“Then I’ll drive,” Maria said with a tight smile. “I’ve got lights and sirens and a radio if we need it.”

Rachel considered the offer, her mind working at lightning speed, playing out the pros and cons. If she let Perez drive, she forfeited all the control; she would be powerless to help her daughter if the detective pulled something untoward. But despite her paranoia and sudden suspicions about the woman, she had no concrete evidence that Maria Perez was anything other than she claimed to be—a struggling, single detective who by fate, or possibly the hand of God, found her way into their lives.

What if Maria has some role to play . . . a role only God can see? Ben Morvant gave her unescorted clearance on campus. And Jed is dating her, for goodness’ sake.

If they trust her, maybe I should too . . .

“Okay, Maria,” Rachel said, unsure about her decision but committing anyway. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO

FRONT GATE

ST. GEORGE’S ACADEMY

2118 HOURS LOCAL

Brandt Sanderson cupped his fingers around the top of his bottle of Coca-Cola to make an impromptu funnel, then dumped a third of a bag of salted Planters peanuts inside.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Vance, his fellow guard, asked.

Sanderson shot Vance a dubious look. “You’ve never had Coke and peanuts before?”

“Heck no, that’s disgusting.”

“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” he said, then took his first sip of the sweet and salty goodness, holding the floating peanuts at bay with his top lip.

“Must be a Southern thing,” Vance said, scrunching up his face with disapproval as lightning flashed and the wind began to pick up outside.

Brandt had picked up the practice from his dad, who’d learned it from his grandpa, who’d learned it while working construction. And yes, it was a Southern thing—Texas, Georgia, Florida, Alabama—he’d seen fellas drink Coke with peanuts in all those places but never once up North.

“What do you do with the peanuts when you’ve drank down to the bottom?” Vance asked, unable to let it go.

“Well, you either eat ’em,” Sanderson said with a wry, Texas-size grin, “or you don’t.”

“Obviously . . . what do you do?”

“I eat ’em.”

“Don’t they get soggy?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, man, that’s disgusting,” Vance said, getting out of his chair and throwing his arms up for dramatic effect.

Sanderson chuckled. He hadn’t known Vance long, but he liked the guy. They were about the same age, late twenties, but Vance had a baby face and could easily pass for eighteen. Sanderson himself had made the mistake of misjudging the guy when they first met, assuming Vance was a rookie fresh out of high school. He’d been surprised when Vance told him he’d done not one but two tours with the Marines. They’d bonded immediately after that—shared service had that effect on people.