Cutting Edge

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nora followed Sheriff Sanger into the county jail. Since the FBI didn’t have detention facilities, she’d been here many times over the years to interview suspects. After arraignment, the accused generally stayed in county jail until trial; then, if convicted, they were transported to a federal penitentiary.

Nora didn’t like how Sanger had made a snap judgment on the suicides. The three could certainly have killed themselves out of guilt, but she needed more. And she needed more than Sanger’s theory that Cole was the instigator. Evidence and motive for a start.

None of this fit in with her experience. And if she couldn’t rely on her experience, what good was she on the squad?

Did she want to be right so badly that she was jeopardizing the case? She didn’t think so, but at the same time she’d had the very strong and very instant reaction that these suicides didn’t fit the mold. And while human behavior certainly couldn’t always be predicted, when someone went way off the reservation, Nora couldn’t help but question it.

“Please bring Cole to interview room two,” Sanger ordered the desk sergeant.

“He’s with his attorney in interview four.”

“That was fast,” Sanger said.

“It’s better this way,” Nora said.

“How the hell is it better?” growled Sanger.

She motioned for the sheriff to follow her, and the desk sergeant buzzed them into room two.

Nora faced Sanger and leaned against the table. It was better not to be too aggressive with him, but she couldn’t deny she was in a fighting mood. “Cole has never spoken to us without his attorney present. You think he’s going to suddenly open up after you arrest him?”

“I’ve known Leif Cole for years. I can get him to talk.”

“Great. Talk about conflict of interest.”

“What’s your point?”

“You and Cole have a history.”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“Maybe not,” she said, not believing him, “but we still need information and evidence. If you honestly believe that Cole is responsible, then we need to find that evidence, because he’s sure as hell not going to confess when we have nothing.”

“But he doesn’t know what we do or don’t have.”

“If you play him wrong, he’ll never talk. He would love to bring the ACLU down on your ass, Lance. And neither you nor I want to spend our limited resources battling that giant.”

“You know what I think?” Lance said. “I think that they killed themselves to protect Leif Cole and that maybe he was the one who told them to kill Payne. Payne was a thorn in his side for years.”

If Leif Cole was guilty, Nora had been working off the wrong profile from the beginning. That was a poor excuse.

Any decent profiler knew that a psychological assessment of a suspect when you didn’t have a suspect was nothing more than a guideline; it wasn’t rigid. She’d adapted when she learned Payne had been tortured-adding in the psychopathic factor. Was Cole a psychopath? If so, she’d missed it during their previous interviews. If not, which of the three students had killed Payne? Had they been in it together? Who had been the instigator? Groups behaved differently from individuals, and anarchist cells had a small-group mentality, each member goading the others into acts of civil disobedience and felonies.

“Maybe you’re right.”

Sanger was surprised. “I didn’t think you would cave that easily. You were certain he wasn’t responsible.”

“I said maybe and what I’ve always said is that Leif Cole wasn’t involved in the arsons, but that he suspected who was. Sean Rogan said Professor Cole was involved with the student Anya Ballard.”

“We’ll have a hard time getting that admitted into court. His defense will argue that it’s hearsay.”

“Sean Rogan will make a good witness on that point,” Nora said. “Let me be the lead on this, okay?”

Lance didn’t want to cede control-Nora saw it in his face and posture-but he reluctantly relented. “All right. I wouldn’t mind seeing you in action, anyway.”

Before she could respond to that surprising statement, Leif Cole walked in with his attorney. The lawyer introduced himself as Gavin Shepherd.

Shepherd got right to the point. “My client may or may not answer your questions, depending on whether he believes it’s relevant to determining what happened to the three students in question. You should also know that I am petitioning the court for immediate release for false arrest.”

Sanger said, “False arrest? He refused to answer questions at the college, and I offered to interview him at the station. He got in my face, so I arrested him for attempting to intimidate a police officer.”

That was interesting, Nora thought. Sanger hadn’t told her the charges. And Nora thought Shepherd had a point, especially if Sanger told the judge that Cole “got in his face.” Intimidation wasn’t the same as assault, and Sanger had forty pounds and two inches on the professor.

