And then Gus drops a bomb that obliviates everything in my mind, every racing thought and half-formed idea. Four words, immeasurable impact.
“He was a teacher.”
Gus’s wordsplay through my mind over and over as I rush from the studio, flying down the stairs and jumping into Sunshine.
She called him ‘Teach,’ and then they started arguing about her calling him that when someone might hear. She told him he was acting like a crotchety old man and then started teasing him about his gray hairs. I think maybe she was trying to calm him down. She told him she would see him at school the next day. I was about to stop listening when she started saying a bunch of lovey-dovey stuff—I really was. But she, uh…well, she caught me listening. It was awkward, and she got really angry.
My brain is buzzing so loudly that I almost miss the correct turnoff—twice. I do manage to make it to the high school, though, maybe miraculously. The student lot is small but mostly empty now that the school day has ended; I park at the edge of the lot overlooking the track and football field, not bothering to adjust my car within the space. Then I hop out, slamming the door shut behind me.
I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. All I can think about is the photo of Sandra her mother showed us, the one of her in the fuchsia hoodie. That image keeps flashing through my mind, alternating with the faint memory of the first day I arrived here in Autumn Grove—the bad parking job in front of Grind and Brew, and the one thing that was just obnoxious at the time:
The car that was following me.
I search that memory more frantically, playing desperately through every detail I can conjure. The car followed me down Main and to Grind and Brew, and I thought I saw it when I left Namaste that day, too. It was white, I remember, so it couldhave been Sandra’s, especially since I know she was following Aiden later.
The people in that car were wearing some kind of obnoxious pink, but was it that same fuchsia? Was that them—Sandy and her mystery man? But if she was dating a teacher on the down low, why would they be in public together?
Although…they were in a car. They might have assumed that would be safe, especially if they were just stopping by.
I turn around as I hear the sharp blast of a whistle. There are students down below, probably the cross country team—some of them are sitting in the grass, stretching; others are jogging around the track. A couple more are standing by the goal post, chatting.
Those things aren’t what catch my attention, though. What catches my attention is the number of vivid fuchsia shirts I see; several t-shirts and two long-sleeved shirts. My gaze darts more intently over the scene below.
And then a chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the brisk breeze and everything to do with the cross country coach, who I’ve just spotted.
He’s standing at the edge of the track with a clipboard in hand, the other hand on his hip. Dark hair, graying at the temples. Charismatic smile. A bright fuchsia hoodie.
A man who knew my mother and her friends.
A man who I know to have the same clear blue eyes as the brother he so loathes.
The same eyes, in fact, that I see when I look in the mirror.
I swallow my scream as the man in question looks up suddenly, waving when he spots me. I force my trembling body to respond, lifting my hand and waving in response.
Rocco Astor smiles.
23
IN WHICH AIDEN FINALLY CAVES
I’m just about to leave my office when my phone rings.?* It’s been a long day, mostly because the image of Juniper asleep in my bed keeps popping into my mind at the most inconvenient times—not an angelic sight, but more like the troll beneath the bridge, her mouth gaping open, emitting a faint snore that likely came from how congested she was after all that crying. Her hair was a messy shock of pink spread all over my pillow. There was nothing particularly beautiful about the visual.
And yet I’m still thinking of it eight hours later. I’m still half wishing that I could return home and find her in the exact same spot.
I shake my head, trying to banish the image. It’s tempting to ignore my ringing phone so I can leave faster, but I answer anyway, primarily to distract myself.
“Hello,” I say, wedging the phone in between my shoulder and my ear so I can finishgetting my papers into my bag.
“Hi.” The voice is familiar but only just; I pause, waiting for the caller to go on. “This is Gus Flanders, from Namaste?”
“Oh,” I say, frowning. “Hello.”
“Hi,” he says again. “Uh, I called because I was concerned about Juniper.”
My hand freezes in the process of shoving a book in my bag. “What do you mean? Concerned how?”
Gus sighs. “She rushed out of here a bit ago after—after—we had a conversation that I think upset her?—”
