Most Likely To Die. Lisa Jackson

was resurrecting the past.

      Ross waited at the ramp signal to northbound I-5, seeing the taillights of thickening traffic, hearing the rush of engines and tires, but driving on automatic, by rote, his mind going over bit by bit what he’d learned in the last twelve hours.

      What the hell had Kristen been thinking, going back to the school at night? Alone, for God’s sake.

      Not alone; someone was definitely following her.

      A prankster?

      No way. The light turned green and Ross stepped on the accelerator, threading into the steady stream of traffic heading into the Terwilliger Curves, a section of the freeway known for its winding path through the hills. He held the steering wheel so hard his knuckles bleached white.

      Someone was messing with his family.

      And it was because of the damned reunion.

      Remember, Jake Marcott’s killer was never located.

      Ross braked as a semi beside him eased a little close to his lane. The trucker kept control of his rig and Ross gunned it, moving past the eighteen-wheeler.

      He saw the exit for Macadam Avenue and jockeyed into position for the off-ramp. He knew what he had to do.

      His daughter wouldn’t like it and his wife would throw one helluva hissy fit. But it was just too damned bad. Until this mystery was solved—and maybe even after it was—Ross intended to insert himself back into their lives.

      “So…how did the, what did you call it—‘the reunion meeting from hell’? Yeah, that was it. How’d it go?” Sabrina asked once Kristen had settled into her chair. Because of Ross, Kristen was running late. Damn the man. She remembered the concern that etched across his face as he’d stared at the photo and felt warmed.

      She had to mentally shake herself. Don’t buy into it. Where was he when you needed him? When Lissa needed him? And who the hell does he think he is that he can just barge into your life and start handing out advice?

      “It went,” she said, answering Sabrina’s questions. “Not great, but it went.” She shoved her purse into a drawer and pressed her computer’s ON button.

      Sabrina was leaning both hips against the edge of her desk, long legs stretched out in front of her, and pointing a manicured nail in Kristen’s direction. “You survived.”

      “Barely.” Kristen rolled her chair away from her computer monitor.

      “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

      Kristen thought of Haylie’s outburst and the eerie note and tape left in her car. “It was pretty bad.”

      “But you couldn’t pawn off the responsibility of running the thing?”

      “Nope. Believe me, I tried.”

      “Give yourself a chance, you might just have some fun with this,” Sabrina said, a slow smile spreading across her face.

      “Think so? Well, get this, you might be invited.”

      “Me?” Her black eyebrows drew together. “I didn’t go to St. Lizzy’s.”

      “No, but your husband went to Western. Graduated the same year I did, right? Class of ’86?”

      Sabrina’s grin slowly fell. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

      “The vote was to ask the Western boys to join us, so, being as you’re the spouse, you too could be a part of the festivities. Hey! I could work it out so that you could be in charge of decorations or name tags or—”

      Sabrina had pushed herself off the edge of her desk. She held her hands in front of her in the classic “stop” position. “Okay, okay. I get the picture. Don’t be signing me up for any committees, and don’t let anyone talk to Gerard. He’s got enough on his plate already.”

      “I think someone from Western, probably Craig Taylor or Chad Belmont, will be contacting him.”

      She groaned as her phone rang and she turned her attention back to work.

      The rest of the day was uneventful. Kristen polished up a couple of stories, turned them in to the editor, then, when things were at a lull, thought more about the tape, marred photo, and the night of Jake Marcott’s death. Surely the newspaper had articles about what had happened that night, the murder and subsequent investigation. She only had to look. At four o’clock, she began searching all the old computer records, but the information went back only twelve years. Eventually, she made her way downstairs and into the basement. In a windowless room with the fluorescent lights humming overhead, she sat on a stool at a small desk and stared into the viewer until she found the first story on Jake’s murder, printed the day after the dance.

      Her skin crawled as she read the account, a clinical, facts-only report of the killing at a private school. So much was left out: the human emotion, the pain, the heartache.

      Setting her jaw, she worked forward, searching the following editions, looking for information about the investigation. Unfortunately the information was limited:

      Jake had been a student at Western Catholic.

      Services were held at St. Ignatius.

      He was survived by his parents, James and Caroline, one grandmother, Maxine Baylor, and three siblings, Bella, Naomi, and Luke.

      Students, chaperones, and faculty attending the dance had been questioned, as had family and friends and acquaintances of Jake Marcott.

      The murder weapon, a crossbow, had been discovered in the maze at St. Elizabeth’s and was found to have belonged to a bow hunter who had reported it missing sometime in December. The bow hunter had a strong alibi and was dismissed as a suspect.

      There was information about Jake, including the fact that he played football and baseball and had been in an accident during the Christmas break in which another Western student, Ian Powers, had died.

      The police were asking the public’s help in solving the crime.

      The lead investigator for the “Cupid Killer,” Detective Mac Alsace, was looking into “new leads every day,” but the case had eventually gone cold and references to Jake Marcott’s death had disappeared.

      Kristen printed out a few of the articles, turned off the viewer, put the microfiche away, and rubbed the kinks from her neck. She was stiff from sitting in one position and hadn’t learned much more than she already knew.

      That night, she dealt with Lissa, who said in no uncertain terms that she’d never spend another night at Ross’s condo.

      Real good father-daughter relationship, Kristen thought, keeping mum on her feelings.

      To her surprise and Lissa’s disgust, Ross came over that evening, bringing with him five white boxes of take-out Chinese. Lissa, who had rolled her eyes upon his arrival, hadn’t been able to resist the tantalizing aromas of cashew chicken, sesame beef, and peanut sauce. They ate on the floor in the den, watching some inane music awards show on television, and Ross didn’t even remark when Lissa, after receiving a call on her cell, took her plate and phone to her room.

      When she didn’t immediately return and Ross looked ready to go get her, Kristen pointed a chopstick at his chest. “Don’t,” she warned.

      “But we were having dinner. Can’t she give up her calls for half an hour?”

      “For God’s sake, Ross, how hypocritical can you get? How many times did your dinner get cold while you talked on the phone with some subcontractor?”

      “That’s different. It was business. Important.”

      “This is important to her.”

      “Then we need to set some rules.” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to continue, and Ross didn’t disappoint. “No phone calls at dinner. Not for any of us.”

      Kristen