Immoral by Brian Freeman

seagulls. He extracted a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, then slapped the pack until one cigarette jutted out from the others. He cupped his hands and tried to light it in the wind. It took several tries. Finally, the end of the cigarette smoldered, and he took a long drag. The smoke, filling his lungs, comforted him like an old friend. He relaxed, feeling some of the tightness escape. Then he coughed long and hard.
    “Those things will kill you,” a voice said behind him.
    Stride felt guilty—a high school student again, caught smoking behind the school. He turned and saw an attractive blonde woman on a short set of gray steel steps leading up to the back door of the technical center. She, too, was holding a cigarette. Stride smiled at her, acknowledging their common vice.
    “At least we’ll die happy,” he said. He took a few steps closer, leaning against the railing by the stairs.
    “I keep wondering whether it’s better to smoke or be an alcoholic,” the woman told him.
    “Why not both?” Stride asked.
    “I’ve thought about that. But I haven’t committed to either one.”
    She was in her midthirties, with a red fleece jacket zipped to her neck and new, starched black slacks. She looked like an ex-cheerleader, with a trim body, athletic build, and short, layered blonde hair. Her eyes were pale blue. She had a pert face, upturned nose, and cheeks that had flushed red in the cold air.
    She looked familiar. Stride told her so.
    “We met last year,” she told him. “My name is Andrea. Andrea Jantzik. I’m a teacher here at the school. Kerry McGrath was one of my students. You interviewed me when you were investigating her disappearance.”
    “Was Rachel one of your students, too?”
    Andrea shook her head. “I think she took biology, not chemistry. Peggy, the bio teacher, was telling me about her this morning. I didn’t know who Rachel was.”
    Stride dug in his pocket for the crumpled piece of paper the registrar had given him, with the listing of Rachel’s classes and grades. “You didn’t have her in an English class a year ago?”
    “That would be Robin Jantzik. He teaches—taught—English here. But if you really want to talk to him, I’m afraid you’ll have to look him up with his new wife in San Francisco.”
    “Husband?” Stride asked.
    “Once upon a time.”
    “I’m sorry,” Stride said. “Would it help if I told you that men are pigs?”
    Andrea laughed. “Nothing I don’t already know.”
    She had a cynical smile, which was like looking in a mirror. He recognized the walls she had built around herself, because he had done the same thing. He could see it in her face, too, as he looked closely: the frown lines creasing her lips, the deadness in her eyes, the heavy cake of makeup trying to freshen her skin. Loss had taken a toll on her, as it had on him.
    “Is that when the cigarettes came back?” he asked, making a guess.
    She looked surprised. “Is it that obvious?”
    “I’ve been through something similar,” he told her. “A year ago. That’s when I started smoking again.”
    “I thought I had kicked it a year ago,” Andrea said. “No such luck.”
    “Did your husband ever mention Rachel?”
    Andrea shook her head. “No. English classes are huge.”
    “What about other teachers or students? Did you know anyone who might have been close to her?”
    “You might want to talk to Nancy Carver. She’s a part-time counselor here. She had a lot to say about Rachel this morning in the cafeteria.”
    “Like what?”
    “She thought the search was a waste of time.”
    “Did she say why?” Stride asked.
    Andrea shook her head.
    “So this woman counseled Rachel?” Stride continued.
    “I don’t know. Nancy’s not a permanent employee of the school. She’s a professor up at the university and volunteers her time here working with troubled students. Girls, mostly.”
    “Does she have an office in the building?”
    “More like a closet, really. It’s on the second