face. âYes,â she said. âThat was quite a coincidence, wasnât it, Mr. Torrance?â
Patrick looked at Lydia, tilting his head so that the spring light caught the brilliance of his eyes and picked out the blue glistening in his black, black hair. His smile was enigmatic and had sharp edges that seemed to gleam.
âActually, Mrs. Kane,â he said with a peculiar flatness in his voice, âI donât believe in coincidences. Do you?â
Lydia didnât answer. She pretended she hadnât heard him, busying herself with Rose. But Celia knew she had heard, and had chosen not to respond.
Which Celia, staring over at the older woman thoughtfully, decided was very strange indeed.
Â
A T THREE-THIRTY , PATRICK PARKED his car along Cooper Avenue, just down the block from the J. P. Linden High School. Impressive. The Linden family must have been big stuff around here once. Don Frostâs report had said that both Linden daughters had been disinherited. Patrick wondered why. Maybe the old man had found out about the baby and didnât much approve?
School was just over. Patrick watched the kids come pouring out of the building like a liquid rainbow. Some of them lined up, noisily jabbing and teasing, to climb into big yellow buses. Others trudged along stoically, watching the sidewalk, heavy backpacks dragging on their shoulders.
A few others, the ones with straight white smiles, shining, well-cut hair and expensive designer clothes, danced in groups toward the parking lot. Their trucks and sports cars waited like rows of lapdogs, ready to perk up at the sound of their mastersâ remote control chirps.
He knew what their lives were like, those lucky ones. Back at San Franciscoâs elite Masterâs Preparatory Academy, Patrick had been one of them, the envy of even the richest of his friends. Out of all the top-of-the-line sports cars in the Academy parking lot, Patrickâs Mercedes had been the coolest.
High tech sound, alloy wheels, gliding sunroof, global positioning system before anyone else had ever heard of it. Low slung, with lots of attitude. Shining black on the outside, deep, rich maroon interior.
Red and black, wasnât that perfect? Red and black to match the bruises that had once colored his arms, to match the bloody vomit that came up whenever Julian Torranceâs fists caught him in the kidneys.
He waited until everyone seemed to have left. He waited until the gray stone building stood motionless against the huge blue sky. And then he opened his car door, headed down the sidewalk and went inside.
J. P. Linden High School. A carved stone archwayproclaimed the school name. The double doors were unlocked. Though a sign asked him politely, as a visitor, to check in at the front office, no one stopped him when he passed by without a glance.
The dimly lit hallway lined with sports trophies and âState Championâ banners, smelled like all high schools. Part chalk, part textbook, part musty old building. And under everything the lingering smell of the kidsâcheap cologne and sweaty gym clothes, hair spray and hormones.
His footsteps echoed as he walked. The school seemed huge for such a small town; it must draw from nearby communities. That would account for all the buses.
Still, it didnât take him long to find the gymnasium, where, according to Don Frost Investigations, the Linden High Homecoming Dance had been held every November for more than thirty years.
The gym was deserted, as well. It was too late in the year for basketball, too early for the prom. Today it was just a big empty floor and stacks of collapsible bleachers. Streams of dusty sunlight struggled in through high, dirty windows. The floor was well worn, overdue for replacing. Obviously this school hadnât been new even back when The Homecoming Baby was born.
He stood at the gym door and surveyed the nearest hallway. Two doors were set into the far end, maybe twenty
Patrick looked at Lydia, tilting his head so that the spring light caught the brilliance of his eyes and picked out the blue glistening in his black, black hair. His smile was enigmatic and had sharp edges that seemed to gleam.
âActually, Mrs. Kane,â he said with a peculiar flatness in his voice, âI donât believe in coincidences. Do you?â
Lydia didnât answer. She pretended she hadnât heard him, busying herself with Rose. But Celia knew she had heard, and had chosen not to respond.
Which Celia, staring over at the older woman thoughtfully, decided was very strange indeed.
Â
A T THREE-THIRTY , PATRICK PARKED his car along Cooper Avenue, just down the block from the J. P. Linden High School. Impressive. The Linden family must have been big stuff around here once. Don Frostâs report had said that both Linden daughters had been disinherited. Patrick wondered why. Maybe the old man had found out about the baby and didnât much approve?
School was just over. Patrick watched the kids come pouring out of the building like a liquid rainbow. Some of them lined up, noisily jabbing and teasing, to climb into big yellow buses. Others trudged along stoically, watching the sidewalk, heavy backpacks dragging on their shoulders.
A few others, the ones with straight white smiles, shining, well-cut hair and expensive designer clothes, danced in groups toward the parking lot. Their trucks and sports cars waited like rows of lapdogs, ready to perk up at the sound of their mastersâ remote control chirps.
He knew what their lives were like, those lucky ones. Back at San Franciscoâs elite Masterâs Preparatory Academy, Patrick had been one of them, the envy of even the richest of his friends. Out of all the top-of-the-line sports cars in the Academy parking lot, Patrickâs Mercedes had been the coolest.
High tech sound, alloy wheels, gliding sunroof, global positioning system before anyone else had ever heard of it. Low slung, with lots of attitude. Shining black on the outside, deep, rich maroon interior.
Red and black, wasnât that perfect? Red and black to match the bruises that had once colored his arms, to match the bloody vomit that came up whenever Julian Torranceâs fists caught him in the kidneys.
He waited until everyone seemed to have left. He waited until the gray stone building stood motionless against the huge blue sky. And then he opened his car door, headed down the sidewalk and went inside.
J. P. Linden High School. A carved stone archwayproclaimed the school name. The double doors were unlocked. Though a sign asked him politely, as a visitor, to check in at the front office, no one stopped him when he passed by without a glance.
The dimly lit hallway lined with sports trophies and âState Championâ banners, smelled like all high schools. Part chalk, part textbook, part musty old building. And under everything the lingering smell of the kidsâcheap cologne and sweaty gym clothes, hair spray and hormones.
His footsteps echoed as he walked. The school seemed huge for such a small town; it must draw from nearby communities. That would account for all the buses.
Still, it didnât take him long to find the gymnasium, where, according to Don Frost Investigations, the Linden High Homecoming Dance had been held every November for more than thirty years.
The gym was deserted, as well. It was too late in the year for basketball, too early for the prom. Today it was just a big empty floor and stacks of collapsible bleachers. Streams of dusty sunlight struggled in through high, dirty windows. The floor was well worn, overdue for replacing. Obviously this school hadnât been new even back when The Homecoming Baby was born.
He stood at the gym door and surveyed the nearest hallway. Two doors were set into the far end, maybe twenty
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