You Again (You Again 1)

His mother, however, had access to the school, probably the basement, too, if she needed it. She was aware of Allie’s intentions to create a video—but she had also supported it. He doubted the idea would even have been approved without her speaking up.

She wasn’t the one doing these things. It just wouldn’t make sense.

Regardless of her innocence, if those letters came to light and Elizabeth Fratto was identified as the woman who had written them, she’d be exposed not only to public humiliation, but she would become a prime suspect. Right now, his mother could barely get up in the morning, make it to her doctors’ appointments, or play a game of cards.

The stress she would be under if the letters came to light would probably kill her.

Sam couldn’t let that happen. For all her faults, her lies, her betrayal, he didn’t want his mother to die because of a mistake she’d made so long ago.

She couldn’t kill anyone. She didn’t have it in her.

So he had to figure out who did. And fast. Before the letters became a driving force in the murder investigation. Before anyone could identify his mother as the author.

The pot of coffee had just finished brewing when he heard the garage door open. He put the kettle on, because he knew she preferred tea this late in the evening. And a few minutes later, as she steeped her tea across from him at the kitchen counter, he mentioned the box. The letters.

But he didn’t have the balls to confront her directly. Not yet. He wanted to see how she would react. Her only reaction was to pull the tea bag from her cup, discard it in the garbage, and ask him how his day had gone.

Half an hour later, his mother retired upstairs for bed, he picked up his cell and looked for any missed messages. There was an email from Allie, sent from her school email account. Frowning, he opened it. There was a video attachment. With a sinking heart, he clicked play.

Hell, that VHS tape had been gold. For there, plain as day, was Jackson Williams, smiling and joking with his students. So charismatic. The tape then cut to clips from Allie’s interviews with Jeremy and Tim. Five minutes in, the video cut off.

She’d done it, the tribute was almost there.

Sam looked at the time. It was kind of late for her to still be at the school. It was almost nine and dark outside. He couldn’t shake the feeling that her presence in the school this late at night, alone, was not a good idea.

He called her cell. It went straight to voicemail. Damn.

His nerves jangled with foreboding. What was she thinking? The woman needed an epic ass-chewing, that was for damn sure.

He better get over there.

…

A noise from the hallway brought Allie’s head up.

Was someone still here?

She looked at the clock. Good grief. Had she really been at this for five hours? It had been worth it, though. Things were coming together far better than she could have imagined.

She felt a moment’s guilt at having to ask Ryan to take Vi tonight. The equipment at the school was much better than her old home computer, so it made sense to stick it out here. And with only a week to make this thing shine, if she was going to convince the committee to run it at the upcoming gala, there was no time to waste. Besides, Vi was in good hands. Ryan and his new wife were nothing but loving.

Had Sam seen the video she’d sent him yet? What did he think of it?

She pressed play and reviewed what she’d put together so far. Pride and nostalgia hit her as the images ran past. The video outtakes were perfect, and she’d interspersed them with footage from her interviews. Brother Luther’s had been a bit over the top but, since most people already knew what he was like, they’d probably appreciate his melodrama. A couple more interviews should just about do it.

She jumped at another noise. Okay, that had definitely been the sound of a door shutting. Someone had either just left or entered the hall of classrooms from the stairway.

Strange.

She’d been under the assumption that after the custodian had said good-night and left around eight, she was the only person left at the school.

Goosebumps trailed down her arms.

She paused the video and strained to hear anything other than the sound of the rain still pelting the windows. But with the sound-dampening linoleum that was installed a few years back, it was unlikely she’d hear someone approach the door to the newsroom until they pushed the door open.

The clock above the doorway ticked ominously.

She took her phone out of her handbag. In case she needed to make a quick 9-1-1 call, she put her thumb over the emergency speed-dial, ready to go. She held her breath. Waiting.