Ali said it was dark out when he exited the charter school behind a group of his friends on the debate team. He was the youngest and shortest by far, so his view was blocked when the screaming started. Then they all started running in different directions. Ali didn’t follow them. He stood his ground and got out his cell phone.
“You called 911?” Bree asked.
“No, I videoed them.”
“You videoed them?” Sampson said, impressed.
“I wasn’t going to fight them,” Ali said, pulling out his phone and starting the video.
The footage was shaky at first, but then steadied, showing three men in dark coveralls and masks dragging a screaming blond teenage girl across the terrace in front of the charter school toward Second Street.
“That’s Gretchen Lindel, Dad,” Ali said. “She’s, like, a junior.”
On the screen, the kidnappers almost had Gretchen Lindel to the sidewalk. A woman came barreling into view from the left. She was spitting mad and went straight at the masked men.
“Ms. Petracek,” Ali said softly. “Our debate coach.”
On-screen, one of the men let Gretchen Lindel go, pivoted, and, with zero pause, shot Ms. Petracek in the face at point-blank range. Sampson pulled back at the coldness of it.
The courageous teacher of English and public speaking at Washington Latin died in a heartbeat. Her body fell hard. The gunman turned to Gretchen, who was being forcibly held between two parked cars.
Ali said, “Here’s the worst of it.”
Siren wailing, blue lights flashing, a Metro DC patrol car came screeching up in front of the kidnappers. The men yanked open the cruiser’s doors, threw Gretchen in the back, and jumped in themselves, and then the patrol car, tires squealing and siren still wailing, sped out of sight.
CHAPTER
6
SHORTLY AFTER SHE took me in following the death of my mother down south, Nana Mama caught me sad and lazing around on her front porch, doing just about nothing.
I was ten. Nana asked me what I was doing, and I told her the truth.
“Breathing,” I said.
“Not hard enough,” Nana Mama said. “I know you don’t like it here, Alex, but give it time. You will. Between now and then, I want you busy. You up to nothing but breathing? You come see me. I’ll give you something to do.”
“What if I don’t feel like doing anything?”
My grandmother, eyebrows raised and hands on hips, said, “In my house, you don’t get that option. And you know what? When you’re all grown up and gone from here, you won’t get that option either, ’less you marry some rich girl or win the lottery.”
Ironically, almost four decades later, my grandmother, in her nineties, did win the lottery—the Powerball, in fact. She took the single-payout option, paid a whopping tax bill, and immediately formed a foundation to promote literacy, aid the poor, and provide hot-breakfast programs at local churches.
She also made sure my kids could have whatever education they aspired to. Even then, Nana Mama had enough money left over that the entire Cross family could have sat on the front porch doing just about nothing until we were all pushing up daisies.
But that wouldn’t fly with my grandmother. She was all about having a purpose in life that bettered and benefited others. After months on suspension pending my murder trial, and even though I’d been helping Anita and Naomi with my defense, Nana Mama felt I needed to do more than figure out ways to keep myself out
of jail. She was right. I’d caught myself “just breathing” too often for my own comfort.
I’d decided that if I couldn’t be a cop for the time being, I had to have a reason to get out of bed, a way to be useful to someone besides myself. So I returned to my first profession, psychological counseling.
I fixed up an office in the basement that had its own separate entrance, put up my framed master’s and doctorate diplomas from Johns Hopkins, and hung out my shingle after nearly two decades in law enforcement.
I called every social services agency in the metro area, offering my skills and asking for referrals. Luckily I’d gotten a handful, and then a few more, and my practice slowly built.
Two days after Ali witnessed a kidnapping and a murder at Washington Latin, I was down in my office and heard a soft knock at the outer door.
I glanced at my scheduling book: Paul Fiore. First visit. Right on time.