no good, not me.

He didn't run. Standing straight, he stretched out his arm and pointed right at me, then pointed two fingers to his own eyes and repeated the pointing fingers at me. Message received. I was dead meat.

I stared down at him. I was not going to become a victim. I wasn't going to run. Unless he had the afore mentioned gun or machete, of course.

He collected his backpack and charged through the trees and bushes and disappeared somewhere beyond the side of the building.

I quickly assessed he had to be at least a sophomore for him to know the building inside and out so well to have found an exit so quickly after scaring a couple of girls. I figured he may have been in one of the empty rooms along this hallway when he appeared to the three girls, jumping out to frighten them. What his point was, I wasn't sure.

Shrugging this off, I continued down the hallway and finally found room 335. Upon entering I noted my math class was already in progress. The woman with graying curls on the very top of her head sent me an icy glare that told me I was in hot water from that point on with her. Her name was Mrs. Ratner. I already had a pet name for her, and assumed I was not the first to give it to her.

Chapter 2

By eleven my stomach was turning inside out. I'd forgotten to bring some sort of snack, and I only had enough money to buy myself lunch today.

Texts from both Brett Rutherford and Nadine Shaw said they'd meet me at lunch around eleven. I found that all the rest of my morning classes were in the East Wing—which made my life easier. And I knew that my last class of the day was in the Art Building. Assuming I could find it again.

The cafeteria was down the hall from the commons, which I'd had a bird's-eye view of earlier. The cafeteria was buffet style, thankfully. I could choose from whatever I wanted and pay at one of two cashiers. Spaghetti was always my favorite, but not without meat, and this stuff looked and smelled generic with too much garlic. I went with roast chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy. I was starving after four hours. The green beans had once been green, but not since they'd clung to a vine. Chocolate pudding with whipping cream on top would lift my spirits and keep me going the rest of the day.

I text messaged Brett where I was so he could join me while I found a table next to a brick wall and no sooner sat down than heard Brett saying from three feet away, “Hey, Lainey. There you are. Been looking for you.” He put his tray down and sat across from me.

“Me? I've been lost most of the morning,” I said and made a half-hearted chuckle.

“You have a map app, don't you?”

“Yes. It's confusing. But I found my classes. Nearly all of them are in the East Wing. But my writing class is all the way in the West Wing. It takes a half hour to get from there to my math class. And she's a bitch, by the way.” I shoved some food into my mouth and looked up at his reaction. “What?”

“Wow. Rant much,” he said, placing his tray of lasagna opposite me.

“Sorry. I'm starving. I'm bitchy when I'm overly hungry.”

“Good to know. By all means eat something,” he said motioning to my plate, and tucked into his own food.

“Where'd you find the lasagna?” I asked, miffed.

“You gotta know your way around. Plus have friends deep in the system.” He was joking, of course. Maybe.

“Apparently.” I grabbed my chicken drumstick and snarfed it down in four bites. Holy cow I was hungry. I vowed I wouldn't utter another word until I had half my plate gone.

“Who did you say you had math class with?” Brett asked.

Chewing, I wiped my mouth with a brown napkin and said, “Ratner.”

“Old Rat Face?” He chuckled.

I snorted and nearly choked. “I knew I wasn't the first to give her that nick-name.”

He chuckled. “No. There are others, of course, but not ones I should say in front of a lady.”

“Oh, thank you sir,” I effected a British accent. We had been dating for about three weeks and had been slowly learning our likes and dislikes. So far our likes matched, and we were still working on our dislikes. Agreeing on which teachers we hated was one subject we warmed up to and began comparing notes from the past to now.

“Oh my god! Did you guys hear about the clown?” the excited voice belonged to Nadine who rushed up to our table and dropped her tray like a bomb. I noticed she had lasagna as well, plus a milkshake. Where on earth did you get a milkshake in this place?

“What clown?” Brett said. “Go ahead and sit down, please.” His sarcasm was lost on Nadine who'd already plopped her tiny bottom into the seat next to me.

I screwed my face up, determined to hear what she had heard about it, and didn't interrupt.

“It's all over school! Evil Clown Face—he's been on the school site and Facebook spewing all sorts of nasty threats. Mostly to teachers and to girls.”

“For real?” Brett said, shaking his shaggy hair out of his eyes.

“No one knows who he is,” she went on, shoving a forkful of cheesy layers of lasagna into her mouth, chewed, swallowed and then sucked on the straw embedded in her chocolate milkshake. Somehow she would be able to eat and talk at the same time. I had no idea how she accomplished this, but it wouldn't surprise me if she could crochet at the same time as well.

