Dead silence filled the room. The voice of the teacher in the neighboring classroom seemed unnaturally loud through the partition wall. As did the squeaking wheels of the janitor’s cart somewhere amid the school’s halls.

The other students exchanged looks, some incredulous, some uneasy, all uncertain.

“What’d you say, bitch?” Ray demanded. The harsh rasp of his voice scratched the air, reverberating over the gentle hum of the air conditioner.

She moved from behind the podium and strode down the narrow aisle with predatory precision, stepping over backpacks and purses without once looking down. Heads swiveled to watch her progress to the back of the room.

Stopping in front of Ray, an odd rush of warmth filled her as she leaned down. Her skin simmered, heated by the blood coursing beneath. Impossible as it seemed, she felt herself expand, growing larger and taller than her diminutive five feet two. With hard hands, she grasped the edge of his desk. The simulated wood creaked beneath the pressure of her fingers and she felt certain with only a little more force she could splinter the desk with her bare hands.

Lowering her head, she locked eyes with him and watched in satisfaction as the challenge faded and melted from the dark liquid pools. He dropped his gaze to the top of his desk, shrinking in his seat, the plastic chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. His cockiness evaporated on the air like a wisp of smoke.

His earlier words still ringing in her ears, she growled, “Care to repeat yourself?”

He shook his head, still avoiding her gaze. She reveled in his fear, could smell it, could taste it even, its warm, coppery sweetness flooding her mouth and filling her with a strange hunger. The hunger to hurt.

And that made her stop.

As if burned, she released the desk and looked around at the faces of her students. She read the shock in their eyes and bile rose thick in her throat. Her anger had moved beyond the walls of her parents’ house. Today she had an entire audience to witness her behavior. And this time, she hadn’t wanted to stop. She had wanted to push further, harder. Wanted to hurt.

Digging deep, she fumbled to recover the old, familiar Claire. The orderly, unassuming woman buried somewhere deep inside. The little girl with limp curls in her Christmas sweater. Where had she gone? And most important, how could she get her back?

In a crisp, businesslike tone she instructed the class, “Open your books to page four seventy-six.”

Claire sensed Nina’s approach, smelled the sweetness of her vanilla perfume even before she felt the slight pressure on her shoulder.

“Miss Morgan?”

She lifted her head from the desk located at the back of the room, where she had collapsed after the student exodus following the seventh period bell. Claire ran her hands over her face tiredly.