Dance of Deception

By Trish Reeb and Sherin Nicole Hairston

A HS counselor plunges into her worst nightmare after finding her BFF's body in a pool of blood. Who killed the popular teacher? And why? Alex T won't rest until she learns the truth. She not only acts on impulse, she doesn't listen. What's worse, she's fearless. A triple whammy for Cole, the detective on the case. Still, with each of Alex's escapades, another piece of the puzzle drops into place. When the killer targets Alex and closes in, can Cole find her in time to save her life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781620953716

Book preview

Thoene

PART I

CHAPTER 1

Friday, February 9

Alex Tamburelli shivered, burrowing into her cashmere coat. Her gaze traveled around the windowless security office in which she waited to be interrogated. The morning started out normal enough. And, had it not been for the signs blinking like a neon arrow pointing at trouble, she'd be waiting with the rest of the early birds. Waiting and wondering what had transpired to warrant sequestering them. As usual, she couldn't ignore the unusual.

Her parents liked to blame it on her natural curiosity—easy for a kid to swallow. But any intelligent adult would choke on the explanation. Hence, she kept her Achilles heel filed under the classified section of her life. She closed her eyes and opened her mind to the trail of clues that transported her to this unforeseeable place.  

Driving into Lincoln High's staff parking lot, her tires crunched on new over old snow. She rolled into a prime spot, her bonus for arriving early. The police car parked near the entrance enticed only slight interest due to the young hour. Break-in, most likely. Alex grabbed her belongings, slid out of the car, and shuffled through the four inches of white stuff that accumulated overnight.

At first, the snow-covered car under a security spotlight did not pique her  curiosity. Clunkers, usually belonging to students parked illegally, often decided not to function in inclement weather. She looked closer. Not a clunker, but a red Buick Regal. Was it Taryn's car? Alex hustled over to it and peered into the driver's window. A yellow rose on a white ribbon, identical to the one in her SUV, hung from the rearview mirror. Staring at the vehicle, she absently scratched her wrist. Hm-m, this is weird. Taryn would've called if she'd experienced car trouble last night. That's what best friends did. She sighed. Unless, of course, one of them recently snagged a new boyfriend. Taryn had Jordan now. Another explanation for the car made her chuckle: Taryn sleeping here after her drama club ran late. She could picture her curled up on the stage using her coat for a pillow. Truthfully, not a far-fetched notion. Zany should've been Taryn's middle name. Though Jordan coming to the rescue seemed more plausible, Alex chose not to think about him.

Needing an explanation—but unwilling to call Taryn lest she stayed at her boyfriend's last night—she hurried inside. Heading for Taryn's classroom, she wound her way through the halls feeling as if she were missing something. She paused to contemplate. Too quiet, no chatter and clatter had resonated from the kitchen when she passed. And normally she ran into Mr. Walters, also an early arriver and holder of a perfect attendance record for ten straight years.

One more turn and she'd come to the English wing. The tingling in her wrist increased. Stop it! She couldn't wait to see Taryn and share a good laugh. How her dependable itching wrist when trouble came calling, like the time her brother got hit by a car on his way home from school, misled her this time. Rounding the corner, Alex came to a dead stop, anxiety jabbing her stomach. She stared at the black and yellow tape plastered across the entrance to the wing leading to Taryn's classroom. Her heart sped up along with her feet.

A cop appeared at the door barking, This wing's closed.

What happened? Alex asked, scratching at her wrist.

He pointed to the ribbon across the opening. 

A break-in?

Might say that. The refrigerator-size man shrugged.

Alex pivoted, rooting through her handbag for her cell phone. She punched number two, calling Taryn. A faint, but clear, My Favorite Things, came from down the hall. Stunned, she listened until the music ceased and the alarm in her head sounded. Circumventing Refrigerator, she sailed down the corridor in the opposite direction toward the staircase. And an alternate route. After climbing to the second floor, she sped through the hall to the opposite end, scurrying down a different flight of stairs. 

