The Reunion

By SJ Slagle

A strange thing happens at David Wilson's fifteenth high school reunion: the homecoming queen dies. That was as unexpected as was David's arrest for her murder a week later.
A popular high school biology teacher, David and his wife Lisa are caught up in a fast-paced life in Phoenix with two jobs and two kids. Drugs, bullying, adultery and abortion are underlying tensions that fester and drive wedges between family members. With the Wilsons falling apart, his reunion seemed an oasis of calm. At least, that's what David had hoped for. Instead he faces interrogations and accusations from friend and foe alike. Lisa wants to believe in her husband's innocence but too many fingers are pointing his way. She questions everything she thought she knew about David and his past. But her past is as traumatic as his and the danger she faces is real as she slogs through a myriad of lies.
Was the baby his? Was the friendly neighborhood priest a little too friendly?
The homecoming queen's father and best friend become arch enemies as Lisa endeavors to find out what really happened that night. The answers she discovers are not the ones she sought and they wobble her existence more than she could have ever imagined.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: SJ Slagle
• Release date: Apr 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370038206

SJ Slagle

I'm the proud honoree of the 2018 B.R.A.G. Medallion for excellence in historical fiction. My book, London Spies, is the first of a trilogy about a young woman in military intelligence in WWII.I am an unabashed lover of mysteries. Sue Grafton, Sherlock Holmes, Lawrence Block, Walter Mosley, JA Jance and Tony Hillerman are just a few authors who have tantalized my imagination over the years and I reread their work whenever I need stimulation. And instruction. A writer goes to the master to learn that certain turn of phrase, a unique POV or how to kickstart the story reverberating in your head.I grew up in Illinois, moved to Arizona and, after college, toured some of the world including Puerto Rico, Florida and the Virgin Islands. I've traveled throughout my lifetime giving setting and tone new twists as my horizons expanded. My work as a teacher in Language Arts and video production have proven time and again to be superb launching pads for my writing.I write mysteries and historical fiction as SJ Slagle and western romances as Jeanne Harrell. My sister and I started writing children's books long ago and those are published under both our names: Sinda Cheri Floyd. The stories we write are loosely based on our collective experiences during childhood.Enjoy my books and happy reading!

Book preview

THE REUNION

By

SJ SLAGLE

Copyright, 2017

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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Thank you for downloading my book! I am happy that you have made it part of your library.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author and/or publisher. No part of this publication may be sold or hired, without written permission from the author.

Special thanks goes to my editors and readers: Cheri Mills, Pam Kilrain, Darlene Nelson, and Cindy Slagle.

Enjoy these titles from SJ Slagle

Sherlock and Me: The Case of the Starry Night

Sherlock and Me: The Case of the Feathered Snitch

Sherlock and Me: The Case of the Ghost Horse

The Reunion

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SJ Slagle also writes western romance novels as Jeanne Harrell

Enjoy these books from Jeanne Harrell

Rancher Series

Rancher’s Girl

Whisperer

Always and Forever

Being Emma

The Darkest Hour

Just Before Dawn

Rancher’s Christmas

Westerners Series

Riding the River

Stream Ran Dry

Lonesome Creek

Cool Water

Avila Beach Winery Series

The Winemaker’s Dilemma

Winemaker’s Son

Single Titles

Persuaded

These Nevada Boys

Courting Polly’s Daddy

Never Let Me Go

Shoulda Been a Rancher

Since I Fell for You

That Nevada Girl

http://www.jeanneharrell.com

Dedicated to everyone who survived high school.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Book

About the Author

Connect with SJ

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Prologue

The first time she fell, thick branches caught her fall. Her silky dress, ripped above her knee and waist, left bits of fabric clinging to the bushes, some floated to the ground.

A final push did the trick. With blurred vision and leaves in her mouth, it was hard to yell out although she tried.

Get away from me! I never liked you!

The words were muted like an echo in the desert swallowed by emptiness.

Down

Down

Her head exploded with pain when it hit something hard. Earthy smells filled her nostrils.

Pain was a carpeted path to nowhere. Darkness circled the periphery of her vision. She longed for sleep and when it came at last, she stopped worrying about the blood.

So much blood.

So much…

* * *

LISA

I didn’t want to go to that stinking reunion in the first place. What are they really for anyway? A place where the former homecoming queen gets to shine for a night again, the cheerleaders can snub their peers and the band guys can brag about sneaking cigarettes behind the bandleader’s back?

What was I in high school?

It’s no secret I was one of those snobby cheerleaders who wouldn’t give the math geeks the time of day. They sure got their revenge. The head of my high school’s math club started his own dotcom, sold it for a zillion dollars and, last I heard, was living in Paris. Marvin Ziegler had had a major crush on me, which he couldn’t hide, but I never took him seriously. I was too caught up in being part of the popular crowd…too caught up in myself.

High school social dynamics can be like that. Can be full of regret.

But the only regret I have right now is going to David’s twenty-year high school reunion.

