Web Of Secrets

By Chayse Manning

Lieutenant Karrene Stevens knows the pain of losing a loved one, and she can't help feeling compassion for Detective Dane Kingman, the bad-boy who punches all of her hot buttons. His goddaughter is one of five missing teens. As the investigation zeroes in on potential suspects, the detectives must navigate through a web of secrets. And the constant contact blended with devastating setbacks drive Karrene and Dane into a rocky affair. But can they rise above their differences, pinpoint a common thread to solve the case targeting easy prey, and find the teens—dead or alive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chayse Manning
• Release date: Apr 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458168276

Chayse Manning

Chayse Manning enjoys an engaging read, but creating stories full of mystery and suspense is one of life’s satisfying pleasures. WEB OF SECRETS is the first novel in a planned series. Visit Chayse & Delta Dupree at: http://www.deltadupree.com/

Book preview

Chapter 1

One young beauty fit the portrait of perfection. And possession.

For the last fifteen minutes, he’d listened to the filth that should never leave the mouths of respectable adults, let alone young ladies. Fifteen, sixteen, possibly seventeen years of age—the perfect age.

He set the teacup gently on the saucer, then unfolded the Arizona Republic and slipped on his magnifying eyeglasses. He’d seen the trio here many times during their usual morning chick meet, and he focused on pure innocence. Her back was to him, but he’d recognize Jasmine Russell anywhere. She’d haunted his dreams.

A pity her once-loyal parents suddenly became narrow-minded. Such are the devil’s disciples.

She’d dyed her hair platinum blonde, had it trimmed short and sassy. The scattering of wild tufts in contrasting chestnut suited her. Unlike her gauche friends, she dressed conservatively: denim jeans, feminine top zipping up her back…such an easy tool to open, to expose a young woman’s soft skin.

He inhaled deeply, imagining the sweet fragrance of a jasmine’s blossom.

When he kisses, he slobbers like a St. Bernard, Jasmine said. The musical lilt to her voice was as soothing as a symphony cellist’s strummed harp. Has eyes like one too.

He suppressed a smile at the sound of her companions’ boisterous laughter and sipped the black tea again. Such uncouth girls. He glanced down at the expensive watch wrapped around his wrist. Classes should begin soon.

Pretty Jasmine crumpled paper napkins together. Like I said, I’m skipping fourth period. Toomey’s sawing a pig in half. I hate biology, would’ve dropped his class if he weren’t so cool. We’d better get going, she said, scraping her chair noisily backward across the brick pavers that surrounded the small building.

Chattering, the teens gathered backpacks, purses, schoolbooks. They pitched trash into a nearby bin while maneuvering around black wrought-iron furniture, heading for the sidewalk. Philburn High School was located seven blocks away. So many young beauties studied there.

Meet back here to do lunch? Uncle Joe’s special today is barbeque beef, he heard as they walked off.

He lifted both eyebrows, watching the sway of Jasmine’s slender hips. She would never do lunch again, not with those unworthy friends.

Seeing the café’s heavyset waitress coming his way, he folded the newspaper neatly into thirds, smoothed the folds, set it beside his silverware.

More tea, Professor? she asked.

Colleagues, students, even acquaintances addressed him by the same appropriate title. Foreigners identified him as Doctor. Amid his followers, he answered to Father.

Yes, Wanda, please.

I’ll bring your breakfast out with it. She shuffled back inside the café.

Stroking his full beard, he looked toward the heavens. The sky was cloudless. Temperatures rose higher than usual for springtime in Mesa, Arizona. Fragrant lilacs, vibrant hibiscus, and groundcover lantanas blossomed in a graceful array of dazzling color under the sun’s brilliance.

The waitress set a plate next to the cereal bowl.

While she poured hot water over a fresh teabag, he asked, Could I get a bit of strawberry preserves?

Something as sweet as Jasmine. Virgins were all sweet, enchanting. Pure. She would be his, the last virgin needed to complete his tender harem.

Sure thing, Wanda replied.

He stirred the oatmeal, lifted a portion to his mouth, and savored its sweetened flavor. As the cereal settled, the recurring twinge produced pain unlike ever before. He grimaced.

Blasted disease.

Complications from the illness had ravaged the shell housing his soul, often interfering with concentration, his reasoning, according to his doctor. He withdrew the prescription bottle from his jacket pocket, fumbled it. He swallowed four tiny white pills and gripped the table’s edge with one hand. The powerful ache came more often now, unrelenting as the Devil’s hold.