Once she hit the ground floor, a rod-thin cop grabbed her with an ironclad grip. Shooting daggers at him, Alex rubbed her wrist against the nap of her coat. She had to find a way inside Taryn's room. The adrenaline raged through her body.

A radio crackled. Loosening his hold on her arm, the officer fumbled for the receiver. Alex yanked free and bolted down the hall, heart hammering, stomach so tight it hurt. Bookbag and purse banged against her side, her full length coat whipping her legs. Everything along the corridor blurred—classroom doors, overhead lights, linoleum-tiled floor. Everything, except room 142.

Up ahead, Refrigerator closed in on her destination. Younger, thinner, and faster, she sped up. Would she make it in time? A few feet from the room, Alex's heart sank. The cop slid into place blocking the door. She skidded to a stop, frozen. Unable to swallow. She could barely breathe, as if the police tape across the door frame were wrapped around her neck. The prickling on her wrist now unbearable, she scratched with her nails, unaware of sprouting pink welts.

Hands on hips, Refrigerator stared down his veined nose at her. You're, huff, trespassing. Leave . . . now, he said, panting hard.

On tiptoes, Alex attempted to peek over his shoulder. Her view still obstructed, she shifted to the right. He went with her. She tried left. He followed. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted two men in business suits approaching. It's now or never.

Aiming the heavy bag at Refrigerator, she swung. Yelping, he grabbed himself. Using the wall for leverage, she shoved him hard with her backside like when she moved her piano. He crashed to his knees. The sound of running feet turned her. She threw her back against the door jam half a second before Refrigerator’s partner came within striking distance. She sent a foot to his gut.

Alex spun to face the room. No! she cried, a fisted hand to her mouth. Heat abandoned her body, leaving her cold and trembling. Dropping the bags, she tore through the crime scene tape, stumbling toward Taryn lying on the floor.

Hands seized Alex from behind, dragging her from the room. The yellow and black ribbon tangled in her feet.

Why don’t you do something? Alex whimpered. Can’t you see she’s bleeding?

The cops slammed her facedown to the floor.

CHAPTER 2

Alex wrapped her coat tighter around her waist. She wanted nothing more than to hibernate in its silk lining and forget that her best friend . . . . Bright red on turquoise flashed in her head. Her mind struggled to banish the image while her body battled the feelings. Oh God, Taryn, how could this have happened to you?

Alex, manage your emotions, her mother’s voice echoed in her head.

Mentally, she shoved her feelings into the drawer where she stowed stuff she didn't want to deal with and slammed it shut. Instead, she focused on the room in which she'd been interred. With no windows to distinguish night from day, rain or shine, the office had all the ambience of a cellar. She'd only been inside it a handful of times in the ten years she worked at Lincoln High—always as an authority figure with the best interest of her students at heart. Now, she sat on the opposite side of the legal system waiting for the verdict.

Alex cracked a knuckle. Another and another, the sound slicing through the silence of the room. The ritual soothed her like a meditation. 

Excuse me. Is that necessary?

Alex jumped. She’d forgotten the woman cop. The molded plastic chair creaked as she shifted to look at her jailer. The officer sat behind a beat-up desk the size of a semi. Dwarfing her, it almost, but not quite, disguised her queen-size girth.

Sorry, Alex said, hating to leave the task undone. Bad habit. Drove my mother nuts. Once she made me wear boxing gloves.

That’s novel. Queenie yawned. 

Alex shrugged. I took up the sport soon afterward. Got pretty good, too. She paused for a beat. Not Laila Ali good, but I won a few matches. Against the guys who got me hooked on the knuckle cracking.

Nice payback. Queenie tossed a counterfeit smile and returned to the dog-eared book in front of her. 

Keeping her eye on the cop, Alex cracked the knuckles on her other hand in rapid succession. Pop, crack, crunch—

Queenie cleared her throat.

Alex attempted a sheepish smile. She'd kicked the habit two decades ago. Today it returned with a vengeance. Would the relapse set the addiction back twenty years, like a recovering alcoholic taking that first drink? At least her mom wouldn't witness her fall from grace.

Taryn teethed her fingernails but never enough to damage her meticulous manicure. Taryn, who did this to you? Why?

