Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller by Mackie Malone

would you expect?” Jany said.
    “He’ll come up short,” Bailey stated flatly.
    “That will be good for him. Open the door.”
    Bailey opened the door. “These suck, too,” she said.
    “You’re right, those look bad. Get those off,” Jany told her.
    “Thank you.”
    “Try on the dark pair.”
    “With the stitching or without?”
    “With.”
    The dark pair with the stitching on the pockets cost over a hundred dollars, Bailey noticed now. She nearly got sick. As she slipped them on, she wondered how on earth she would ever survive tomorrow night.
    She said, “You have to help me with my confidence, Jany. I swear I could vomit just thinking about going to this party alone.”
    “You won’t be alone,” Jany said.
    “You know what I mean. These look okay.”
    Jany rattled the door. “Come on. Let me see.”
    Bailey opened the door, saying, “He told me it wasn’t a drinking party, but then he said some people might bring their own. Does that make any sense?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Don’t you think he’ll end up drinking?”
    “Who knows,” Jany said. “Those jeans look good. Get those.”
    “You think so?”
    “Look at them. They look hot.”
    Bailey turned to check her butt in the mirror. Then she smiled and said, “Yeah, they do look hot, don’t they?”
    Jany said, “How about a blue plaid shirt with pearl buttons down the front? Guys love blue.”
    “You’re pulling these ideas out of your butt,” Bailey said.
    “On that one, you’re right,” Jany admitted.

Chapter 9

    A s soon as the garage door was closed, Stuart Renly shut off his Buick and said to the woman, “I suppose I might be anal retentive. But sending me a picture that’s five years old is misleading. I was trying to explain that. I wasn’t trying to insult you.”
    “Like I said, that’s the only picture I had of me wearing a tank top,” the woman said. “You can sue me. Are we doing it in the house or in the garage?”
    “Inside,” he told her.
    “Where’s the rest of the money?”
    “Inside,” he told her.
    “It’s Friday night, Jon,” the woman said. “If you don’t like me, take me back.”
    She was hardly sweet-tempered, Stuart thought. He had asked her specifically if she had a sweet personality. On the phone, she had said “Of course, honey. Can you pick me up?” So she had lied about that, too, because she hadn’t been sweet since.
    “I wanted sweet, remember?” he said. “I’m sorry I called you old. You actually look good in dim light. Kind of how I’d hoped. But if you could act sweet, I’d be happier with that.”
    “Sure, honey,” the woman said. “I’ll be sweet if you’re money is green.”
    That sounded rancorous to him.
    He’d have to make the best of it, he decided.
    “Come on in, Bailey,” he said.
    She rolled her eyes. “Let’s have the money before we start the fantasy.”
    “Not a problem,” he told her, getting out of the car.
    She got out, too, and while Stuart Renley ascended the steps leading into the house, she shut the car door—more like slammed it, so to speak.
    “Once I’m paid, I’m a dream come true,” she said.
    The way she said it, though, he imagined her grinding out a cigarette with her shoe on the garage floor.
    She was too thin, as well, without much softness in her curves, from what he could tell so far.
    He held the door open for her, and she walked into the house ahead of him. She made an expression of approval at the layout of the living room, but didn’t say anything about it aloud.
    She wanted paid first, he knew. Then she’d open up.
    Literally.
    He had big plans for tonight, in fact. Plans that he’d started working out immediately after school. What had sparked his planning was the conversation he’d overheard between Bailey Howard and her mother. There was a party this weekend at Eric Cady’s barn. He’d started feeling depressed upon hearing about it, because it reminded him that he wasn’t part of the student body, just a teacher