Leif Cole slammed his palm on the table. “I asked you one simple question and you refused to answer.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Sanger said. “I ask the questions, you answer-or refuse to answer.”

Nora cleared her throat while Gavin admonished his client. “Professor, what was your question?”

“Is Anya okay? She was taken away in an ambulance. I just want to know if she’s going to be okay.”

Sanger shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Nora realized the importance Sean Rogan’s observations yesterday had on why that information was important to Cole.

She said, “I’m sorry, Professor. She died en route to the hospital.”

Cole’s body shook, his hands fisted, and his jaw moved, trying to prevent a sob from escaping. He lost that battle and the gut-wrenching cry that was pulled from his heart brought goose bumps to Nora’s skin.

She waited a long moment to give Cole time for initial grief. Her opinion about the propriety of a professor’s relationship with a student was put on the back burner; there was no doubt in her mind that Leif Cole cared deeply about Anya. This was no act.

“Why?” Cole asked, his voice rough. “Why would she kill herself?”

“Professor,” Nora said gently. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Anya and the others.”

He didn’t respond.

She plunged in. “I have a witness who said that you and Anya had an intimate relationship. Is that true?”

“That has nothing to do with this,” Shepherd said. “It is irrelevant whether my client had a sexual relationship or not with Ms. Ballard.”

“I’m trying to establish the relationship between Professor Cole and a student who died under suspicious circumstances. Let me ask it this way: Did you know Anya, Chris, and Scott outside of the classroom?”

“Yes,” Cole said.

“Did you ever think for a minute that one of them was contemplating suicide?”

“Never. Especially not Anya.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I did have a relationship with her. I loved her. She was going to move in after graduation. I know what you’re thinking, I’m forty-two and she’s twenty-two, but it worked.”

Sanger shifted in his seat and Nora shot him a look. He’d better not blow this.

“When was the last time you spoke with Anya?” Nora asked.

“Monday afternoon. In the organic garden. I tried calling her later that night, about ten or ten-thirty, after I got home from the meeting, and she didn’t answer. I knew-I didn’t think anything of it.”

“How was her disposition in the garden?” Nora asked.

“She was upset about something.”

“Do you know what?”

He didn’t answer.

Shepherd said, “My client doesn’t have to answer that.”

“If Professor Cole has information on why Anya Ballard killed herself, then yes, I think he should answer it.”

“Should is not a compelling reason,” Shepherd said.

“Did you know that Anya and the two boys were arsonists?”

“We’re not going to answer that,” the lawyer jumped in.

“Did you know that there was a fatality in the Butcher-Payne fire? That Dr. Jonah Payne died?”

Cole said, “A reporter called me Monday morning and told me about that.”

“Why would a reporter call you?” asked Nora.

“Because of you,” Cole snapped. “Your investigation keeps sniffing around me, and I’ve told you time and time again that I had nothing to do with the arsons, and I certainly had nothing to do with the Butcher-Payne arson or the death of Dr. Payne.”

“When did you find out he was murdered?”

“We’re not going to answer-” Shepherd began, but Cole cut him off.

“You would be hard-pressed to get first-degree murder from an accidental death,” Cole said.

“In acts of domestic terrorism, yes I damn well can get first-degree murder,” Nora stated evenly. “But Jonah Payne’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“What the hell are you talking about? The reporter said that Dr. Payne died in his office. I assumed he’d been working or fallen asleep there when the fire started.”

Professor Cole’s frustration seemed genuine. Nora assessed Professor Cole’s posture and eyes and she believed he believed Payne’s death had been an accident. It seemed that the first Cole had heard of Payne’s death was indeed when the reporter phoned. Things began to click into place for Nora.

“Dr. Payne’s horrible death was no accident. It was cold-blooded, premeditated murder. Payne was tortured prior to bleeding slowly to death.”