Alex stood and paced. She hugged her coat close in an attempt to stop the trembling. In addition to her feet, her nose and butt—always the first to absorb the cold—felt like blocks of ice. 

Queenie pushed back the chair and swaggered across the room. Towering over Alex, she rested one hand on the cuffs dangling from a wide leather belt. Sit down. 

Needing to work off some of the tension and get her circulation moving, she said, You gonna cuff me?

Queenie smiled.

Accustomed to being around older, larger playmates as a child and now teenagers standing two stories taller than her five foot two inches, Alex did not intimidate easily. She glanced at the handcuffs before looking at Queenie. Go ahead, but I need to stretch my legs.

I don’t think so. Lucky you’re not in leg irons.

You’re joking.

It's my watch, and I want you seated. Queenie glared, waiting until she sat before retreating.

Alex threw a scowl at her back.

The radiator clanked, the heat kicking on. Desperate to latch onto something normal in a world gone awry, she welcomed the noise she usually abhorred. Although her body might thaw, the boost in temperature wouldn't begin to melt the coldness she felt to her core.

Alex brushed the dirt from the front of her coat. She opened it. The black shark on the light blue Lincoln High sweatshirt wore floor dust as did her black jeans. On Fridays, the designated day to show school spirit, she dressed casually. Thank goodness. Otherwise, she'd have to be reimbursed for the cost of laundering the dry-clean-only Prada or Armani, her normal attire. Or not, considering she wasn't in any position at the moment to make that kind of request.

Less than a quarter of the staff wore the blue and black school colors or insignia clothing to show their support. Even she—Lincoln High’s unofficial cheerleader—doubted its capacity to keep the staff morale afloat. Or rescue the sinking school spirit. After today, what would it take to salvage the ship more and more staff members jumped every year? 

After a minute Alex asked Queenie, What’s he like?

Who?

The detective who’ll be questioning me.

The policewoman shrugged. I don't know. Never been sitting where you are.

Helpful, she said under her breath. What’s his name?

Detective Grant. Queenie resumed reading the manual in front of her. 

If Detective Grant arrested her, she'd have to contact an attorney. The only criminal lawyer she knew happened to be Jordan Whitfield, Taryn's beau. Not too keen on the idea, Alex wondered if he'd heard about Taryn. Was he, like her, having difficulty believing it? A thought reeled her insides. What if he played a part in this? She shook her head. Not possible. But who else could have killed her? 

She rifled through her purse for the phone and came up empty. Refrigerator had confiscated it. At the time, she’d been too dazed to think much about it. Now she questioned his authority. Didn't she have the right to make one phone call?

A knock sounded on the door. The chair scraped the floor as Queenie rose to answer it. Instead of the expected Detective Grant, a familiar voice asked for Alex.

Can’t see her now. 

Alex sprang out of her chair and dashed to the door. Ellery! Ellery Humbarger, her Rock of Gibraltar, had rushed to her side again. Today she needed his support more than ever before—well, except ten years ago in another lifetime.

Honey, I’m here. I’ll be in my— The door slammed shut.

Alex yearned to lay her head on his burly chest, feel the softness of his sweater on her cheek, inhale the fresh musk of his soap. She closed her eyes trying to capture it, but gave up after several seconds. She had an exceptional imagination, but it failed now as if she tried to write inside her head with a broken pencil lead.

Back to your seat, or I’ll cuff you to it.

Jolted away from her thoughts, Alex raised her hands. Look, I forgot. Shoving too accessible hands into her coat pockets, she said, I won't be a bother.

Girl, you already there.

Alex back-stepped to her chair. No question, I'm in a shitload of trouble. She couldn't think of one incident that paralleled her current predicament. But if given the chance, without a doubt she'd do it all over again.

The bell sounded, announcing the start of Lincoln High’s first hour. Eight o’clock. Ninety minutes since her life had taken a U-turn.

