The Edge

By Dafney Lawrence

When a mother and daughter are murdered nearly a decade apart and under extremely similar circumstances, the rural town of Edgewater, Mississippi is rife with speculation. Tongues wag and fingers point. Suspicions fall squarely on Luke Wilder, town outcast and purported Satanist. Though acquitted of the earlier crime, he's now facing the rap for the latest killing. Kipling Sullivan, Edgewater's newest resident, isn't quite so convinced. Using her (dubious) investigatory skills and her (equally suspect) wits she sets out to find the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dafney Lawrence
• Release date: Nov 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310104657

Dafney Lawrence

Teacher by day, aspiring author by night.

Book preview

THE EDGE

Dafney Lawrence

THE EDGE

DAFNEY LAWRENCE

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2015 Dafney Lawrence

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

The Edge

CHAPTER 1

You look like shit, announces my brother. Work’s that bad, huh? Must be why I don’t do it.

I shoot a dirty look in his direction. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s dragged his attention away from gaming long enough to notice my arrival at all, much less comment on it. I’d thought only an act of God could divert him from his mind-numbing obsession.

Jesus, Wes. I walked in the door two seconds ago, and you’ve already begun with the profanity. At least he managed to form a coherent sentence. Generally speaking, most of his utterances involve grunts, cries of dismay, or shouts of joy as he destroys innocent virtual lives. I notice there are bits of popcorn and other unidentifiable matter scattered amongst my cushions. I can literally feel myself scowling.

And you have now used the Lord’s name in vain, he replies. I repeat….bad day?

Try again.

He sighs. Alright. You look…let’s see….vexed, that’s a good one. Dismayed. Frazzled. He raises a pierced eyebrow. Perturbed, even.

Better, I mutter.

Westley beckons me over and pats the sofa beside him. Come, wayward child. Sit, and tell me of your woes, he intones.

I plop down next to him and hear a crunch beneath me. Okay. Was that the cat? Honestly, sibling, you need to clean up after yourself.

Don’t deflect, he chides. I was serious about the state of your appearance. What happened at school? Are the kids spoiled rotten devil spawn? When I shake my head, he begins rubbing his goateed chin ponderously. I bet all of your books are leftovers from the 70’s. Am I right? Or did the principal sexually harass you?

There was a murder.

That shuts him up quick.

Not during school, of course, I clarify. Last night, out at the lake. I gather that it’s a senior tradition to meet up there on the night before school begins. No one seems clear on the details yet, but by the time classes started everyone knew a girl’s body had been found. At least half the students checked out early.

I see why you had such a cheerful first day.

I don’t even have a class and I could feel the mood infecting the place, I tell him, shuddering. Most of the teachers were in tears and the students…you’ve never seen such somber teenagers.

Hmmm. Must have been a popular girl, he posits. Geeks, freaks and social misfits don’t get that kind of farewell, do they?

Teens are masters of the somber attitude, but they went above and beyond today, so I suspect you’re correct.

Did they arrest anyone?

No arrests, but I kept hearing certain names popping up. Rumors, you know. The staff expects police will show up at the school tomorrow to start interviewing students. Should be fun. I pause, considering. It’s possible that one of the students is the culprit, though, isn’t it? Maybe she had a jealous boyfriend or two. Or a rival for his affections.

At this point, Wes has extricated himself from his gaming equipment and is staring at me, fully attentive. At the risk of sounding like an ass…. He grins. That is….at the risk of sounding callous…I think we ought to drop this line of conversation. You tend to get a little over-involved in this sort of thing. Dad shouldn’t have brought his work home.

I brush aside his concern. I haven’t had nightmares in ages.

Whatever you say, Sis. Just don’t worry yourself too much about it. I can tell he’s thinking back to the morbid interests I once harbored.

Anything good about the job?

The library is better than I expected considering we’re out here in redneck paradise. Not cutting edge technology or anything, but it's got up-to-date materials and decent computers. The school's apparently got some wealthy patrons in its pocket. Tomorrow the counselor is assigning me some minions – I mean, student helpers – and I’ve got a study hall to monitor during seventh period. So...not so bad, all in all.

Let me get this straight. You don’t actually have to teach anything, and tomorrow you’ll have helper monkeys at your disposal to do your bidding. Plus you managed to land a job at one of the few respectable private schools in the state? He whistles. You’ve got it too damn easy as a librarian, you know.

You think? Maybe you should become one so you can stop mooching off your family and get a job.

We argue about the merits of self-sufficiency versus moochdom, and for awhile I am able to relax. I might even have contributed to Wes’s classy Yoohoo bottle pyramid. He staunchly refuses to allow me to watch the local news.

During the night, after I’ve cajoled Wes into cleaning dishes and have fallen into bed, I have an odd feeling again. I cuddle Frodo the Fuzzball against me and focus on his purring. I’ll do anything to distract me from thoughts of broken bodies and shattered humanity. Anything to escape that feeling…an anxiousness I used to experience when I’d perused my father’s carelessly placed case files. The terror that somewhere close by, there is a killer in wait.

