Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [125]
“Sure?”
“Mmm.” She nodded her head frantically, anxious to get rid of him. The last thing she needed was her semihot pod leader watching as she imploded, self-destructing. Her throat was still thick, but she forced out the words, “I, uh, think I’m coming down with a cold or something,” she said, the lie tripping off her tongue.
“Okay.”
He was buying it? Really?
“I know all this is difficult.”
What? He knows? Was she that transparent?
Then she got it. He was talking about Andrew and Nona being killed.
“We’ve got grief counseling set up. Private and group. And you know that if you want to talk, I’m here….”
“I know,” she said, forcing brightness into her tone that she didn’t feel. Mr. Trent didn’t understand it, of course, but she was way beyond being saved by talking.
Talk was useless. She needed action.
CHAPTER 32
In a throwback to his youth, Father Jake made the sign of the cross over his chest as he stared at the altar in the chapel.
He hadn’t been a Catholic in a long, long while, but old habits died hard, especially when confronted with great tragedy, hard times.
He’d seen more than his share of heartache, fear, and humiliation in his thirty-six years, and throughout it all, his faith had been unshaken. He knew the emotional pain of losing a wife, of watching her slowly die and realizing that her death was the result of his own actions.
He’d felt despair as great as any and guilt that had been unbearable. He’d made mistakes during his lifetime, had been a liar, a cheat, and he had done things for which he’d had no pride.
Throughout it all, however, he’d held on to his faith. Sometimes it had been hard, nearly impossible, but he’d always felt the spirit of the Lord with him.
But that was changing, he realized. Ever since he’d come to Blue Rock Academy, his faith had been tested.
Now he wasn’t sure it would survive.
He fell to his knees and prayed for guidance, for divine intervention. All the while, he felt the cold metal of the Glock tucked into the waistband of his pants, pressed hard against his back.
Jules stood at the window of her darkened room and hoped no one could see her looking over the campus. Pulling her hands into the warmth of her sweater sleeves, she kept her eyes on Reverend Lynch, a dark slash of a figure. Bent against the wind, he walked on the path from the chapel, veering off from the main walkway, as if he was headed toward the house he shared with Cora Sue. She couldn’t see the house through the curtain of snow, but she was convinced he was going home for the night.
She could only hope he stayed there.
Keyed up, she threw on her jacket, scarf, and boots and grabbed a flashlight and keys, both of which she figured could qualify as weapons. There was no way she could stay in this room and do nothing, just sitting behind a locked door and praying that she was safe. Not with a killer on the campus. Not with her sister at risk.
Locking the door behind her, she told herself to calm down and get a grip, but she knew full well that nothing short of the killer being brought to justice would ease her mind or anyone else’s. Everyone at the school was jumpy.
She hurried down the stairs to the cozy nook that served as the common area for Stanton House. Clusters of tables and chairs were situated around warm, earth-toned rugs that had been tossed over the hardwood floor. Reading lamps and half a dozen battery-powered candles added to the ambience.
However, no one relaxed on the soft leather cushions or curled up in the corner of the couch angled near the windows. The place was empty and quiet except for muted notes of some Spanish ballad drifting from an upper floor.
Jules adjusted her scarf.
The door closet under the stairs opened.
She nearly jumped out of her skin as Keesha Bell, a disgusted look on her face, a dust rag dangling from the back pocket of her jeans, pushed a vacuum cleaner into the room. An empty bucket was swinging from the fingers of her free hand.
“You scared me!” Jules admitted, then laughed.
“Sorry.” Keesha didn’t even pause or crack