CHAPTER 3

Alex relinquished hope of ever meeting Detective Grant at about the same time a tall man, the color of crème caramel, strode into the room. Exuding confidence, he glided across the floor with the grace of a mountain lion. He wore a navy sport coat over an open collar white shirt, a black leather coat slung over one arm. She stared at the chiseled face, her eyes going briefly to the scar running through his left eyebrow.

Something stirred at her center. It sent a tingling sensation to other body parts joining in the rabble-rousing. She groaned inwardly. This is neither the time nor the man.

Mesmerizing, like a god, he took her breath away. Breathe. She exhaled. I hope he's a merciful one. Would he be tough, but fair, or narrow-minded and vindictive? She couldn’t read him. Thanks to Queenie, she hadn’t a clue. The room grew warm enough for Alex to shed her coat, but she wrapped it tighter. Detective Grant frightened and aroused her at the same time. Taryn would call him a spoon man—so delicious-looking you could eat him with a spoon.

After dismissing Queenie, Detective Grant crossed the room to Alex, picked up a chair from the queue, flipped it around, and sat in a single fluid motion.

He stared at her.

Alex stared back, but he said nothing. She squirmed, feeling perspiration form under her arms, heat rising from her center. Years ago in high school, while the teacher droned on about chemical equations, she propped her elbows on the table, chin in hands, and stared at the cutest boy in the class. After a couple minutes, he caught on. Then it became a contest to see who caved first. Alex won. Now? Her seat growing hotter by the second, she hoped Detective Grant spoke up soon or she'd have to yell, 'fire.'

He extended his hand. I’m Detective Cole Grant.

Sliding a cold hand into his, she squeaked, Alex. She cleared her throat. Tamburelli.

Dusty-road eyes staring into hers, he said nothing.

The quiet stretched between them waiting to be filled. Averting her eyes, she avoided those that seemed to reach inside her chest and squeeze the air out. No matter where she glanced—his forehead, square-jawed chin, the strong neck—her eyes always snapped back to his.

He moistened his bottom lip.

Her look gravitated to his mouth. Waiting for him to speak, she prayed he’d go easy on her, but feared he wouldn’t.

His full lips parted. You crashed my crime scene, his voice rumbled. Why?

Alex wiggled in the chair. What had prompted her to do it? Hm-m. She thought back. Had to be Taryn's abandoned car provoking questions she couldn't answer and sparking her curiosity. 

Detective Grant cleared his throat. Eyebrows raised, he leaned forward, an arm on his knee. Had he received the same training as counselors to coax people to bare their souls? She doubted it. His method unnerved his subjects. On the other hand, she strove to help students relax. But what if they felt the same way? She'd have to be more mindful of that in the future. If she had a future at Lincoln High.

Inhaling, she puffed her cheeks and blew out slowly. I spotted Taryn’s car in the parking lot when I arrived.

He cocked his head. Is that unusual?

Alex resisted the inclination to tilt her head too. Covered in snow, yes. Obviously she hadn’t driven it to school.

And that concerned you. 

Curious. She didn’t mention her itching wrist trying to warn her. I saw the squad car. And when I passed the kitchen I didn't hear the usual sounds.

Something was up. His voice encouraged, but his face remained hard. 

It kept her off balance. The tape criss-crossing the entrance to the English wing confirmed it. 

He nodded.

The guy's good. He used enough active listening to keep her talking. Funny, how she wanted to go on. Maybe she needed to say aloud what had been inside her head all morning. Still, what about the laundry-tub full of feelings knocking about inside her? She couldn’t pick out one without dragging along a bunch more. When counseling her students, she spent a good part of the time getting at the feelings. But cops didn't care about feelings. And she'd never been good at expressing them.

A cop stopped me. She waved a hand. I mean police officer.

Detective Grant raised the scarred eyebrow and a butterfly took flight in her stomach. How had he sustained the scar? A childhood thing? In the line of duty? Either way, it saved him from perfec—

He shifted, taking her out of her head.

Go on.

Studying his intertwined fingers and manicured nails, she knew her future lay in those cupped hands. Alex decided to gamble that a reasonable heart beat beneath his unyielding exterior even though he’d done nothing to hint at a softer side. Well, except for the manicures. What did she stand to lose? He’d probably had already decided what to do with her.