***

Wes doesn’t even budge from the couch as I groggily go through my morning routine. My sofa currently doubles as his bed, but he’s oblivious to world as I sip coffee and flip through the news channels. He’s snoring softly and hasn’t bothered to cover himself with the blanket I provided him, so I can see he’s sporting Spiderman boxers and only one sock. His various tattoos are prominent fixtures on his body. I wonder again how he managed to save money for the ink, but can’t exert the effort to come up with a rent check.

I drape the blanket over him before I head out, figuring there’s a good chance he’ll be in the exact same condition when I get home.

I’d been impressed the first time I’d visited Sycamore View Academy. It definitely wasn't the dumpy cluster of buildings I'd been imagining, given its location. Unlike the dismal, dilapidated structure posing as the town's public school, the grounds of the academy are replete with its namesake sycamore trees and enclosed within iron gating. Charmingly constructed school structures dot the manicured landscape, housing everything from the high school level facilities where I work to the lower level elementary and middle school classrooms.

Today, however, the most notable aspect of the academy isn’t the carved building facades or the geese traipsing through the cattails by the tiny pond. The scene which greets me at school puts me immediately ill at ease. Several patrol cars are parked by the high school entrance. Students are eying the vehicles nervously and milling about by the doors as they wait for the bell to ring. Yesterday they had hugged, cried, slumped to the ground or simply listened to the news of their classmate’s murder in shock. Today they are whispering. More rumors, probably. Wondering which of their peers might have been involved.

I make my way through the throng of uniformed teenagers and head for the library. My library, now. My father was worried when I decided to major in library science, claiming I’d never be able to get a job. But I’d been able to snag this stint pretty quickly, and at a well-regarded private school to boot. Sure, the salary is barely above poverty level, but I get to drink coffee all day and spend my time in a room full of books.

A woman is standing outside the library entrance, studying one of the framed class portraits that hangs along the wall. I recognize her as one of the English teachers, but can’t recall her name. She seems entranced by something in the photograph and wears a wistful expression as she gazes at it. There are numerous such portraits displayed throughout the hallways, going back several decades.

I approach her with a greeting, but she doesn’t respond until l I’m only steps away. I halt and follow her gaze.

Oh! She snaps out of her trance and turns her doe eyes in my direction, then gives me a quick smile. I didn’t see you there, Ms….?

Sullivan, I remind her, offering a hand. Kip Sullivan. We met during my orientation. Her handshake is weak. She is wide-eyed and pale with a mass of curly brown hair cascading down her back. She appears to be in her early to mid thirties.

Paige Willoughby, she returns. I teach Junior and Senior AP English? My classroom is across the hallway? Ugh. She apparently has an annoying habit of ending everything as a question.

I was just about to unlock the library, I tell her. If you were needing something...? Oh God, now I’m doing it.

No, no, she says. I was just reminiscing. She gestures towards the portrait. Thinking about a former classmate. She reaches up and touches a headshot of one of the seniors. Look, here’s my photo…at the bottom? I can’t believe it’s been so long since I graduated. She looks younger in her portrait, but has the same frizzy hair and deer-in-the-headlights look. I almost laugh.

This girl here, she continues, pointing towards a photo of a pretty blond. Was my best friend, Rebecca Mallory. Later, Rebecca Temple. You see her? I nod my head awkwardly, not sure what she’s getting at or why I have to endure her reminiscing.

I guess you know about the…the incident yesterday? The girl who was killed? I raise an eyebrow. Of course you do. Her name was Hannah Temple…she was only 16. I see her eyes beginning to well up.

The daughter of her friend, then. Sorry to hear that, I say uncomfortably. Er…how is Mrs. Temple holding up?

Rebecca? Willoughby wipes her eyes. You definitely are new to town, aren’t you? She laughs mirthlessly and cradles her arms over her chest. Here’s the crazy thing, the thing that has us all so rattled. She was murdered nine years ago. They found her out by Rainsong Lake, stabbed to death. Willoughby glances back towards the portrait, pain etched across every feature of her face. She seems shrouded in an air of provocative vulnerability and I feel for her. Vulnerability is my worst fear.

Stabbed so many times they stopped counting, she whispers. So many times she was almost unrecognizable. Willoughby's words tumble out, served up as helpless outrage with a dash of bitterness sprinkled in for good measure. Her body was dragged into the woods by the shore and covered up with branches. Her clothes were gone. She was only 27. She exhales sharply and pushes curls out of her face.. I wonder if that’s the way they found Hannah?

There is an unpleasant lull in conversation.

My apologies, she says (and I silently approve of her choice of vocabulary). Everyone’s really flustered. It’s going to be tough to have a normal day here for awhile. You saw the police are here? I heard in the office that they’ll be conducting interviews throughout the day. You’ll be getting an email about it.

I always choose the right time to make an entrance, I joke weakly. A vague memory has been nagging at me as she spoke.

