Most Likely To Die. Lisa Jackson

Run as far and as fast as you can. But it won’t help. I’ll find you. I’ve waited this long and I’m not going to let you get away now.

      Jake Marcott’s killer stood in the shadows of the overhang of the school, watching the Honda’s retreating taillights as the rain dripped from the overflowing gutters of the portico that was the entrance to good ol’ St. Lizzy’s.

      How many times had she stood right in this spot, eyeing the others, wishing she fit in, listening to all of them talking about Jake Marcott as if he were a god, as if they all owned a piece of him?

      Little did they know that Jake had never loved any of them.

      Never had…never would.

      Jesus, they were all such idiots. Kristen, the valedictorian, for God’s sake, was the worst. She was supposed to be smart, but in truth, she was as dumb as a stone. And predictable. So damned predictable. Even if she hadn’t followed her, she would have guessed that Kristen would return to St. Lizzy’s.

      All the planning of the reunion would bring back memories of the night of the Valentine’s dance and would drive Kristen here, to literally the scene of the crime. She had known it intuitively.

      Which all fit into her plans perfectly. She wondered, watching the taillights disappear in the rain, what Kristen had thought when she’d seen the picture the killer had left on the car. Had she understood the message? Did she know what was coming? Did she feel a scratch of fear along her spine as she’d heard the tape of the dance and Lindsay’s howling, bone-chilling scream?

      Oh, just you wait, Kristen.

      It’s only going to get worse.

      Remember the night Jake was killed? How you found Lindsay? And Jake?

      That night had been perfect. From her hiding spot at the end of one hedgerow in the maze, hearing the music and whisper of voices, the killer, still holding the heavy crossbow, had heard frantic footsteps and pulled farther into the shadows. Then, clicking her pocket recorder on again, she’d witnessed Lindsay, her shimmering blue dress catching the moonlight, running into the heart of the maze. The killer had followed a few steps so that she could watch and tape the tall girl’s reaction.

      And it had been worth it.

      Lindsay, murmuring, “Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!” had run to the tree where Jake was slumped. She’d tried to revive him, to hold him, to force some life into his already-dead body. “Jake, oh, God, no…Jake! Jake!” His blood had run down the bodice of the icy-blue gown, staining and smearing the expensive garment as she’d tried to revive him. “Oh, no, oh, no…oh…” Then, as if she’d finally understood that this was real, not some dream, Lindsay had let out a high-pitched, bloodcurdling scream that had keened mournfully off the West Hills.

      The killer had ducked back and started running, not along the maze’s intricate paths but through three slits she’d made earlier, tiny spots where she’d folded the branches back and slipped through, cutting across the north side of the maze and down a hillock and around the edge of the property until she could slip into her hiding space in the basement of the school, change quickly into her dress again, then return to the group of kids who, smoking dope and drinking, had never really noticed how long she’d been in “the ladies’ room.”

      It had all worked so smoothly.

      She’d even been clustered with the others when she’d seen Lindsay, her face white, her dark hair falling in disarray, her silk dress stained with the purple-red of Jake Marcott’s blood, stumbling out of the maze. Lindsay had been zombie-like and sobbing out of control. Kristen Daniels had been ashen faced and starting to shake. Rachel Alsace had been horrified and stunned, but already moving into action. She’d immediately demanded that a stricken-faced Sister Clarice call the police and her father immediately.

      The other students, faculty, and chaperones had been in varying degrees of terror and shock. Paranoia had begun slowly and had reigned for the rest of the night.

      Oh, it had been so good. So damned good.

      And it would be again.

      The killer smiled coldly in the damp darkness.

      Kristen had ejected the tape, but that horrible scream ricocheted through her brain. Her heart was pounding a mile a minute, her fingers clenching the steering wheel so tightly they showed white as she pushed the speed limit to her house. Who would do this to me? Who?

      Someone from the reunion committee?

      Someone who didn’t show but knew about it?

      Someone else?

      The damned killer?

      Everyone at the meeting ran through her head: Mandy, April, Aurora, Bella, DeLynn, Martina, Haylie…Were there others invited who hadn’t shown? But Haylie was certainly psycho enough, and weird enough, to pull this off. And she’d left early.

      Kristen tailgated a car in front of her and checked her rearview mirror continuously. She didn’t know what to expect; whoever planted the sick picture and cassette tape could be following her…to what? Do her physical harm? But if that were the case, wouldn’t he/she/it have waited for her in her car? Or abducted, or hurt, or killed her there at the campus while she was alone?

      “Idiot,” she berated herself. She knew better. She read the paper every day, watched the news religiously, kept up on world, national, and local events. She knew there were wackos out in the world and she was usually careful. But not tonight.

      Her purse lay on the floor in front of the passenger seat, and now she reached for it and while driving with one hand, searched the side pocket for her cell phone with the other.

      Her car drifted a little and she eased it back to the middle of the lane, retrieving her phone at that moment. Flipping it open, she wondered whom to call.

      Ross! For God’s sake, get Ross!

      She gritted her teeth. Speed dial #2 would instantly connect her to him, but she hesitated. They were separated. On their almost-amicable way to divorce. She couldn’t lean on him.

      So call the cops!

      And tell them what? That someone left a prank tape and photograph on the car while she was trespassing at St. Elizabeth’s? The police had bigger crimes to investigate. She saw the police blotter every day at the offices of the Clarion.

      Dropping the phone, she let out her breath, easing her car onto the secondary road that led up the hill to her house. She checked the rearview. No one was following her.

      But someone intended to scare the hell out of her.

      “Mission accomplished,” she thought aloud, pushing the button on her remote garage-door opener. She pulled into the garage and didn’t get out of her car until the door had ground back down again.

      Still shaken, she grabbed her purse, laptop case, the cassette and marred picture, then tried to pull herself together.

      “Get a grip,” she ordered, but it was no use. Whoever had wanted to freak her out had done a damned good job. Who would do this and why? Again, she had no answer. It all came back to someone wanting to scare the bejeezus out of her, someone who didn’t want her either working on the reunion committee or like her poking around St. Elizabeth’s…no, that wasn’t right. She’d had no plans to visit the old school when she’d gone to the committee meeting tonight. Someone had to have followed her.

      She just didn’t know who.

      “Psycho bitch,” she muttered under her breath, though she couldn’t be certain a man wasn’t behind this.

      Walking into the house, she nearly tripped over Marmalade. “Oops, sorry.” She dropped her things on the kitchen table, then scooped up the cat, who wrapped her long, striped tail around Kristen’s side and began purring contentedly and pressing a pink nose into the underside of Kristen’s chin. “Somebody’s lonely.” Kristen forced herself to relax a little as she walked through the house, still carrying the cat, and checked every door and