Here ya go, Professor.

Steadying himself, controlling the tremors from his weakened state, he removed the eyeglasses and used the only paper napkin, dried perspiration from his face. Thank you.

Gonna be a hot one today, Wanda said. Early for this time of year, isn’t it?

He was in no mood for conversation, in no condition for idle chitchat.

Got empty tables inside. I—

No. He kept his gaze trained on the food as the waitress moved away. She let him suffer in private through the final remnants of bone-aching pain.

Bowing his head he recited a religious passage, which always provided comfort. The pain quieted for now.

He scooped preserves over dry toast, smoothed the fruit crust-to-crust in a thick layer of homemade sweetness.

As peaceful submission drew nearer, his goals had fallen short of completion. He’d left greed to others. His magic number would soon be met. Six, not the seventy-two virgins foolish men longed for in the afterlife. Six would easily fulfill his dreams. Six would satisfy his sixty-three-year-old body—a virgin each day with one day for worship.

He’d practiced the core of Islam’s five pillars to a degree. But he ate the swine Islamic brethren refused. As for Ramadan, the male body needed a female’s gentle touch more often than not. His religious fascinations covered many different beliefs, different practices. No one faith was fully worthy of his devotion. Judaism, Hinduism…Tibetan Buddhists in a small township had honored him with a single name: Chamba. Yet, he’d cheerfully joined several Christian churches throughout the United States. Over time, he’d reined in an endearing flock of loyal followers.

His life had been predefined. Only a chosen intellectual understood the rules, guided the lost, and tutored the weak. Only the chosen shall walk in His divine footsteps to reap the rewarding benefits. And, Chamba knew, only he reigned as the chosen one.

Chapter 2

When the telephone buzzed, Lieutenant Karrene Stevens tossed the folder onto her scarred oak desk and answered the call. Then, Dane Kingman breezed through her office doorway.

What now?

Lieutenant—

She held up one finger, listening to the angry voice on the phone line. Her stomach flipped, churned, soured. Bile rose, threatening to make an ugly appearance.

Damn it, would she ever rid herself of the ache? Ten years had gone by. This case managed to jackknife the past straight into the present.

We’re on our way. Karrene dropped the receiver into its cradle. Rhodes, she said to Kingman. The captain always called her first. Number five, a junior at Philburn High School.

She yanked out her purse from the bottom desk drawer and kicked the lopsided thing closed. One of these days, she planned to replace the damn slides.

Marching around the desk, she adjusted her shoulder holster. After fastening the single button to her black blazer, she slipped the long purse strap over her head. She really needed to lose the luggage and buy a fanny pack. The right side of her body always ached after street duty. Of course, if Rhodes had his way, all cases would be laid at her subordinate’s feet with Karrene looking over their shoulders—micromanaging.

She halted in front of Kingman, his muscle-man build blocking the doorway. Attaching one fist to her hip, she said, What are you waiting on?

One dark eyebrow lifted. You.

Karrene bit back a rejoinder. Get the car. I’ll meet you out front in two. You know the drill, notify Team One.

He nodded, swung around, and strutted the way he always moved in long ground-covering strides.

Arrogant devil.

Damn shame he shaped the brick-shithouse mold other men strived to fill. His complexion glowed deep bronze. Unnerving eyes, the shade of immature olives, had intensity to hold any woman captive. Or scare the shit out of her.

She’d wondered about his background—Mediterranean, Brazilian, hell, Aborigine for all she knew—but she was unwilling to give him reason for personal interaction. He chased any woman wearing stilettos, a sniffing hound exactly like her ex-husband. Naturally, the thirty-five-year-old who was five years her junior had joined her butthead list.

And Karrene got stuck working with him. Not just stuck, ordered into the partnership. A nasty blessing by Captain Nathaniel Rhodes when she hadn’t known diddlysquat about the street cop-turned-detective.

Dashing into the ladies room, she dragged out her private cell phone and punched speed-dial number two then swung the door open to the nearest stall.

Eric, I’ll probably be late, but I promise to get home in time to make dinner. Love you. She stuffed the cell back inside her purse.

Mercy. This new job position was a dream come true, but a nightmare when it came to her son. She hadn’t spent nearly enough time with Eric in the last month.

The scent of office soap filled the room. After tossing the paper towel into the trash, Karrene pulled on the door handle, but what she saw in the mirror…Hell’s bells. The ’do was a lost cause. She charged out of the lavatory anyway.