“But if he was on the school site, he surely has an identity,” Brett pointed out.

“Of course he does!” Nadine said. “They'll find him if he used his own identity. But he could have hacked someone else's identity, too.”

“True.”

“I've seen him,” I stated. Elbow on table, looking out into the crowd, only now wondering if this guy would show his face anywhere in the school now. Or was he a total chicken after knowing he had been spotted?

Becoming quiet, Brett and Nadine fixed their stares on me.

“What?”

“You didn't!”

“I did,” I said.

“You didn't say anything to me,” Brett complained.

“I was eating. Besides, I'd forgotten. It was early when I saw him.”

“So, you saw the clown?” Nadine wanted clarification.

“No. I saw the guy, putting away his mask. I saw his face.”

“No. Way.” Nadine slurped on her shake. “When?”

“Right after he scared three girls. They ran one way, he went out a door and down into the courtyard. That's where I saw him.”

“Would you know him if you saw him again?” Brett asked.

“I could pick him out of a line up,” I said, smiling.

“How did you know he was the clown?”

I launched into the story of what had transpired hours ago while trying to find the East Wing. My story left Nadine speechless—a remarkable feat in itself. But she was first to pull out her phone and begin tapping out something. I grabbed her hand to stop her.

“Wait. What are you saying. And to whom?” I asked.

“Just putting it on my site that the clown's been ID'd by you.”

“No. Don't even say that.”

“She's right,” Brett said. “That could get the guy mad. Retribution would be his next step after learning who Lainey—or even you—are, and where you live.”

“Crap. You're right. What was I thinking?” She bit her lower lip looking at her smart phone. “I'll erase it. Oops.”

“What?”

She grimaced, teeth gritted as she hissed. “Oh, shit.”

“What did you do?” Alarm went through me.

“I somehow, by mistake, hit send.”

“Freudian slip,” Brett sat back, eyes shifting from her to me. “Are you on site?”

“Uh, I don't know.” I wasn't one to waste my time on such things. My life was full enough and I didn't need to go to the social network, or play games on-line, like Pokémon—the latest fad. Please. What a waste. I'd rather take a walk in the woods and bird watch.

Nadine was looking at her phone. “Wait. Yes. You're here, but you haven't announced yourself to the school's home site. None of your personal information is in here. And no picture.” She smiled brightly. “You're good.”

“That's good, isn't it?” I said, looking at Brett.

“Let me check.” Brett was using his phone to check it out.

“Can anyone see who she is?” Nadine asked. “I mean not just friends, but anyone?”

Embarrassed, I didn't look because I hadn't figured out how to find such sites as yet on my new phone. The computer was terrifying enough. I'd often had things just blip out of existence on a computer. This new phone had me all a dither, worried I'd post something I really didn't want to post.

“Oh, wait. I see.” He looked up. “Only your name's there but there's no picture, no description or anything.”

“Good. I'll fly under the radar.” At least for a while.

“But this is seriously creepy,” Nadine said, showing her phone's screen to Brett. “See?”

“Demented, this one is,” Brett said. “You're sure that was him?” He looked across to me.

“I saw him shoving a mask of some sort with crazy-colored hair into his backpack. If he wasn't doing anything wrong, why was he hiding in the courtyard looking around like someone might see what he was doing?”

“And you said he saw you,” Nadine reminded.

“Yes.”

“He might be looking for you.” Brett looked concerned. I didn't need them to tell me this.

Shrugging, I took up a spoon and began diving into my pudding as if I couldn't care less.

“Says here he terrorized some girls in the East Wing,” Nadine said, looking up at me.

“That's when I saw him,” I said. “What I mean to say is that I saw him afterwards. He'd already gone outside, down some steps into the courtyard. I've a feeling he knows this building inside and out.”

“You mean like he's not a first year student?” Nadine said.

“Yes. He's probably a sophomore.”

“That would be easy to check.” Nadine had a determined look on her face. “You did say you saw his face?”

“Yes.” She smiled, and looked like she had a plan.

“What classes do you have left today?” Brett asked me into the pause.

“Just an art class at one.”

“Do you have time after?” he asked.

“I do.”

“When?”

“Two -thirty.”

He turned to Nadine. “How's your schedule look?”

“I'm booked through four o'clock.”

“You sure took a lot of hours,” I said.

“Tell me about it. I think I'll have to drop one or two. I only have the weekend off.”