I’m waiting in a lawyer’s office reeking of furniture varnish. The interior designer obviously likes dark wood since every wall is covered with it except one wall of windows. A massive desk has drawers on all sides. It looks French provincial but who really knows besides the decorator. A thickly cushioned chair seems a match for the room’s tone: rich and distinguished. Degrees and photos with important people line the wall like sentries. Carpet colors are muted probably to keep his clients calm. But calm is not how I’m feeling. The receptionist asked me to wait for the man himself to appear like he was God incarnate or at least one of the disciples. He was running late from a previous appointment, but would he be as understanding if I were running late? Doubtful.

Where do these guys get their sense of entitlement? But I elect to sit on a couch by the window wall so I could at least amuse myself with people watching as I wait.

David’s late too. I check my phone for the time. Five minutes past our scheduled appointment. Glancing out the window to the street below, I watch a family try to pile into a minivan. The dad yells at the mother across the top of the car probably something like, Get in! We’re late for T-ball. She hurriedly gets in, as does the young son in the back seat. The teenaged daughter, however, stands her ground. Not surprising. She stands forlornly on the curb looking anywhere but at the minivan. She checks her nails as the car speeds off, screeches to a halt and then backs up just as fast. The mother and father both yell out the window at her, wave her towards them. She doesn’t move no matter what incentive or threats they throw at her. A scene I’ve seen our family perform over and over ad nauseam.

Ten minutes. I wonder how much this guy charges per hour. At this rate, it’s going to cost us a fortune.

* * *

DAVID

One week earlier

I seem to live my life stuck in traffic. This freeway gets worse every day but I think there’s an accident up ahead. We’re moving less than usual this morning.

I sip my coffee and my gaze falls to the gas gauge. I thought Lisa said she would fill up the tank yesterday. She borrowed my car for her latest commercial shoot downtown. I shake my head and frown as the arrow on the gauge is tilting alarmingly towards empty. That woman doesn’t seem to know what planet she’s on half the time.

In resignation, I stare out the grimy windshield at other weary travelers. We all have somewhere to go, but we’re not going to get there anytime soon. The dashboard clock reads seven-ten meaning I’m already late for the early morning meeting. Principal Morse will duly note my tardiness and there will be a stern note in my mailbox. Sometimes it seems he disciplines me like I discipline my ten-year old son. Now I know how Ben feels.

We sluggishly begin to move, haltingly, an inch or two at a time. As I connect to Bluetooth to call in, I catch the woman in the next car over waving at me. Great. My tire must be flat or something. I roll down the window.

What? I yell over at her. Is something wrong?

David? Is that you?

And then I recognize her—it’s Chris Singer or whatever her name is now. She was homecoming queen in high school and I haven’t seen her in years. My eyes dart between her and the road. I don’t want to plow into the car in front of me, but a siren is calling. Long blonde hair, dark glasses dipped on her upturned nose. A frilly blouse showing deep cleavage. She still looks amazing.

Chris? Yeah, I laugh. It’s me. Nice to see you.

Her gaze roams my face. I hope that piece of tissue isn’t still stuck on my chin where I cut myself shaving this morning.

Hey! You’re looking good. Are you going to the reunion? Strands of hair sprinkle on her face like glitter.

I slam on the brakes just before hitting the car I’m trying to avoid. Perspiring, I turn back to the gorgeous woman still watching me.

Haven’t given it much thought. Why?

It’s our twentieth. You’ve got to show. I’m helping plan it and it’s going to be fun. Please come! She smiles with a pouty redlined mouth that flings me back to some sweaty back seat action in my dad’s cool Camaro many moons ago. The smile turns seductive and she knows what’s going through my mind at warp speed. I was always putty around her and she knew it. I promise I’ll behave. It sounds like she doesn’t want to.

Maybe. I’ll see what’s happening that weekend.

Good. It’s coming up fast. That beautiful face turns up the wattage. She wiggles red-tipped fingers at me. Can’t wait to catch up. See you there. Her row of cars is moving at last and she’s gone before I can wave goodbye. I blink wondering if she was actually there at all.

My day moves at a glacial pace through class after class with students who don’t have their homework, the dog ate their homework, or they weren’t aware they even had homework. I’ve been teaching long enough that I wouldn’t even bother with homework anymore, but it’s mandated by school policy. So I continue to nag kids with ineffective words I’ve said a million times.

Meeting Chris Singer accidentally in traffic this morning remains the highlight of my day.

* * *

CHRIS SINGER

David Wilson.

That familiar name, that handsome face…whew.

I was never a sucker for boys with sandy hair and blue eyes until he came along. Usually guys with some kind of pedigree, family money or just plain bulky biceps caught my attention; David had nothing along those lines to offer. No, he wasn’t beefy or rich, but being a science scholar and a star athlete were strong aphrodisiacs. He was everything I never knew I wanted all rolled up in one tidy package. I waited as long as I did to snare him because I knew that as soon as I did, he would be it for me.

And he was.

The attraction was dangerous.

My father knew I was serious about this one…the one on our porch most evenings and in my pants regularly. Dad found out we were having sex one unassuming day when he stood in my bathroom doorway to tell me something and I was reaching into the cabinet to get the toothpaste. Maybe he’d been eavesdropping on my phone calls too, I can’t be sure, but he had been getting nosier, which was unusual.