Maybe next week she’d have more time to spend with Eric. Maybe she’d get her hair revamped sooner rather than later. Maybe they’d solve the disappearances today. And maybe they’d find each young girl alive.

Too many maybes, but when it came to saving lives, particularly a child’s, Karrene shouldered enough hope for a pinned-down military battalion.

Philburn High School’s principal, William Schwartz, was an Elmer Fudd twin wearing Ben Franklin glasses balanced on the tip of his nose. Black suspenders, high-water pants, scuffed wing tips, this guy should’ve retired a decade or so ago.

Two of her girlfriends said she’d promised to meet them at lunch, he said.

Karrene watched his lips pucker then spread. With sagging jowls, spittle stretched slimy-long at the corners of his mouth like shoestrings. Puh-lese. She resisted wiping the corners of her mouth.

She never did arrive, he continued. They haven’t seen Jasmine since this morning. I’ve contacted her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Russell are on their way here once they check their home. They have no idea where she could be.

A deep edgy moan ground deep inside Karrene’s gut. I’d like to talk with the girlfriends.

Schwartz signaled the chubby redhead standing behind the long counter. Have Misses Shalece Jones and Antoinette Marchant come to the office immediately.

Any chance she skipped out for the day? Kingman asked. He stepped toward the principal. Went shopping, to the movies, skipped with another friend? Boyfriend?

Static from the building’s intercom crackled, but a woman’s screeching voice out-blasted the noise, instructing the two students to make haste. Schwartz grimaced. Rubbing his eyes under the glasses while mumbling under his breath, he waited through the second piercing command.

Jasmine’s best friends, he finally replied, said she’d played hooky from fourth period. We try to keep good tabs on all our children, even before these disappearances began.

The principal spoke as if the students were toddlers. Talented kidnappers snared children from unaware parents easily, but teenagers disappearing from school, a supposed safe haven and this one a gated facility with private security guards, Karrene wondered about their safety precautions.

Fourth period starts when?

Eleven ten, same time as the first lunch break reserved for sophomores. We stagger lunches. Four-hundred-twenty-three children enrolled this semester, the most we’ve ever had at Philburn. Straightening his shoulders, tilting his head back, which lifted two layers of chin, Schwartz sniffed his approval. Our cafeteria only holds one hundred comfortably. I allow some juniors and most seniors to leave campus during breaks. Freshmen and sophomores are restricted. They must remain on the property the entire day.

Lifestyles hadn’t changed much in the last two decades. Dress codes had. Jasmine’s girlfriends came through the doorway baring lower abdomens above hip-hugger jeans. Fluorescent short, knit tops were tight enough to squeeze juice from a thick-skinned orange. One young Miss Thang had pierced belly button, lip, nose, eyebrow…What the devil was attached to her tongue?

Karrene knew it would’ve been the coldest day in Hades before her own mother let her set one foot outside the house dressed like either of these two.

And you worried about me, Big Momma.

Schwartz’s introduction of the pair of teenagers brought her back to the present crisis.

Hi, I’m Lieutenant Stevens. This is my partner Detective Kingman.

You didn’t find Jasmine, did you? Shalece, the pierced one, asked.

Karrene maintained a practiced, neutral face. Mr. Schwartz, may we use your office?

You did. You found her dead, Toni decided. Chin quivering, huge tears shimmered in her brown eyes. One swelling dollop broke free, slid down her cheek, leaving a black murky trail.

No, no, sweetie. Karrene wrapped an arm around Toni’s shoulder. The child had applied war paint better than many professional makeup artists. Sniffing an expensive aroma, she suspected the teen must’ve bathed in her momma’s Chanel.

She led the girl into a small office. The single window behind an old desk framed the parking lot. Paperwork covered furniture. More junky knickknacks than reading material loaded two bookcases.

We need to ask you both a few questions about Jasmine so we can find her. Karrene gently pushed Toni down onto a tattered leather chair and kneeled beside her. She found tissues in her purse, handed several to the teen. When was the last time you saw Jasmine?

Toni honked the same melody of a semi-truck’s bullhorn. This m-morning before— she said, hiccupping. Before the first bell.

We were at Uncle’s Joe’s, Shalece added, leaning back against a dirtied white wall, arms secure around schoolbooks, shouldering a luggage piece similar in size to Karrene’s daily suitcase. We always meet there before school.