She picked up where she’d drifted off. I called Taryn's cell, heard the tone down the hall. I couldn’t let it go. She called us play sisters. Should she explain the recycled expression from Taryn’s teenage years or would he, being African American like Taryn, know it meant a bond that went far beyond friendship?

Her eyes filled, and a tear ran down her cheek. She brushed it away.

He said nothing.

She shifted in the chair. I tried an alternate route. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the young cop grabbed my arm. Ordered me to go back. I broke loose and Refridge . . . uh, the big guy—

Halvers.

She nodded. I had to see for myself. Alex stared at Detective Grant, willing him to understand. I’m sorry Officer Halvers got in the way of my bookbag.

He raised the scarred eyebrow. And Benson? He get in the way of your boot?

She noted the sarcasm. What should she have done? Go on her merry way not knowing? Yes, Detective Grant expected her to join the sheep and wait for the shepherd’s message like everyone else. Alex lowered her eyes. 

You always this impetuous? He leaned forward again.

She could smell his soap, a hint of sandalwood. Looking up, she asked, Are you going to arrest me?

Detective Grant stood, went to the desk. Sounds of drawers opening, rummaged through, and then closed carried across the room. Less than a minute later, he rejoined her, a pen and a sheet of paper on a clipboard in hand. Write down everything that happened from the time you arrived until we detained you.

Having written her share of anecdotal records, reports, and referrals, she folded up the writer half of her brain and stuck to the facts. It consumed ten minutes. Ten minutes to record an experience proving life could turn on a dime. One minute she had a dear friend, and the next, a killer erased Taryn like yesterday's board work.

A commotion in the hallway.

Detective Grant strode to the door, opened it, and disappeared.

Alex lay down the clipboard and crept to the door, cracking it an inch or two. A uniformed cop restrained Yolanda Morgan, a campus security guard, by the arm. It triggered a flashback to earlier when Benson held her hostage. The fear she'd felt then rushed in, running through her veins like cold water. She closed the door and leaned against it, taking deep breaths until the adrenaline backed down and her heart stopped knocking on her chest.

Alex opened the door again and started through, running headfirst into Detective Grant. The impact sent her barreling backward onto her rear end. 

Holding the security guard's arm, the detective maneuvered the woman into the room. He extended his free hand to Alex and hauled her to a stand. You hurt? he asked, his eyes full of concern. 

Alex rubbed her backside and shook her head.

The woman's eyes darted from Alex to everywhere, her breathing heavy. I-I can’t stay here, she said. Got to . . . go.

CHAPTER 4

Cole guided the stocky woman to a chair. Why don’t you sit here?

He shifted his gaze to Ms. Tamburelli. She’d shed her coat and now attempted to brush the dust off the back of it. Tiny little thing, scarcely the size of a bug's ear. He felt bad about the collision, but, if she’d stayed put, the fender bender could have been avoided.

Suspecting his new visitor to be the 911 caller, he returned his attention to the woman on the verge of panic. According to Halvers and Benson, security guard Yolanda Morgan discovered Taryn Richards’ body. Perhaps he’d caught a break. In her state of mind, she might blurt something she’d otherwise not. But one wrong word or move on his part and the opportunity could turn to toast.

He eased away, unhooking the radio from his belt, and contacted the officer assigned to Ms. Morgan. He lowered the volume, raised the radio to his mouth.

Lose something? he asked quietly.

Sorry, the officer said. Went to the john. Thought she fell asleep.

Relax. I’ve got Morgan.

You want me—?

I’ll handle it. Having confirmed the woman's identity, he broke the connection.

He turned to observe Ms. Tamburelli.

She stared at them, her mouth partially open. When she noticed him looking, she jerked her head away, eyes on the clipboard in her lap.

You finished? Cole asked.

She raised sad green eyes and nodded.

Leave your report on the chair. You’re free to go.

I’m not under—?

He shook his head. Go home and cry.

Alex grabbed her things, accepted his business card, and hightailed it out as if she were afraid he’d change his mind.