Usually my father would ignore me until the end of the month when the credit card bills began coming in and he’d raise hell about the money I was spending. After high school, I know he looked on those times as the good old days because my spending really skyrocketed. His fault.

Anyway…the toothpaste. My birth control pills were sandwiched between the tube of toothpaste and a box of bandages. As soon as he saw them, and I’m convinced he was checking on purpose, his face became fiery red and engorged veins bulged on the sides of his neck. He pushed me aside, I fell to the floor nearly hitting my face on the toilet, and he grabbed the round container of pills. Arnold Singer was never a nice man, but he became increasingly hostile after that day.

What the hell are you doing with these? He shook the container in my face. I didn’t blanche. What I did in private with the boy I loved was my business, not his.

We’re Catholic! You do know what that means, correct? You have studied your catechism, have you not?

I’m doing nothing wrong and I hate you’re insinuating that I am.

He slapped me hard across the face. I kicked him in the leg.

Get away from me!

Grabbing my arm, Arnold pulled me up from the floor, pushed me behind him and stomped to the toilet. He emptied all the pills out, one by one, and flushed them. Angrily, he threw the empty container in the wastebasket.

You will quit being a slut and be the good Catholic girl your mother raised you to be.

I stepped away from him and his rage. My mother taught me nothing was wrong with the man I loved.

He’s not a man; he’s a boy and you’re never to see him again. Understand? If you do, there will be dire consequences.

What kind of consequences? What could be worse than living here with you, an unhappy old man, in this drafty mausoleum of a house?

This is our home! he thundered.

It hasn’t been a home since Mom died. I hated my quivering lip. Show no fear is what I always told myself.

His wide eyes and dropped jaw told me I’d hit the target as he raised his hand to slap me again. I slipped out of the bathroom and hid out at Marla’s house for a few days. At least until the bruises faded.

Seeing David in traffic today brought all that baggage back up in my throat and I hated my father anew. David was the best thing in my life—I never wanted to let him go.

Maybe we could try again. He and what’s-her-name can’t be that happy. I’ll feel him out at the reunion and see what he thinks.

I know…I’ll pull out all the stops with a sexy designer gown and fuck me heels. He was putty when I got dolled up to go somewhere. He must still desire me…I’ll fan those burning embers and make him want me again.

It can work.

* * *

DAVID

Emily, put that phone away. We’re having dinner.

She slams it on the table. I’m expecting an important call, Dad.

From the president of Harvard or Stanford?

Funny. You know I’m not going to either of those places.

Not with your grades.

Lisa intervenes by picking up the platter of food and handing it to me. More meatloaf?

I shake my head.

Don’t you like it? Her smile fades and her pout reminds me of Chris’ this morning. I catch myself before my lips curve up. Or think I do.

What’s that smirk about? She drops the platter back on the table with a thud; juice from the meat slops on her hand. Before she realizes it, Lisa pushes her hair back with the meat-stained hand. My curved mouth has a field day.

What? she demands.

It’s times like these when I remember what I always liked about her. She can be a dork, a sweet dork but a dork all the same. It’s an appealing quality.

You’ve got meat loaf in your hair, sweetie.

Her eyes widen comically as she realizes what I’ve said. The kids begin to laugh and she has the good grace to laugh too. Endearing little lines crinkle around smiling eyes. The stained hand strays to her pretty chestnut hair on reflex and I reach over to stop her.

Your hair is already a nice color of brown, honey. Sauce doesn’t really match.

Ben laughs so hard that a bite of meat loaf falls out of his mouth back on his plate. Emily scrunches her nose wrinkling the freckles she hates and flicks her napkin at him. Before a food fight starts, I throw up my hands.

Who’s loading the dishwasher tonight, since dinner is apparently over?

Em pokes Ben in the arm. It’s Pudgy’s turn.

Don’t call your brother that, Emily. It’s not nice. Lisa gets up to stack plates by the sink.

Well, he calls me stuck-up.

And are you? I ask.

No, she says shrugging a shoulder. I’m just choosy who I hang out with.

Nevertheless, continues Lisa, don’t make fun of Ben.

Yeah, Ben sneers, I’m sensitive.

Emily stalks off to her room, phone pressed to her ear. Lisa wanders towards the den mumbling about preparing for the next day’s shoot. I want to talk to her about something when Ben comes up behind me.

Dad?

I turn to face him. Yes, son?

I, ah… He coughs, clears his throat. I need to talk to you.

Stupidly, I glance at my watch. He catches it.

Unless you don’t have time.

I shake my head. No, no. Of course, I have time. Let me help you with the dishes. Talk to me.

We’re rinsing dirty plates and glasses before stacking them in the dishwasher. My heart stops when he finally blurts out he’s being bullied at school. I lay a hand on his shoulder. How long has this been going on?

Since school started.

That long? My mouth drops open. Why haven’t you said anything before now?

He blushes, my smart, wonderful son actually blushes. I wanted to take care of it myself.

And have you?

Not quite.

I turn on the dishwasher and