Wait a second. I think I do remember this case, I say slowly. I didn’t realize this had happened in Edgewater. They arrested a teenage boy for the crime, didn’t they?

Yes. He was a student here. I even taught him, can you believe it? My best friend’s killer. She shakes her head. His name was Luke Wilder. He was a very intelligent student, really academically gifted, you know? But extremely quiet and withdrawn. I guess that’s the type that commits these kinds of crimes. I almost protest; after all, that could well have been a description of me during high school. Before I can voice my opinion, she’s rattling off again.

There was a lot of media attention after the arrest was made. Our police force seriously muddled up the investigation and Luke’s lawyer got him off scot free.

Was there a particular motive? Anything linking that crime to what's happened?

Rebecca was the kindest, most upright person I've ever known. Some people might have considered her sense of morality inconvenient, but she was never the sort to let transgressions slide unremarked. As you might imagine, a number of people didn't take too kindly to her. And Hannah took after her mother to a fault. Unwelcome high-and-mighty moralizing? Yeah, that definitely sounds like the sort who could push some buttons and really piss someone off. Someone like the polar opposite Luke Wilder, who dabbled in the dark side.

I want to inquire further, but the bell rings and I realize I haven’t even opened the library yet. Willoughby startles at the harsh ring and still teary, wanders back towards her classroom without further comment. Nice talking to you, I call after her, immediately regretting my word choice. It wasn’t a nice conversation at all. Damnable social awkwardness.

CHAPTER 2

Students begin shuffling through the corridors. I hurry into the library and begin turning on computers. I might actually start getting visitors today. As the halls quiet down, I hear a rap on the library door. An unreasonably tall black girl pokes her head into the room. Hi! she calls brightly as she spots me. You the new librarian? I nod and she practically skips into the library, a ball of energy. She deposits her backpack and bounds up to my side, promptly invading my personal space.

I’m your first period student helper! she chirps, towering over me. It’s so cool to be working in here. I can’t believe I got picked. Her words pour out in a gush of enthusiasm. Lots of people want this job because they think it’ll be so easy and they won’t have to do anything for a whole class period. Not me! I mean, I do want the job, but not because I’m a slacker or anything. I’m honestly a very hard worker. I’m gonna work so hard for you that no other student helper will ever be good enough again, ever. I’m that good.

Awesome, I drone from my place in her shadow.

She’s going to be bubbly, isn’t she? Of course she is, since I find that trait thoroughly off-putting. I’m going to be trapped with her and her bubbliness. No one can be happy all the time, can they? You have to have a measure of distrust for the ones that present such a façade; it’s a given that they’re faking it.

I glance around the room. So far, nothing has been checked in or out, nor are there any befuddled students to assist. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do with her, but there has to be something for her to do, something to get her to stop ogling me and breathing down my neck.

Don’t worry, she says, as if reading my mind. A lot of the teachers start throwing homework at us the first week. Can you believe that? Maybe they’ll lay off us a couple more days, but Coach Graham and Mrs. Stewart – She grimaces at the name. – won’t be able to help themselves for long. You’ll start getting regulars in here soon.

She proffers her hand and I accept it. Whereas Willoughby’s grip was limp, this girl has a firm and confident shake. Riley Saunders, she proclaims. Future Junior class president, at your service. She grins at me disarmingly, nothing but good will, and I feel my lips tug back in return. Eh, maybe she won’t be so bad.

Hey, you’re a lot younger than the old bat we had in here the last few years. I wasn’t going to sign up as a helper, but then she retired. I figured nobody could be as bad as she was. Nobody! I could tell you some stories about that woman! She waves a hand dismissively. I know what I called her, but what should I call you?

Ms. Sullivan, I reply after a pause. This being my first job out of college, it sounds strange to my ears. Only a couple of my professors referred to me by last name. Pleasure’s all mine, Ms. President. She beams at me and it’s a little contagious.

It’s good to see some color in here for a change, she informs me. This place is white-washed, if you get my drift. She studies my features for a moment. What are you, Indian or Hawaiian? No, that’s too boring. Uzbekistani?

I smother a laugh; rule number one of school life as an authority figure is to never smile at them for the first month. Be firm and commanding. That’s what the principal had told me.

Not exactly. I had a Thai mother, I reply. But she was on the dark side. I mimick an evil laugh and then wonder if I've already broken rule number one.

Like my mom, I have bronzed skin, black hair and deep brown eyes that suggest Asiatic heritage. Wes looks more like our father, with only a hint of our Thai background in his eyes and bone structure.

Riley rolls her eyes at me. So lame, she tells the ceiling.

Better get used to it, I inform her. As my apprentice, much lameness will you learn. Come on, let’s have a look at this place.

Riley, already familiar with the library, shows me around my new digs and we discuss different ways I could spruce up the place. She brims with inspiration and I find myself excited by the prospect of shaping the library into the vision flitting around in my imagination.

Still, Riley seems strangely unphased by her classmate’s demise and the ensuing misery that’s followed in its wake. She chatters away about teachers, classes, books I should order for the