Cold Springs(53)

Mark cleared his throat. “Look, Ann, the administrative leave—”

“I'm not taking administrative leave.”

From the playground came the sounds of the second-grade PE class—Red Light, Green Light. Laughter and the coach's whistle.

Ann wanted to be down there with the children. She wanted to be in the classrooms, reassuring her teachers, who had woken up this morning to reporters' phone calls.

There was an answer, if she just hung on long enough to find proof. She knew where the blame lay—oh, damn yes, she knew.

She was not a violent person. But when she comprehended the extent of John's evil, how completely she'd underestimated his capacity for hate, she wanted him dead.

“I'm afraid we have to insist,” Mark told her. “I mean, look, Ann—”

“I have a school to run.” She closed her fists. “I will not take administrative leave when the school most needs me. If you want to fire me—fire me. Until then, you all will have to excuse me. The middle school returns from the park in fifteen minutes, and I'd appreciate it if you put these desks back into rows.”

She walked out, conscious of their eyes on her back, conscious that Chadwick wasn't in the doorway anymore, David Kraft falling in beside her, saying, “Ann? Ann?”

“David, please—you'll have to excuse me.”

“Is there anything—”

“NO. No, dear. There isn't. Please.”

“They can't fire you, right? I mean, that's nuts, right?”

She kept walking, leaving David behind at the stairwell.

She pushed through the Japanese curtain into her office, wishing for once that she had a door to lock, blinds to pull over the window, anything to hide behind.

Chadwick was sitting in her visitor's chair, his eyes topaz blue, his clothes layered like wind on a sand dune. He looked so much like a natural formation that she could fancy he'd always been part of that chair—a trick of the shadows, waiting for the right light to delineate his features on special occasions—the day he'd asked for a leave of absence to go to Texas, the day he'd announced he was quitting, the day he'd picked up Mallory.

Only then did it hit her why he might be here, and her concerns about the school faded to nothing. “Mallory—?” she said.

“She's fine,” he told her, though his tone suggested he was glossing over plenty of problems.

“Then why—”

“Talia Montrose's murder. I came out hoping to clarify things. Then I met Norma and the CBS news team on the street.”

Ann sank to the edge of her desk in front of him. She pressed her palms to her eyes.

God, what she wouldn't give to be in a different place—the faculty retreat house at Stinson Beach, walking the shore, watching the lights of fishing boats out on the horizon. Or in the redwoods, or at the Russian River—all those camping trips Chadwick and she had talked about taking, some day when their lives were aligned. This was the second time she had seen Chadwick in a month, after nine years dreaming about reunion—and they were stuck here, the same place they'd said goodbye, in the office where she'd mediated crises for most of her adult life.

“John stole the money,” she said. “No one believes me.”

“You have proof?”

“He set up the account. There was a voice authorization clause—Norma tells me this, but I swear to God, if I ever knew it, I'd forgotten. John made it so I was the main signatory. I could . . . I could transfer funds to another account with just a phone call, as long as the new account was also in my name.”

“But you didn't call.”

“The bank says I did, a week ago, requesting a transfer of funds. It was a woman's voice. She had the right numbers. Knew the balance and how all the funds were allocated. They got an e-mail that appeared to come from Norma, confirming the withdrawal. The money was electronically transferred to a new account in my name, then transferred overseas to a numbered account in the Seychelles Islands. Have you ever tried to get information out of a bank agent in the Seychelles, Chadwick? Don't bother. And the bank agent here? The one who took the call? He's done business with John for years. You figure it out.”

She didn't realize she was crying until Chadwick offered her a handkerchief, a pure white square of linen.

How many guys still carried a handkerchief in their pocket? She wondered if it was a tool of his new trade—did he need it on a daily basis, the way he needed Mace or plastic handcuffs? She wiped her cheeks.

“The minute I open my mouth about John . . . The board, the police—they all see it as a weak defense. Bitterness. Of course I would blame him. They don't believe me.”

“I'll talk to him,” Chadwick said.

“What for? You know why he did it—to ruin me. To get custody. One more year, Chadwick, and Mallory turns sixteen. She can refuse treatment, sign herself out of any program. If John gets her now, I'll never have another chance to help her. I'll lose her forever. Just like Katherine.”

Immediately she wished she could retract the comment.

He turned his head, as if from an icy gust. She wished she could kiss him, like she had the last time he was here, when the whole world had momentarily shifted into perfect balance. But he'd pulled away from her that time, and she'd ended up feeling cheap and desperate.