“You’re lying through your teeth, and you know it,” Cole objected. “I’m not playing these games with you, Agent English.” He began to stand, but Nora waved him down as she pulled files from her briefcase. Without comment, she laid several of the crime-scene and autopsy photos in front of him. Again, the shock on his face wasn’t faked. Leif Cole looked ill.

“You’re a smart man,” she said when she’d finished laying out the gruesome pictures. She tapped the photo of Dr. Payne in his office, lying on his back. “He wasn’t killed here in his office. He was killed-” She turned her cell phone around and displayed a photo that the evidence response team had emailed her of the blood evidence in Payne’s Lake Tahoe bedroom. “-here.”

The digital image of dark red on the white sheets was stark. It had the desired effect on Cole.

“The M.E.’s preliminary report,” she said, gesturing toward several autopsy photos, “indicates that Dr. Payne bled to death”-she held up her phone again — “and was transported in a covered pickup truck eighty miles to his office. The research lab was doused with accelerant and set on fire. The sprinkler system was disabled in order to cause maximum damage, very likely to destroy evidence on the body. Or to make Dr. Payne’s death appear to be something that it wasn’t.”

Though that didn’t explain why the killers didn’t pour fuel onto his body, it did explain why they had disabled the sprinklers. Had Dr. Payne’s body been burned for a longer period of time, the authorities wouldn’t have discovered that he’d bled to death. Perhaps the arsonists had run out of 151 vodka. Or maybe they were running short on time. Or maybe the killer didn’t want the others to know about the cut-up corpse.

Ever since the autopsy, Nora had felt that Payne’s murder was personal, but still in some way related to his professional position. But maybe it had nothing to do with the fact that he was a biotech scientist. Maybe he’d been killed for other reasons and the arson had been merely a convenient distraction.

It explained the time gap between fires. Anarchists generally escalated, the time between attacks coming closer as the players relished the idea of getting away with it. But in this case, the hits had grown farther apart.

According to Sean Rogan, who was truly the only impartial observer, Anya Ballard was cheerful and generally happy when they had lunch together. Yet Sean saw that she had been upset in the garden …

Nora looked Cole straight in the eye. “Professor, when you were in the garden with Anya, did you tell her about Jonah Payne’s death?”

Cole considered his response before answering. “Yes. I told her that a reporter called with the news.”

“And what was her reaction?”

No comment.

Nora was getting irritated with his selective answers.

“Professor, let me explain something. Accelerant that is a likely match to the arsons was found in Anya Ballard’s dorm room, as well as the exact same spray paint used on the exterior of the target business. We have a thumbprint from the Nexum arson that I’d bet my pension belongs to one of the three suicides. And I have a suicide note that takes credit for the fires and expresses remorse for Dr. Payne’s death.” She was exaggerating the last point, but there was no law saying she couldn’t lie to suspects while in questioning.

Cole’s face remained impassive, his eyes never leaving her face.

Nora continued, “This is what I think: Anya, Chris, and Scott took what you preached and put it to action-”

As if on cue, the attorney objected, “Professor Cole has never advocated arson or murder.”

Nora frowned and glared. “I’m not out to get your client, and I never was. I don’t think he’s a killer. I don’t think that he burned down Butcher-Payne. What I think is that he knows damn well who did and out of a misguided sense of loyalty or guilt, he has kept quiet. Why? Because, up until two days ago, no one had been killed. Things, not people, were destroyed.” She turned to Cole. “I’ve read everything you’ve written, Professor,” she said, staring Leif in the eye. He was clearly surprised by her statement, and she continued. “And in your writings, you have an incredibly strong theme of preserving human life. You wouldn’t condone murder, and you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you didn’t do something to stop it.”

Nora continued. “Maybe at first you didn’t know about Anya and the boys. But you’ve admitted to a relationship with Anya, and you probably figured it out. If I had to guess …” She mentally ran through the three previous arsons. “… I’d say it was after the security guard was injured at Sac State. Anya would have been distraught at hurting a human being. She probably confessed everything, or hinted enough so you knew-and you told her to say no more. So she kept quiet about her other activities.”

