Orchard School is at the end of a long, narrow gravel lane, bordered by farmland and homes that appear, sad and slumped into the landscape. It’s a world just barely getting by. It reminds me of Snow Creek and how the lottery of where you’re born directs much of one’s life. The main building has a cinderblock façade that’s been painted with what I expect are school colors: bus yellow and midnight blue. A school flag of a bird of prey flutters under the American flag on a pole adjacent to the entrance. A dozen cars are parked to the west of the building; beyond those are a playfield and two large trailers, which I presume are used as classrooms when enrollment is up.

I tell the deputies to keep back.

“Guys,” I remind them, “let’s keep it low key. I’ll park and go in. I want you to stay back and come in five minutes later. Set a timer or something. Alarming her in a place like this could make all three of us famous for all the wrong reasons.”

I check in at the front desk and am quickly escorted to the administrator’s office.

Paul Singer looks up from the job application.

“You wouldn’t come this far if this wasn’t bad.”

I slide into a seat across from his blank, hospital-clean desk. I want to ask how long he’s been there, if his clean office is an indication that he’s ready to bolt if he gets a better offer. But I don’t. He’s sweating, and I find it hard to keep my eyes off the leakage oozing out from his armpits.

“It’s serious. But this will go down easy.”

I show him the photo I’d sent over.

“You sure this is her?”

He takes my phone and studies the photograph.

“Yeah. I’m positive. She seems so nice. So normal.”

He reminds me of the neighbor of a just-discovered serial killer.

“Want me to buzz her now?”

“Tell her you need to go over some paperwork or something.”

He looks wary as he presses an intercom button.

A woman answers.

“Ms. Cathy, is Ms. Webster there?”

“Yep. I’ll get her.”

“Tell her to come down to my office. One of her students is moving away and her mom is here to thank her for the extra help she gave her in reading.”

“Nice,” she says. “On her way now.”

Forty-Six

The clacking of heels announces Becky Webster’s arrival even before she knocks on the door to the administrator’s blank little office.

“Come on in, Becky.”

The door opens to reveal a lithe blond with blue eyes and only a touch of eye shadow.

She looks at me, then at her boss. A confused expression comes across her pretty face.

“Cathy said there was a parent here. I don’t recognize you. I’m sorry.”

I tell her to sit.