“You'll burn out,” I warned. She made a fist and lightly pounded herself on the forehead. “I know. I know. If it wasn't for my dad paying for tuition, I wouldn't even be going to school this year. It was like I became crazy with power.”

I smiled while eating my pudding. It was just the right consistency, thick as cheese cake.

“You still have that history class on Tuesday and Thursday nights?” she asked me.

“Ugh. Don't remind me.” I swirled my chocolate and whipped cream into an ugly mess.

“You have night class?” Brett asked, surprised.

“Unfortunately.” I rolled my eyes. “I couldn't fit it in anywhere else.”

“When's your music class?” he asked me.

“Piano,” I corrected. “On Tuesday and Thursday, nine AM. You'll have to show me where the music section is in the Arts Building.” I pulled out my map and unfolded it.

“Wait. What's that?” He pointed.

“My map of the building. I got it in the mail.”

He made a hissing sound. “No. Bring up your app.”

“What app?” I blinked up at him.

“Your map app.” I stared at him blankly. “You don't have the map app?”

I shook my head. I was a total idiot with my new phone.

“Hand it over. I'll get it up for you.” Brett held out his hand to me. I put my phone into his hand and he worked on putting up the map for campus and showed me how to use it. I was wary of this. I've lost such things before, and it wouldn't be the first time I messed up something on my phone as well.

After lunch we all had to part ways. Nadine was taking drama class. I didn't know she was into drama, but her brother was. Maybe he talked her into it. When I had chosen my classes, my aunt told me this was the opportunity for me to “find myself”. I actually liked that idea. Finding myself—or whatever interested me. Music and art had always been something I wanted to dabble in. I had been told when young that I was a talented artist. My interest in writing had come when I took the creative writing class in my senior year of high school. The need to explore everything made me feel like a spinning top, but I could only take so many hours. I had decided to see where my interests lie by dabbling in a few things in my first year.

I looked at the map on my phone and experimented with moving the map around. “Oh, there it is. And there's my art class.” I looked up. “Speaking of which, I've gotta go get my art supplies out in my car.”

“Now?” He checked the time. “You've still got a half an hour.”

“Oh. Yeah. I keep forgetting I get a whole hour off for lunch, now.

“Let's go to the commons,” he suggested.

We found our way back to the commons. It was similar to, but ten times larger and a hundred times better than my high school cafeteria. I'd heard people refer to it as “the pit” because that's what it was. It was lower than the main floor, about ten cement steps down on either end. People gathered in groups around the many tables. Some were round, some square but all were the dark brown fake-wood laminated tops. Lined up all along the wall were a variety of vending machines. I found I still had some money on me and bought a candy bar from one machine while looking down at my phone. Meanwhile Brett joined a large group of people around two tables shoved end-to-end.

“That clown was terrifying,” a woman's voice turned me around to two women behind me. I faced someone from my past.

“Brianna Bryde?” I sputtered. We both made the little screams of realization and delight, and threw our arms around one another for a hug.

“I have not seen you since I lived in DeWitt,” I said, drawing back to look at her. She was what you would call beautiful. Her dark hair was more styled now than I remembered, and I remembered the large mole on her neck. It made me think of my writing class in how to make a character stand out in the memory of your reader.

“I thought that was you, Lainey!” she said. We both laughed.

“Are you going to school here too?” I asked.

“Yeah. I also work here. In the Bursar's Office.”

“Oh, really? Congrats!”

“Just part time.” She shrugged it off.

“But it's a good job, right?”

She made a delicate snort. “You wouldn't believe how office people are. Some of them are absolute sharks. But I don't mind Mrs. Taylor. She's nice to me.”

“Mrs. Taylor? She must be married to my creative writing teacher,” I said, wondering what she looked like.

“Might be. They have the same last name. What's he look like?”

“Tall. Handsome. Probably thirty-something,” I said.

She nodded. “Yep. I've seen them together. They make a cute couple.” We chuckled.

She grasped my arm and said, “Lainey, I'm sorry about your parents. I wanted to come to the funeral,” she said. “But I had something come up I had to go to. Sorry.”

“No problem.” I looked away. The mention of my parent's accidental death always put a downer into my day. I was getting better at riding over my emotions after two years, but it was still difficult when someone out of my past said something to me.

“But wow! How crazy to run into you like this here,” she said, brightening.

“What did you say a moment ago about the clown?” I had to confirm something.

“Oh. Wasn't that you in the hallway?” she asked.

“And I take it that was you running past me like a ghost was chasing you, along with two other girls?”

