Deep in the pocket of her jacket, Kerri’s cell vibrated. She stepped over to the break area to take the call.
A glance at the screen and recognition flared. Her daughter’s school. Her brain instantly cued a shot of adrenaline and a burst of apprehension. “Devlin,” she said rather than hello.
“Ms. Devlin, this is Joslin Farrington.”
The assistant to the head of the school. Kerri held her breath. “Has something happened to Tori?”
Haunting memories from last year—Amelia’s murder—ripped through Kerri.
“No.” The single syllable sounded oddly uncertain. “She’s not hurt or anything, Ms. Devlin.”
A pause while Kerri’s heart rate raced higher in spite of the news.
“However, we do need you to come to the school as quickly as you can. It’s quite urgent.”
Rather than demand more information, Kerri said, “I’m on my way.”
Heart pounding, head spinning with the possibilities of all the awful things that could happen at school these days—even a posh private one—Kerri jerked her head at Falco, and he joined her near the door between the stockroom and the front retail space.
“What’s up?”
“Tori’s school called. Something’s happened. I have to go. Now.”
“Go,” he urged. “I’ve got this.”
“Thanks.”
“Call me,” he said to her back. “Let me know what’s going on.”
Kerri didn’t take the time to respond. She had to go . . . she had to go now.
3
11:50 a.m.
Brighton Academy
Seventh Avenue
Birmingham
In the twenty minutes required to reach Tori’s school, Kerri had imagined a dozen ways that her daughter could be in trouble. She’d turned the radio to a local channel and got nothing. She’d resisted calling dispatch since an explanation would be required if she asked questions about any calls to the location.
My daughter’s school called. I think she’s in trouble. Have any codes been issued for Brighton Academy?
Kerri exhaled a lungful of air as she made the final turn from Twenty-Fourth Street onto Seventh Avenue. The air immediately sucked back into her chest on a vicious gasp. Three BPD cruisers as well as a fire and rescue vehicle littered the street in front of the school’s main entrance.
Kerri didn’t remember parking . . . had no idea if she’d locked her vehicle or even closed the door. Heart in her throat, she was on the sidewalk and bounding toward the main entrance before her brain caught up with the rest of her. A uniformed officer stood at the double doors.
“I’m afraid the school is on lockdown, ma’am,” he warned as she approached.
Kerri shifted her jacket to reveal the badge clipped to her belt, and the uni immediately opened one of the two doors.
“Straight ahead, Detective.”
Inside, Kerri hurried down the hall, past the rows of bulletin boards filled with news postings and announcements of upcoming events. The bright overhead lights reflected against the shiny terrazzo floor. The bulletin boards transitioned into surprisingly good watercolor paintings posted on the clean white walls. Any other time she would have paused to check coming events or to admire the artwork. She couldn’t take the time now. She had to know if Tori was okay.
At the far end of the main corridor, where the wide stairs led up to the second floor, more uniforms were stationed. A long strand of yellow crime scene tape looped from one side of the corridor to the other, blocking the entrance to the staircase and the exit to the inner courtyard beyond it.
What the hell happened here?
Kerri’s heart was thudding ineffectively by the time she reached the door to the school’s main office. She walked inside. The lobby was empty save for Detective Wayne Sykes and Nile Foster, the head of the school. The two men were apparently waiting for her. She looked from one to the other. “Where’s Tori?”
“Ms. Devlin,” Foster said, “we need to speak in my office.”
Kerri held up her hands. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
“Devlin,” Sykes said before Foster could respond, “one of the girls in your daughter’s class was badly injured in a fall down the stairs. You probably know her, Brendal Myers.”
The name clicked into place. Tall, slender, pretty. The Myers family was one of the top donors to the school. “What happened?”
The mother in her wanted to demand to know if Tori was okay, but she’d already been told her daughter wasn’t injured. No matter, whatever had happened, Tori was somehow involved; otherwise Kerri would not have been called. That was the part slashing her insides to shreds.
Sykes jerked his head toward Foster’s private office. “Let’s take a moment and talk about this.”
Rather than argue, Kerri went into the office. Taking a seat wasn’t possible, so she stood there, waited for Foster to close the door behind Sykes.
“Brendal’s parents are on their way. They were in Montgomery for a meeting. Thankfully there’s an aunt who could go immediately to be with Brendal at the hospital.” Foster rubbed at his forehead. His hand visibly shook. “We’re still investigating exactly what happened.”
“That’s where your little girl comes in,” Sykes said.
A new kind of apprehension expanded in Kerri. “Tori would never—”
“No,” Sykes said, cutting her off midsentence, “I’m not saying she pushed the Myers girl, but Tori and two other girls were on the landing with Myers when it happened.”
“Pushed? What the hell is going on, Sykes?” A knot formed in Kerri’s stomach.
The detective gave a nod. “Like I said, when Myers fell, there were three people standing around her. Tori was one of them.”
The apprehension vanished, instantly replaced by ire. “Where is she?”
“Peterson is talking to her. We figure she’ll be the one most likely to give us the whole story, you being a cop and all.”
Kerri understood exactly what he meant. Livid, she swung her attention to Foster. Her protective mother instincts overrode more than a decade of hard-earned cop reflexes. “And you allowed this?”
Foster looked from Kerri to Sykes. “Detective, you assured me Tori’s mother wouldn’t have a problem with you proceeding with the questioning.” He turned back to Kerri. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
Kerri bit back the curse that perched on the tip of her tongue. It was done. “Take me to her. Now.”
Sykes exhaled a long breath. “This way.”
The office phone rang, so Foster stayed behind to take the call. Kerri followed the other detective into the main corridor. At that point she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out. “What the hell were you thinking, Sykes?”
He stopped, did an about-face, and glared at her. “Look, we got a girl critically injured. And we got three other girls who know what happened, and not one of them is talking. Of all people, you should understand the urgency of the situation. What if it had been your kid rushed to the hospital?”
Kerri took a mental step back. On one level, he was right. Anytime a minor was involved in an incident, it was the waiting for a parent to arrive that often hindered the investigation. Gave the child time to grow more afraid or confused and to possibly make up a story. Parents wanted to protect their children—even if that child had committed a crime. Not to mention the idea that no child wanted to admit his or her wrongdoing in front of a parent.