The name sounded familiar. Karrene glanced quickly at Kingman. He was busily jotting down notes. Good. What time did y’all hook up, Toni?

About seven-thirty. Class s-starts at eight.

We go to Uncle Joe’s for cinnamon rolls, Shalece said. Lunch sometimes too. He’s Toni’s real uncle.

No wonder the place sounded familiar. I know exactly where it is. Do you remember seeing anyone other than the usual people working, anyone you’ve never seen before, anybody watching you?

Toni shook her head. Same with Shalece. Hard to imagine either of them seeing or hearing a bomb drop if a young piece of eye-candy passed by, dressed as they were. Fads and peer pressure took a toll on today’s kids.

Karrene got to her feet, circled behind Toni’s chair. She kneaded the junior’s tight shoulder muscles. The noisy hiccups continued anyway. Did you speak to anyone at Uncle Joe’s when you left or on the way to school? What about when you got to school? Maybe you saw somebody who doesn’t belong here. An outsider?

Both shook their heads to each progressive question.

What about boyfriends? Does Jasmine have one?

It took a moment, but Toni finally replied with, Sort of.

What do mean by ‘sort of’?

She w-went out with Malik a couple times, but it…but it sounds like they didn’t hit it off.

Last name?

Toni hesitated, glanced at her girlfriend.

We just want to chat with him, Karrene confirmed. Kids protected friends, especially from the cops. Maybe this Malik kid had had a run-in with the law. Maybe anger got the best of him when he didn’t connect with Jasmine. We have to talk with everyone at Philburn.

Four-hundred-plus students enrolled in Philburn, faculty, admin, janitors, cooks, etcetera. Detectives had already interviewed nearly the entire populations at three other institutions. Not to mention friends outside their schools, family, and all persons of interest. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Two sophomores from East High had gone missing. A senior from Everett and a junior from Saguaro Desert had suddenly disappeared. Current pictures of all four students splashed local newspaper front pages, television screens—all media milieus. One prominent local safety group had stapled, glued, or taped photographs on storefronts, gas station windows…anything available. To date, no bodies found, no clues to the disappearances noted, nothing substantial to suggest foul play. The teenagers had vanished without a trace, leaving behind irate, panic-stricken parents and baffled detectives.

Shepherd. Toni shifted in the chair, pulling an expensive Gucci purse tighter to her chest. Malik Shepherd. He’s a senior. He dissed Jasmine for—

Shut up, Toni.

Uh-uh. Not today. Kingman moved into Shalece’s airspace, thick fists at his waist. Shepherd dissed her, why?

A big overgrown devil, his size intimidated most people, but not Karrene. Tall for a woman at five ten, she’d unsettled a few shorter folks. Kingman still had to tip his head down to gaze into her eyes, but intimidated by him? Hardly.

The heavily pierced teenage maybe stood five two. She started with Kingman’s feet. Her gaze traveled up his athletically built body to his eyes. Leaning way back, she said, Because he wanted some booty and she said no. What do y’all think? Dang. Back off. Who’s your pappy, Robocop? And she was a pistol, leader of the pack to be so short.

The principal cleared his throat, glaring at the sassy student. He had no control over this young girl when Shalece cut her eyes better than a scorned woman’s deadly glare.

Blazing red crept up Kingman’s thick neck to his cheeks, totally in contrast with his black hair. When he rolled his right shoulder, Karrene quickly asked, Is Malik in school today? Have either of you seen him?

Mr. Shepherd is truant, Schwartz supplied, shoulders slumped, apparently dismayed. Again.

Kingman backed away from Shalece, holding her stare for an extra two seconds. The teen hadn’t appeared the least bit nervous, and she sure as hell didn’t cower. Good for her.

Turning abruptly, the detective said, Schwartz, we need an address, phone number, any information you have stored on Shepherd.

A knock came at the door and the redhead peeked inside. The Russells are here.

Send them in. Karrene looked from Toni to Shalece. When she glanced at Kingman, he nodded. In the three weeks they’d worked together, the detective seemed to read her mind, her body language, everything. Mr. Schwartz, would you take the girls into another office? We still have a few questions.

Now to deal with the parents of another missing teen.

Karrene pinched the bridge of her nose as her partner herded everyone else from the room.

The last school bell rang before detectives had the chance to contact Malik Shepherd’s close friends. Jam-packed hallways, yakking kids busily slamming locker doors and hoofing it out of Philburn had blown it for the school day.