Nora raised an eyebrow. “I have doubts as to whether those three kids killed themselves. Maybe it was a murder-suicide.” Nora wasn’t about to let on that the suicide note had been written by a woman.

She watched the professor’s mind working, as he tried to figure out how to talk to her without incriminating himself.

“I would say-”

Shepherd cleared his throat. “Leif, I need to advise you to-”

Cole shook his head and continued. “There are many truths in your story.”

She’d nailed it. He didn’t incriminate himself, but gave her what she needed-information.

“If Anya learned that she had accidentally killed someone,” Cole said cautiously, “she would have been extremely upset. But never have I imagined that she could be suicidal. She loved-” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “She loved everything. The outdoors, flowers, animals. She valued life, all life, human and animal and plant.”

“What about Chris and Scott?”

“Chris is a hothead and his academic work is hit-or-miss, and Scott’s quiet, restrained, a solid student. Chris is the one who speaks up in class, Scott never raises his hand. But I don’t see either of them killing Anya. They loved her.”

Lance Sanger spoke up for the first time since the beginning of the interrogation. “Maybe,” Sanger said, “they disliked your relationship with her. Maybe we’re dealing with a love triangle.”

Nora refrained from shaking her head. That didn’t fit, though she couldn’t articulate exactly why.

It ticked off Cole. “That’s bullshit and you know it, Lance. Chris and Scott were Anya’s best friends, and they knew about us. Have for a long time. And Scott had a girlfriend. He wasn’t thinking about Anya like that.”

Nora’s ears practically twitched like a cat. “Who’s Scott’s girlfriend?”

“Maggie O’Dell, Anya’s former roommate.”

Cole’s eyes widened at the same time Nora had the sense that she’d just heard something crucial to her case.

“Who’s Maggie O’Dell?” Nora asked. “Anya doesn’t have a roommate this year.”

“Maggie left last Christmas.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Anya didn’t know, Maggie simply told her she was dropping out of college.”

“Was Maggie one of the gang?”

“Don’t answer that, Leif,” his attorney said.

Cole said, “Where Anya went, Maggie went. They were inseparable. I heard she was back.”

“I want my client released immediately,” Shepherd said.

He glanced at his attorney, then said, “Where’s Anya now?”

“I don’t know,” Nora said. “Possibly the hospital or maybe she’s been transported to the morgue. You don’t want to go in there.”

“I want to see her. Please.”

Nora glanced at Sanger. They really had no reason to hold Cole. Yes, he knew about the arsons and was an accessory after the fact, but he hadn’t said anything that could be used against him. He had been forthcoming without being self-incriminating, a great trick if you were a criminal with information cops needed.

“I’ll take you,” Sanger said.

“I’ll take him,” Shepherd insisted.

Sanger glared at him. “I’ll do it.” He said to Cole, “I’ll let you out if you promise to stay in town. No major trips for the next couple weeks.”

Cole wanted to argue. Then he flipped like a switch. “I understand. Thank you, Lance.”

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

By the time Nora pulled back into Sacramento FBI headquarters, it was after seven in the evening and she was both exhausted and exhilarated. Two long days notwithstanding, she had her first, solid lead.

And no one was in the office.

That wasn’t completely true. Duke was with computer analyst Jason Camp in the small computer room. She poked her head in. “How’s it going?”

“The hard drive was wiped,” Jason said, frustrated. “We’re trying to capture some of the data. If we can get enough, we may be able to rebuild the drive. But we’re not going to have answers tonight.”

“Thanks,” she said. To Duke, “Anything on the backgrounders?”

“On your desk, sweetheart,” he said.

She frowned as she walked away. “Sweetheart”? Did he think that because he’d kissed her she was now his sweetheart?

Her heart raced. She was panicked and excited at once. But now was not the time to think about relationships, especially a relationship with Duke Rogan. She’d turned him down a dozen times in the last four years, couldn’t he take a hint? She did not want to go out with him.

