A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(12)

It was a new dream this time. There were no faceless men or wet sand, but her father was still there. He kept whispering something to her and, try as she might, she couldn’t get near enough to hear him. That was when the hooded stranger came and pulled her back from him.

Just as he had done all those years before.

He was still a stranger to her—both in and out of her dreams—after apparently disappearing without a trace from the doorway of the building in which he had held her as she cried for her father. She truly believed the police and her mother thought she was insane when she tried to describe what had happened: that a hooded unknown had pulled her from seeing her father beaten to death on a cold, wet night in the Bronx.

All she knew was that he was definitely male and he couldn’t have been much older than she was. But he was never found. Regardless, he was still there in her subconscious, desperately dragging her away from her father.

An hour and a half later, tired and frustrated, Kat was sitting at her mother’s dining table, fighting to clear the horrendous tension that shrouded the room. It was a losing battle; it had been that way ever since Kat had applied for her job at Kill. Nevertheless, trying her hardest not to be discouraged by her mother’s blatant apathy, Kat enthused to her mother and her mother’s partner of ten years, Harrison, about how well her students were doing, how hard they were working, and how focused they’d become. Kat described what she felt when her student, Sam, had written prose so poetic it had damned near brought her to tears of pride. She spoke about the surge of adrenaline that only a teacher knows when their students show understanding of a subject, but her mother didn’t even try to hide her scoff.

Her mother, as much as Kat loved her and tried to understand her point of view, was still extremely prejudiced about criminals and what should be done about them. As much as Kat had tried her best to quash her mother’s fears, her pleading was ignored. The thought of Kat being near them, let alone teaching them, made Eva sick to her stomach.

The arguments that had taken place had been epic in their ferocity. Kat had tried to reason with her mother that, as hard as it was to understand, they weren’t the same men who’d killed the man they both adored. After her therapy sessions, where she had discussed the same fears, it had surprised Kat how easy the words came off her tongue.

Nevertheless, despite Kat’s efforts, the dinner was, as always, overwrought and awkward. Kat left early, making excuses about grading her students’ work.

Once through her apartment door, she kicked off her shoes and wandered over to the answering machine, which was flashing, and pressed play. She grabbed a bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured it into one of her larger glasses. After dinner with her mother, Kat was definitely ready for a drink.

“Miss Lane, it’s Anthony Ward. I wanted to give you a heads-up that a new inmate will be joining your class tomorrow. He’s … difficult, but I’m sure you’ll be just fine. I’ll explain in the morning. Have a good evening.”

Kat stared at the machine. A new inmate? Difficult?

“Cheers, Mr. Ward,” she muttered, sipping her drink. She sat cross-legged on her sofa, glass of wine still firmly in hand, as a new message began.

“Hey, Lane!” Beth’s voice was excited. “It’s me! So. Reminder. It’s nearly my birthday, which means wine and food, and did I mention wine? Huh. I’ll text you the details. Call me.”

[page]Kat laughed into her glass.

With the uncomfortable dinner at her mother’s house still fresh in her mind, Kat was certain that Beth’s birthday party was just what she needed.