Kingman had finished the chat with Jasmine’s friends, gaining no additional information. He’d sent two Team One members to check out Uncle Joe’s Café. Not one employee remembered seeing any suspicious-looking characters hanging around. They’d said their usual morning customers had made an appearance, folks who were long-time regulars—some elderly patrons who showed up every day like clockwork if the police cared to check, including one sickly character needing assistance, and the usual rowdy teens. No last names were known. Few first names, and the descriptions of the individuals were vague at best. Two detectives would be interrogating the regulars at Uncle Joe’s tomorrow morning.

Meanwhile, Jasmine’s parents, prominent criminal defense attorneys, were beside themselves with desperate fear. Karrene understood their pain. She’d stored a decade worth of misery, and this case scraped deeply into the old war wound. She tamped down the renewed heartache before the chilling drama crowded her brain.

Jasmine’s parents were ultra-conservative, completely outdated for today’s millennium teens. They’d shunned Malik Shepherd simply because he wore tattered jeans and mirrored sunglasses fit for a beatnik. Further dissatisfying, he rode a noisy motorized bicycle. Their words.

Most youngsters, even adults, wore raggedy-assed denims. Dark shades were more common than prescription eyeglasses or contact lenses. Karrene sported her wraparounds most days under the sun’s penetrating glare, like today.

As for the bicycle, Malik owned a reconditioned Harley, according to Shalece. The nizzy is what she’d called the machine.

Karrene wanted to check out the bike.

Damn. He would have to live in a sprawling townhouse complex, Kingman said, wheeling into the subdivision. Should be a manager’s office nearby.

Not a chance, Karrene countered. She scanned streets, spotted a colossal clubhouse. These aren’t rentals. They’re single-family homes. Huge compared to mine. Some with basements. They’re far from cheap.

She noted the street sign. The community name, Shadow Hills, inscribed the large stone billboard in this high-class neighborhood. Many homes had fabulous views of the Superstition Mountains. When the evening sun shined on those gorgeous hills, the scene fit a picture-perfect masterpiece. When a monsoon thunderstorm struck, the vista was ominous. Spectacular.

Follow the curve. They live on this street, Karrene said. The way the Russells talked about Shepherd, I was under the impression he lived in low-income county housing. My association fees are high as hell, but I bet mine don’t come close to what they pay here. The boy’s parents got money, and they must not give a damn that their son is screwing up his education, including his future. The scenario sounded so effing familiar.

You’ll rethink that, Kingman said. I had Schwartz pull Malik’s records. He’s a straight-A student. Could’ve graduated his sophomore year. Schwartz said the father wanted his son to accept a scholarship. Mother objected, didn’t want her little boy leaving home, going off to college so young. Guess we know who won the disagreement. He looked over at Karrene for a split second, then back at addresses, steering the car slowly down the street. Anyway, he’s taken some courses at ASU. He also taught a couple classes there last year. I’d wager his presence stunned the shit out of a few know-it-all juniors.

Wide-eyed, Karrene said, You’re kidding.

Harvard, Yale, and MIT have offered full rides, like a couple dozen other universities. He’s a biology-, physics-, and chemistry-brainiac enrolled in high school to be around friends. Evidently, his hormones kicked in since he’s trying to get into Jasmine’s panties. IQ’s slightly above one-eighty.

She snorted. Doesn’t sound like a kidnapper or a—

We’ll soon see.

Killer.

Chapter 3

At the Shepherd’s front door, Kingman asked, Before we knock, Lieutenant, what the hell does ‘nizzy’ mean?

Karrene chuckled as she pressed the doorbell. She wouldn’t have known, either, without her son’s clarifications on today’s teenaged lingo. That it’s cool. The bomb. The shit.

Hmm, Kingman murmured. Sort of like you.

She geared up for a nasty comeback. He was damned lucky somebody unlocked the deadbolt. Hearing the sound automatically skewered her lips closed.

Kingman had dropped more than a few inappropriate comments during the course of their short-term partnership. She’d pretty much ignored most of them, but she’d have to warn him again or finally write him up. The only reason she hadn’t yet was paperwork. Red tape. Who had time for administrative pencil pushing? She didn’t, never wanted to again. But she’d make time to drop a hint to the captain—bust Kingman back to ass-duty, pushing a cheap ballpoint pen. Busted instead of requesting a change would be the ultimate slap to any detective’s face, even hers.

Can I help you?