“Yes!” She chuckled lightly. “This guy in a clown mask popped out of nowhere and scared the poo out of us. Didn't you see him?”

“I did. A guy with a mask playing a stupid joke,” I said unimpressed.

“You haven't seen what he's been posting on-line?”

I shook my head. “I've heard.”

She looked down at her phone. “I can't seem to stop looking at it.” She looked up and said, “He's been threatening specific teachers as well as students as a whole. This was the first time anyone saw him. I tried to get a video, but I just couldn't work the buttons fast enough. I just wanted to get the hell away from him.”

“I saw him,” I said. “I mean without his mask.”

Her eyes popped. “Really? What did you do?”

“I watched him take off his mask.”

Her blue eyes still huge, her perfect mouth became unhinged. “You didn't!”

“He went outside, right afterwards. I watched unnoticed from above. I know what he looks like.” I didn't get a chance to say he'd seen me, too.

“You should go to someone in the main office and tell them!”

I put up my hands. “If things get out of hand, then I will. So far he's just made threats and scared a few people.” I still didn't know who he was.

“Well, I should go, my break is almost up. My schedule is brutal. I'm here all day, have classes in between work.” She stepped away. “Nice to see you, Lainey.”

“Yeah. Nice to bump into you again, Brianna, we should get together!” I called after her.

“Hey, that would be great!” She was in a hurry and so I let her go. Checking the clock on the wall I now had twenty-three minutes before my art class, and it lasted a total of an hour and a half. I would have to go outside to get my art bin and sketch pad. I wondered what we'd do in art on the first day.

Someone said my name and I twirled to find Brett at a table with Moon and a few other people, two of the guys towered over everyone. Brett motioned to me and I stepped over.

“Lainey,” Moon said as I strolled up and Brett put an arm around me. “So, how are you liking college life?” Moon's hair style had changed drastically since I'd last seen him. Shaved on the right side, the longer left side was died black and about four inches long. He constantly had to shake it back, or left it hanging over his left eye. The real color of his hair was more like his sister, Nadine's, a mousy brown. He also had added black plastic rimmed glasses. I wasn't sure if he actually needed glasses, but it was stylin'.

“Well, give me a week to decide. I haven't even finished up one day, yet,” I said on a chuckle.

“By then you'll hate it and will have become as cynical as the rest of us,” he said.

I laughed. “We'll see.” I looked up at Brett.

“You know where your art class is?” he asked.

I'd bitten into my candy bar and could only nod as I chewed.

“No, you dumb shit. That's not a banana spider. That's a Wandering Brazilian Spider. A full grown can wrap it's legs around your head. It's bite can kill you in two hours!” Someone's voice made me turn around to find it was the large hairy guy who had been in my creative writing class. He was with a slightly shorter, thinner guy, but anyone would look short compared to him.

Brett and Moon turned to the two. “Ellwood! Ham!” Moon greeted the tall, thin guy and went through some sort of weird hand bumping and hand slapping with him. The large hairy guy wore a Stephan King T-shirt with all the titles of his books. Obviously a fan.

“This is Ellwood,” Moon said, motioning to the largest guy. “You have him walk anywhere beside you and no one will bother you.” He leaned over and in a lowered voice said, “I sometimes slip him money just so that happens.”

“Oh, good to know,” I said, smiling as the others chuckled. I could definitely see why and wondered if he wasn't serious. Ellwood had to stand six-six, was as wide as a redwood, and the fold in the middle of his brows made him look like an ogre.

Ellwood looked over at me and pointed. “Oh, wait. You're in my creative writing class. Wait. I thought you were a freshman.”

“I am,” I admitted shyly.

“Only sophomores can take creative writing. How did you get in?”

“My English teacher wrote a letter to Mr. Tyler.” Warmth in my face told me I must have been turning a bright shade of pink.

Ellwood smiled. “Aw, she still blushes!”

“Nickel for your thoughts,” Ham said.

Ellwood turned on him and said, “Being a dick won't make yours any bigger.”

Ham made a fluttering hand gesture. “What-ever.” Then stepped away.

“Good that we understand each other, motherfucker!” he yelled at Ham. I had been under the wrong impression they were friends. Ellwood turned to me. “Don't mind me. I don't go crazy. I am crazy. I just go normal from time to time.” He laughed and a few others around the table chuckled possibly to avoid the same sort of verbal abuse.