Cole sighed, glad to see her go. She reminded him too much of Desi.

He dragged a chair over to Morgan and said softly, I can see you’re upset. How can I help?

Beads of perspiration glistened on the security guard's dark forehead. Her eyes flitted around the room.

Sitting next to her, Cole laid a hand on her arm. A light touch, but heavy enough to ground her a little. He hoped.

Her eyes wild, she looked his way but didn't appear to see him.

He patted her arm. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be all right.

Panting, she dropped her shoulders.

Cole put the radio to his mouth again. We need a bottle of water, he said, his eyes on the woman. 

She vaulted for the door. H-have to get . . . out of here. I-I . . . need air.

In the business of crime-fighting, his muscular six-two build worked to his advantage, but not alongside someone in her state of mind. He calmly went after the woman and touched her shoulder, keeping his voice low. Slow down. Take a deep breath. He demonstrated, letting the air out slowly. Like that.

She glanced at him sideways.

He showed her again.

She blew in and out several times.

That’s good, Cole said. Let's sit. 

She shook her head. C-can’t do this.

Can’t do what? he asked softly.

A pudgy hand to her mouth, she shook her head. T-talk. Stretching out her free arm, she brushed the wall as she inched along it. It’s messed up.

Now we’re getting somewhere. Cole joined her. Keeping his voice above a whisper, he asked, What’s messed up?

Everything.

He gently clasped her arm and led her to a chair.

The door opened. A young female officer delivered the water. Thanks, Cole said, handing the bottle to Ms. Morgan. She swigged half of it and cradled the container in her lap, dropping her head. 

After the officer left, he prompted, Everything’s messed up?

Her head jerked. She ran a hand through her short bristly hair. God, she didn’t deserve this.

No, she didn’t, he said quietly.

Her eyes met his. I-I wanted to . . . .

Cole waited for her to continue. One second extended into many. You wanted to . . . ?

Her eyes darted from left to right, right to left. N-nothing, she said, a tremble in her voice.

Careful now, go slow. He nudged the bottle in her lap. Drink some more.  Morgan gulped the rest of the water. Hand shaking, she passed him the empty container. Sweat glistened on her plump cheeks. He wanted her attention on what she started to say, but maneuvering back there would be risky. Maybe I can help.

Her black eyes flicked to his and away. No one can.

Try me.

Lips coming together, she went rigid. And shut down.

Cole sighed inwardly. Compelled to change his tactic now, he'd become an interrogator, which meant the only information he’d get would be what she wanted to provide. One thing he knew for sure, something had her scared.

CHAPTER 5

Alex left the security office with Detective Grant’s voice in her head at war with her mother’s. Alex, go home and cry. Alex, control your emotions. Sorry, guy, she’d stick with Mom on this one. If she started crying and couldn't stop, she'd end up drowning in her own tears for sure.

At least he chose not to arrest her. Maybe she owed that to Morgan's interruption. Or perhaps he believed her exposition. Whatever the reason, she’d crossed the line and come out on the other side. Bless Detective Cole Grant for not tossing her into the criminal justice system. When she ran into him again, not literally (but one never knew), she’d thank him properly.

She kicked at a dust bunny the size of a golf ball on the forgotten staircase strewn with paper, plastic bottles and candy wrappers. Okay, Pop, I hear you. Her dad, a stickler about litter, never passed a stray piece of paper without picking it up. Once the school removed the refuse containers from the halls to deter roving pyromaniacs, the Good Samaritan in her disappeared. Alex stomped on a soda can using the heel of her boot, the sound of crushing metal echoing up the stairwell. Sorry, Pop, I can’t do it.

She opened the door to the main office and bumped into Assistant Principal Mary Winter.

Oops, sorry, Alex said, backing into the hall.

Ms. T, I’ve been worried sick about you. Mary Winter peered at her closely. You look a little pale. Are you all right?

I’m okay. It didn't surprise Alex she knew about her detention. After all, Ellery found out. Nevertheless, she resented being studied like a lab specimen. 

I hope you’re on your way home. You should be resting. She laid a hand