She closed her eyes as she sank into her chair. She was interested in Duke Rogan, had been from the beginning, but she had no time for a serious relationship. And though Duke flirted and joked, when he looked at her she saw that he wasn’t going to be content with a few dinners, hot sex, and sayonara, baby. He wanted a long-term commitment. She didn’t want a relationship. Any involvements were few and far between, and Nora didn’t want to risk her heart again.

She opened her eyes and looked through her inbox, finding on top Dr. Coffey’s autopsy report on Jonah Payne. Attached was a note.

Nora:

I just received two of the three apparent suicide deaths. I’m waiting for the third before doing the autopsy, so if you want to attend it’ll be early tomorrow-seven-thirty a.m.

The tox screens came back on Payne.

Payne ingested a modified version of Rohypnol that included speed and some other things that aren’t identified yet. Since the tests were inconclusive, I sent a blood sample to Quantico to see if they’ve seen anything like it. It almost appears homemade. But if it behaves anything like Rohypnol at the dosage he received he could have been experiencing memory loss, fatigue, insomnia, and dizziness. His reflexes would have been slow, and his hearing and sight impaired. This wasn’t a pill, it was liquid, and could have been ingested with anything, food or liquid. I got this from his stomach contents, which suggests that he consumed it four hours or less from the time he died.

In addition, his blood tested positive for heparin, a blood thinner. It acts fast, generally within thirty minutes, and is always administered as an injection. Other similar drugs take four to twenty-four hours to work. Heparin is not a known street drug, but a pharmaceutical drug. Hope that helps a bit, and I’ll get you the results of the suicides as soon as possible.

— K. Coffey, M.E., Placer County

How the hell did the killer get ahold of heparin? Unless the killer required it for some reason. Nora logged into the FBI database and looked through drug theft reports in the area. Hospitals kept track of their medicine, and certain drugs were flagged if inventory was off. But either heparin wasn’t flagged, or no one had stolen it recently.

Nora also knew some hospitals weren’t so good at record-keeping; if a small amount went missing they might not have noticed, or didn’t want to file the paperwork. But this suggested to Nora that the killer had access to medical supplies …

She picked up the phone while pulling the Langlier file from her desk. She was reading the notes when Quin finally picked up.

“Quin Teagan, at your service.”

“Quin, it’s Nora.”

“You’re back.”

“Yes, and I need information about Langlier. They stored cancer-fighting drugs at their warehouse, correct?”

“That’s their bread and butter,” Quin said.

“What other drugs?”

“I don’t know-it’s in my report. They gave me a list-I attached it.”

“I can’t find it-”

“I’m not home right now. If it’s important, I can be home in thirty.”

Nora heard a male voice in the background. “No, no-here! Found it.”

Quin read the list of losses. The drugs were listed in alphabetical order, and there were only five.

Heparin was third on the list.

“Thanks, Quin.”

“Oh, sure, I solved the whole case,” she said sarcastically.

“You might have, with your detailed reporting. I know now where the killer got the blood thinners used on Payne. Keith Coffey alerted me that the drug used wouldn’t be easy to get, and so I thought of Langlier-”

“But Langlier was nearly two years ago!”

“Speaking of Langlier, there was a triple possible suicide at Rose College today.”

“Suicide?”

“Possible. Or murder. The students who died were definitely involved with the arsons, but I think there’s one more student or former student involved, and I have a line on her. It’s one of the victim’s former roommates.”

“Good luck. This is fantastic.”

“Enjoy your date.”

Nora hung up and pulled all the background reports Duke had run for her. She yawned and her stomach grumbled. She packed everything into her briefcase and walked to Jason’s office. She glanced in. Jason was alone. “Where’d Duke go?” she asked.

“He had a call.”

“Tell him I said good-bye and I’ll see him tomorrow.”

Maggie opened the door to Donnie’s cage and let him walk around. She hated keeping him locked up like a prisoner, but she couldn’t risk him getting away. She didn’t know exactly how the police had tracked down the other ducks, but it had something to do with an implant, according to the news. She didn’t know where it was, had inspected Donnie carefully, and she didn’t want to hurt him. He was the innocent victim in all this. It wasn’t his fault those people had experimented on him. He’d done nothing wrong.