The kid couldn’t be the Malik who Shalece or Toni had talked about—shorter than average height, high-yellow, lanky, droopy brown eyes, and too young to grow a beard or mustache. He appeared too young for peach fuzz or pimples. But a good barber had razor-cut a zigzag design through the boy’s close-cropped hair.

We’re looking for Malik Shepherd, Karrene said.

He wore the same type of wardrobe Eric flaunted these days. Baggy jeans, she was sure, hung halfway down his behind. A rapper’s face imprinted the loose T-shirt. Who, she had no idea.

I’m Malik.

We all make mistakes at some point in time. Karrene stuck out her hand. He had a strong grip for his size. Firm, but not crippling. I’m Lieutenant Stevens. This is Detective Kingman. Are your parents at home? They had to make this interview legit with at least one parent present.

My mother is. He frowned. Has something happened to one of my sisters? Mom!

For someone so young and narrow, Malik’s voice boomeranged back to her ears and Karrene stepped backward, bumped into her partner’s hard body by mistake. When did he get behind her? She moved forward swiftly when his fingers skimmed her waistline, sending shivers rattling through her nervous system. No, no, we’d like to talk with you and your mother about something altogether different.

Oh. Malik’s eyebrows joined hairs again. About what?

Who is it, honey? His mother, a plain-looking woman with hair trimmed to a short Afro, glided to the doorway. Flat-heeled sandals a shade or two darker than her buckskin complexion were silent as she moved. The colorful red, black, and green ankle-length caftan number could easily double as a butterfly getup on Halloween night.

They’re detectives.

The woman’s eyes grew to saucer size. Has something happened to my daughters? My husband?

No, not at all, Karrene said hurriedly and watched the boy’s mother relax. People always thought the worst when confronted by the law. We’d like to ask your son a few questions. May we come inside? They presented their shields, IDs, introducing themselves.

I suppose so. I’m Inez Shepherd.

Karrene knew much more. She knew Inez was a stay-at-home mom/domestic goddess. She also knew her husband, James Shepherd, worked at a chemical plant outside the city. Philburn High School kept decent up-to-date records.

They followed Inez into a spacious living room worth living in. Massive furniture in an earthy abstract design filled the center of the room, away from walls. Polished mahogany floors matched the wood trim around patio sliders, which took up most of one wall painted deep caramel. Two small tables balancing shaded lamps made of leafless twigs complemented the wood floors. Overhead, the pair of decorative bamboo tropical fans moved air silently. Several numbered lithographs displayed exotic animals and distant shabby villages gave the atmosphere an African flair. In one corner, a giant wooden elephant stood guard, curved trunk lifted facing east.

I’m not sure if your visit here is a pleasure or not. You want to ask my son questions, why?

We’re contacting all students who are friends of Jasmine Russell, Karrene said.

Jasmine? Malik’s frown produced a pair of deep vertical wrinkles. Has something happened to her? We’re…Has she been in an accident? Is she hurt? He appeared genuinely shocked, or he ran a good game.

Please, have a seat, Inez said, gesturing toward one huge sofa.

Karrene stood in place beside her partner. When’s the last time you saw Jasmine, Malik?

Yesterday. At school. We had study hall seventh period.

Inez pasted a worried frown on her face. Typical motherly concern. She lowered herself to the overstuffed sofa, straightened her caftan then folded her hands primly in her lap.

Exchanging a quick glance with Kingman, Karrene said, She’s missing. No one’s seen her since third period today. Jasmine didn’t meet—

Shalece and Toni. He sounded slightly pissed.

Yeah. No lunchtime get-together. She held his gaze, witnessed something oddly dark in his eyes. So, you haven’t seen her since—

Yesterday is what my son said. Inez’s tone turned frostier than ice cubes. Her shoulders drew back as she stood, chin came up, and eyes narrowed. Momma Hen protecting her chick from a sly fox. Malik is a good boy, an honor student. Surely, you do not think he had anything to do with Jasmine’s—

We’re checking all angles, Kingman interrupted, "talking with all students at Philburn. No one’s singling out your son, ma’am."

One hot moment passed before she said, Until I talk with my husband I think you’d better leave.

So much for this conversation, Karrene thought, disgusted. Inez’s demeanor had shifted lightning-fast to the spectrum’s hostile side, the usual response from a protective parent when their children were threatened. Are you expecting him home soon?

He’s working. James left here about a half hour ago.

Damn. Evidently, Shepherd pulled swing shift,