I was finding that the color was gradually going out of my face. In fact it was probably going white with shock. I hadn't been around guys like this before. In fact, I did my best to avoid them. The rough language was something I would have to get used to here. I wasn't in high school any more where teachers monitored us.

“But let me warn you, Mr. Taylor is tough,” Ellwood said to me.

“I'm sure he is,” I said. “But he's easier to look at than Ratner.”

Everyone chuckled at that. Chalk one up for me. I knew if I wasn't accepted into this rough crowd I'd become the target. I'd seen it many a times in high school. Girls who are teased mercilessly by guys like Ellwood, who, for whatever the reason, chose to pick on them.

“Oh, yeah. The last time I saw something like her, I flushed it down the toilet!” The others agreed with hilarious laughter. I stepped away, having had enough of this crowd. I noticed Moon and the one who'd taken Ellwood's insult, Ham, both now sat at a separate table.

“I hope they don't decide to do Romeo and Juliet again,” he said to Moon.

Moon rolled his eyes. “God, give me strength!”

“Hi, Moon. I don't believe I know your friend,” I said, my glance going to the taller guy with the red bow tie.

“Brad Hamilton,” he said. I thought his white button shirt and red bow tie was a bit of an oddity, but maybe he wanted to look as nerdy as possible. “Everyone calls me Ham.”

“Nice to meet you, Ham.” I shook his hand, since he'd extended it. His hand was cool and the handshake was weak.

“Oh, by the by, Lainey, Nadine told me you saw the clown,” Moon said.

I wished he hadn't said that so loud. Several people from nearby table looked over at us.

“The clown?” Ham burst. “You're kidding me! I heard he chased a bunch of girls earlier.”

“I was there—”

“Really? Did you scream and run?” Ellwood had turned around, his voice challenging. He chuckled demoniacally, throwing his head back.

I met his eyes. “No. I actually watched him run in the opposite direction and take off his stupid mask. I know his identity.”

“No shit?” Ellwood looked impressed.

“Uh, guys, let's hold it down a bit, okay?” Brett's caution brought the other's voices back to a lower key.

“You mean you know who he is?”

“No. I don't know who he is. I only know what he looks like. If I get a picture of him, I'll be able to match his face with a name.”

“That should be easy enough. I've got a Whitney graduation book from last year at home,” Moon said.

“That would work,” I said. “How do I get it from you?”

Moon thought on it for a beat. “I think Nadine has a night class. So, I can't give it to her.”

“Are you working tonight?” I asked.

“Yeah. From five till closing.”

“Perfect. Maybe I can meet you at The Huddle?” I looked up at Brett hopefully.

“I've gotta work,” Brett said. I made a disappointed sigh. He worked at Pizza Wheel.

“Bring the book to work with you, I'll come by and pick it up,” I suggested.

“Why are you thinking he'll be in last year's graduating book?” Ellwood asked.

“Because he knew his way around really well. Not like someone who's never been here. This place has a lot of hallways. He knew exactly where to scare the girls and then went out an exit door, down into a courtyard below to escape being seen when he took off the mask.”

Moon smiled up at Ellwood who's brows had disappeared underneath his unruly dark hair. “Lainey here is our resident Sherlock Holmes,” he said proudly.

“Really?” Ellwood wasn't convinced.

“She solved two murders just this past summer,” Brett added with a beaming smile.

Embarrassed, I let my gaze drop. “I had help.”

“Sure, but if it weren't for your bringing everyone to the scene of the crime, we wouldn't have found out who really killed Arline,” Moon said. “Wish I'd been there.” Looking wistfully, he shook his head. “I heard you got Comb to confess all.”

“It sort of was a given, since she had Arline's phone and her jewelry right there in her car and was wearing her gold bracelet. But both Lisa and Bridget killed her,” I said, feeling the heat of stares from Ellwood and Ham.

“Too bad about Wendy being somewhat homicidal, though.”

“That's a bit mean,” I said. “She has schizophrenia, and now she's being treated.”

“Wait. This schizoid killed someone?” Ellwood said, his interest obviously heightened.

“No. She stabbed her in the back. Just once. It was the other two girls who took turns stabbing her repeatedly, and then robbed her.” Moon rattled off. Thank you Moon.

“Jesus. How didn't I hear about this?” Ellwood wondered.

“You were working on your book,” Ham said. “It was hard to pull you away to get you to even watch the Cubs win the pennant.”

“Not into sports, dude,” Ellwood said without looking down at him.

“God, this is depressing. I need to go and get my things for my next class, anyway.” I turned to Brett. “Walk me out to my car, and then walk me at least halfway to the art class so I don't get lost, please?”