Tears welled in her eyes and she dry-heaved as she remembered what the cruel cops had done to all those ducks. They’d gotten off on it, the sadistic bastards. Snapping their delicate necks like tree branches. One after another after another …

But it was all done on the orders of that bitch, Nora English.

Maggie had gone a bit too far when she threw the soda can at Nora at Lake of the Pines, but Maggie had never been so close to her before. She’d wanted to cut her so bad it hurt, make the federal agent suffer for the pain she’d caused the movement. The pain Nora English had caused her personally. But Nora didn’t know her, couldn’t know her, though Maggie wished she did. Nora had ruined her life and didn’t even know it. She’d acted callously, without regard for anyone she damaged in the process. Without a care of who went to prison, whether they were guilty or innocent.

The cause was more important than any one person. Maggie had killed fighting for what was right, and she would die for it. Some ideals were bigger than individuals. Bigger than her life. What was guilt but a judgment by a corrupt judicial system? Had any of Maggie’s comrades been guilty under the natural order? No! They were guilty only because of man-made rules and laws, not because they had actually done anything wrong.

Donnie waddled over to the sink she’d filled with water. He drank, then jumped in. Maggie smiled. She wished she’d taken two ducks. She would have taken them all, but she hadn’t known the feds were going to torture and murder them. She’d kept Donnie because he was injured, that brute Scott had just stuffed the ducks into the cages as if they were children’s toys, not nature’s creatures. His wing was broken, and Maggie couldn’t free him without chance of survival.

And yet, he was the only one who had survived.

Maggie picked up her favorite knife and stared at the blade. Under the light, the blade looked angelic, sparkling, blinding. She turned it and it was dull again.

She took out her special stone and sharpened the knife slowly, with sure, firm purpose. Sharpening her blade calmed her like nothing else. The scrape, scrape of the stone on the hand-forged metal. She remembered making this exact knife with her stepdad. She remembered each knife they’d made together, the patience he taught her, the respect for the fire, for the steel, for the cutting edge.

She’d used this knife on Jonah Payne. He didn’t understand, but she didn’t expect him to. He’d died because she needed practice. She had to have it perfect.

Nora English would pay for her actions. For putting innocent people in prison, for slaughtering Donnie’s winged brothers and sisters, for working for the corrupt system and against nature. Nora English was very much part of the bigger problem.

When Maggie was done with her, Nora would beg to die. And Maggie would let her do just that … eventually.

Jonah Payne had not been her first kill, and Nora English wouldn’t be the next.

Someone else had to come first. Someone who had hurt her. Someone who’d turned people against her.

Maggie didn’t like it when people didn’t do what they were supposed to. When they didn’t do what she wanted them to do.

She’d learned a lot since the first time she’d killed. That time … that was messy. She missed Clay sometimes, but he’d deserved it. He was going to leave her.

They lay on the blanket under the big oak tree, Maggie and Clay. It was the last weekend in April, and spring was supposed to be the time of rebirth and beauty, everything green and flowers blossoming. But today, though the sun shone hot over the treetops in the small Central Coast town of Paso Robles, her blood turned cold and she shivered.

She knew before he spoke that Clay was going to make a huge mistake. She couldn’t let him, instead postponing his confession with a kiss.

“Shh,” she said, tucking his pretty hair behind his ears. His parents didn’t like that his hair touched his collar, but she did. She liked everything about Clay Baker: his hair, his smell, his smile, his commitment to the cause, and most of all his commitment to her. He was hers, now and forever. They’d been together all of high school, she’d had sex with only Clay, and she loved him. He owned her heart, and she his.

He kissed her back, but it wasn’t like before. It wasn’t the same as last month, before he got that damn letter.

He was already three thousand miles away.

“Maggie, we need to talk about this.”

“I don’t want to,” she pouted.

“Graduation is only four weeks away. I don’t want this hanging over us for all that time.”

“No.”

“Maggie, just listen. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. A full scholarship to SUNY! It’s what I’ve always wanted. You need to be happy for me.”

