“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better,” said Ted, who was slumped in his chair, staring at the scarred surface of the oak rolltop desk he’d inherited from his grandfather, a legendary small town newspaper editor. His sepia-toned portrait hung on the wall above Ted’s desk and today his expression seemed somewhat reproachful.

“Listen, Ted,” said Lucy. “I’m doing that story on the new staff members at the school for next week’s paper. Maybe I could ask around a little bit.” She bit her lip. “That new coach, Buck Burkhart, is actually my neighbor. He lives over there on Prudence Path.”

“It’s probably just some overprotective mother,” said Phyllis. “You know the type. Rushes to the doctor the minute the kid sneezes.”

Lucy reread the letter. “Anyone who values the traditions of sportsmanship and fair play can’t help but be dismayed by these degrading activities…” It was written by someone trying to set out a rational, convincing argument. But then the tone abruptly changed: “It breaks my heart to see the harm done to a sensitive, idealistic young man.” The writer, whoever he or she was, clearly believed something destructive and dangerous had happened to a loved one. Lucy couldn’t ignore it.

“Sara might have heard something,” she speculated, thinking out loud. “She knows some of the kids on the team.”

“Okay, Lucy,” agreed Ted. “Go ahead and ask around. But be careful. This is the sort of thing that can damage people’s reputations, even ruin their lives. We can’t print even a whisper of this unless we’re absolutely certain of our facts.”

“I’ll be careful,” promised Lucy, glancing at the portrait. She thought the old man’s expression had changed. He seemed interested.

But when she drove over to the high school to pick Sara up after cheerleading practice, Lucy couldn’t think of a way to broach the subject. She was parked by the field, watching the girls go through their routines. They looked so cute and young and thoroughly wholesome with their bouncy pony tails and pink cheeks and white teeth that she didn’t want to spoil the mood by bringing up an uncomfortable topic like hazing. She was so totally absorbed by their acrobatics, holding her breath as one of the girls was tossed high into the air, that she didn’t notice when a woman approached her car and stuck her face through the open window.

“Hi! I’m Willie Westwood and you’re Lucy Stone, right? You live in that adorable farmhouse up the road.”

“That’s me,” said Lucy. Willie’s smiling, freckled face was inches from hers. “You must live in one of the new houses on Prudence Path.”