The fact that our menacing clown lurking about had me a bit nervous, since I not only saw him, but he saw me, wasn't lost on Brett. Arm around me, he headed me out to the parking lot. Whitney College stood in the middle of countryside, with farms on two sides, a main road that went east and west, and one that cut north and south. It was the only large building four miles from the nearest town, thus, no one had any business parking here unless they had classes or worked here. The parking lot was conveniently close to all exits, and wrapped around the large building on three sides. The first row we walked through had reserved signs posted for those I presumed worked here. Yep. I found the president's spot was closest to the door, naturally. The vice president's was next to his, and on either side were the reserved signs. My car was parked three rows back.

“Are you really going to try and identify him?” Brett asked while I grabbed my art box and sketch pad out of the back of my car.

Straightening, I said, “Why? Shouldn't I?”

“Maybe you should hold off on it. I mean, he hasn't really done anything bad, yet.”

“No. But, what if he does?” I said. “I don't need to remind you of the numerous shootings on campuses all over the country, do I?”

His head leaned to the side with agreement.

“What's he been saying on social media?”

“He's threatened teachers.”

“Just teachers in general? Or were there specific ones?”

“A couple. One was Ratner, and the other was Taylor,” he said.

I squinted at him. “Mr. Taylor? That's my creative writing teacher.”

“Yeah. Well, the names are out there.”

“I think someone has to know who this creep is before he does something horrible,” I said, shutting my car door and pressing the auto-lock button on my key fob.

Brett's silence either meant he agreed or didn't agree with me. I hadn't been able to read him yet, after these few weeks of either talking to him on the phone, or going out for something to eat, or just hanging out.

We went back inside, and took the cement stairs up to second floor. “This is it,” he said pointing. “From here on is the Art Wing. Didn't you say you had a night class?”

“On Tuesday. History—Western Civilization. I get two credits for it.” I sighed. “I don't relish the idea of coming out here at night.”

“I don't either,” he said. “Anyone you know have night class that night too?”

“No.” But I didn't know if there was anyone I knew from my high school who might be. I hoped there was.

“What time are you done with classes today?” Brett asked. Had he already forgotten?

“At two-thirty. This is my last class of the day.”

“I'll try and meet you back at your car, okay?”

“Sure.” I smiled up at him. “What class do you have?”

“Business management.”

“Oh, I had no idea you wanted to get into management,” I said, teasing him a little bit.

“Well, you know, I can't lean too much on my band and music to take me anywhere.”

“That's what I like about you. You're practical.” We passed a series of shut doors.

His arm slid around my shoulders. “We're just two practical people.”

We turned down a corridor and heard some sort of flute music.

“Sounds almost ethereal,” I said as we pulled up to an open door.

“Sounds like Native American flute,” Brett said.

Peering inside, we saw a guy sitting cross-legged on top of a desk. His black hair was in a long braid, a red bandanna tied around his head. At first I was transfixed on the spot, wondering why the man seemed familiar. I knew him, and had to remember from where I knew him. Then, when he stopped and looked up at us, it hit me who it was.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Brett said.

“Nate?” I said, taking a step inside the room. “Nate Blackstone?”

“Lainey?” Nate Blackstone hopped off the desk and strode forward.

“Yes.”

“You know each other?” Brett said.

“Yes. I met him over the summer.” Well, that didn't sound good. “You remember? He was there at the park, you know when we did that reconstruction? Him and Lassiter?”

“Oh. Right. Right,” he said thrusting a hand out to Nate and they shook hands briefly.

“I didn't know you played flute,” I said, admiring the unusual instrument. It was about as thick as an oboe but not as long. It had an eagle feather attached to it by a leather thong.

“Yeah, man. That was great,” Brett said, being admiring of another musician.

“Thanks.” Nate held up the thick wooden flute. I must admit I'd never seen anything like it. “This was my grandfather's. I'm trying to learn to play it.” He shook his head. “Can't seem to find the right time or place to do it.”

“Are you taking music classes here?” I asked.

“No. Not music.” He smiled. “They don't teach Native American flute here, I'm afraid. But I am taking automotive mechanics here, along with a few other courses.”

“That's good,” I said.

“Listen, we didn't mean to interrupt you, man,” Brett said, a possessive arm around my shoulders.

“That's alright. I've gotta go to my next class, anyway.” We all moved out into the hall working to part company, him going one way and us going another.

“Nice seeing you, again,” I said, raising my hand in a wave.