“I’m sad for us. You can’t go.”

He touched her hair and sighed. “I’ll miss you, too.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“And not go to college?”

“I’m only going to community college.” Her grades had been borderline. Maggie was lucky to even graduate. Her entire life her teachers had told her and her parents that she was an underachiever, that her test scores showed she was very intelligent, too intelligent to be getting C’s and D’s.

“You just need to find yourself and your place,” Clay said.

“My place is with you. I’m going to Syracuse.”

She didn’t like the look on Clay’s face. It was as if he’d already known what she was going to say and had prepared a response.

“Maggie, you can’t come with me. You would be a distraction from my studies. This is important to me. Try to understand that. Everything I’ve wanted to do in environmental science, I can with a degree from SUNY. I’ll be back in four years, and if we still feel the same way-”

Her stomach turned sour. “If?”

“Four years-Maggie, people change in four years.”

“You’re dumping me.”

“We have email and I’ll call every week.”

He was telling her what he thought she wanted to hear. The only thing she wanted to hear was that Clay Baker was not dumping her.

He took her hand, kissed her neck. “We have all summer. Let’s not worry about later, okay?”

He hadn’t told her he loved her in weeks. He hadn’t made love to her in weeks.

He didn’t know that she knew Cindy Tomlinson was going to SUNY, too. Or that she’d been watching how he looked at Cindy since those college letters arrived last month. They had bonded over a damn college! It wasn’t fair. Maggie was as smart-no, smarter! — than both of them. And Clay was going three thousand miles away with Cindy Tomlinson.

Maggie let Clay kiss her, touch her breasts, push up her skirt. They had made love under this tree the first time.

And now, the last time.

He held her for a minute, then went to dispose of the condom. She told him she’d be right back, and walked naked down to the creek where they’d stored the cooler after their picnic.

Clay’s mother had made the lemonade. Mrs. Baker didn’t like Maggie, but she’d been nice today. Nice in one of those “I know something you don’t” ways, so mightier-than-thou. The bitch had sabotaged Maggie’s relationship with Clay. She had convinced Clay to dump her. His future, his life, his dreams. What about her? Margaret Love O’Dell, with hopes and dreams of her own. And they centered around Clay Baker.

At least for one more day.

She’d seen the water hemlock growing when she first put the cooler in the water. She’d seen it before, as this was their spot. Clay didn’t know what it was, or if he did he never commented on it.

She took a cloth napkin from their lunch basket and used it as a glove of sorts, wrapping her hand in it while she crushed the water hemlock leaves, breaking the membranes and releasing the poison. She didn’t want any to be absorbed through her skin. It would take a lot of leaves because the poison didn’t mix well with cold water. She stuffed the leaves into an empty water bottle, then poured lemonade into it and shook it well. She let it sit for a minute, watching the leaves. She pretended she could actually see the poison leaching from the leaves into the pale yellow liquid. It was turning a darker color. That she wasn’t imagining. It was working.

“Maggie! We only got thirty minutes before curfew,” Clay called from beyond the grove of trees.

His mother’s curfew. Six p.m. on Sundays. So they could have a family dinner. One they never invited Maggie to. She’d bet they’d invite Cindy Tomlinson.

She strained the lemonade into another water bottle. It didn’t quite look right. Would he notice? Maybe. She put everything back in the cooler, then re-packed the basket and cooler and brought everything over to the oak tree. The wet hemlock leaves were stuck in the bottle-she’d have to dispose of it later.

Clay lay on his back, watching her.

She put everything down and pretended to drink the lemonade. “Still cold, but a little tart. Want some?”

“My mother never puts in enough sugar.”

He took the water bottle and chugged half the poisoned lemonade, then grimaced. “Yeah, I think it was in the sun too long.”

He screwed on the cap and tossed it on the blanket. He patted the spot next to him, and she sat down.

“Don’t worry about tomorrow,” he told her. “Just here and now. Today, everything’s fine, right?”

Maggie smiled. “Everything’s perfect.”