Most Likely To Die. Lisa Jackson

cushion recently vacated by their daughter—“we’ll be doing this often?”

      “I’m just saying whenever we have a family dinner, some rules should be observed.”

      “A little late for that, isn’t it?”

      “It’s never too late.” He was serious and she caught his meaning, felt the atmosphere in the room shift a bit.

      “Wait a minute. We’re talking about dinner together as a family, right? Nothing more.”

      “What more do you want?”

      She felt her damned cheeks flame. “Don’t do this, Ross, okay? Don’t start that talking-in-circles thing you do. Let’s just play it straight. If you’re talking about you and me getting back together, if you think that we shouldn’t go through with the divorce, then you’re wrong.”

      “You haven’t filed yet.”

      “I know.” She stared at the fire, while on the television in the background some girl of about seventeen, dressed in next to nothing, was belting out a song as if her life depended upon it. “It’s a big step.” She sighed and shook her head. “I want you to know that when I took my wedding vows, I…I meant them.”

      “So did I.”

      Kristen felt overwhelmed. She should never have started wading into this river. The current was too damned dangerous and was bound to pull her under.

      Her cell phone rang and she immediately started to get up.

      Quick as lightning, Ross’s hand clasped over her wrist. She nearly dropped her plate. “Let it ring,” he insisted, gray eyes holding hers.

      “But—” His hands were warm, fingertips pressed into the flesh inside her arm. How many times had he rubbed his hands up her arms as he’d kissed her? How many times had they tumbled so easily into bed? Her pulse beat unsteadily.

      “New rule, remember?”

      “I didn’t agree to any rule. You know how I hate them.” Would he please release her? The feel of his skin against hers was way too distracting.

      The phone blasted again.

      “It could be important. My mom—”

      “Feeble excuse, Kris. Your mom is healthy as a horse.”

      “How would you know?” She tried to pull her arm away, but he held on tight.

      “She called me a couple of weeks ago. Is interested in the condos on the river. Is hoping I’ll give her a deal.”

      “Oh, God…”

      “You know Paula.”

      Kristen inwardly groaned. Ever since selling the bakery, Paula Daniels had fancied herself an investor. Ross was right, she was always trying to finagle a good deal.

      The phone rang again and Kris gave up, flopping back against the couch. “Okay,” she said in surrender and Ross loosened his grip. “You win. Again.” She ignored the warm spot where his fingers had touched her pulse, refused to stare into his seductive gray eyes another second. Damn, what was she thinking? Of kissing him? Of making love to him? Now that would be a mistake she couldn’t dare risk. Ross Delmonico had always had a way of turning her inside out when it came to sex.

      Using a key she’d had made two decades earlier, Jake’s killer unlocked the door at the bottom of the outside stairwell and moved inside. It was dark and smelled of dust, dirt, and mold. As she closed the door behind her and slid the lock into place, she heard the steady drip of rainwater that had seeped through the cracks of the old school and the scratch of tiny claws against concrete, no doubt rats and mice who had found homes in this little-used storage space that held old, forgotten relics of St. Elizabeth’s.

      A shame they were planning to tear the old place down.

      The wrecking ball was scheduled for sometime next year and by that time, all of her work would be done.

      And work it was.

      Silently and familiarly, using the tiny beam of a small penlight, she dodged broken benches and desks, lab tables and outdated, now rusted, physical education equipment to reach a long-forgotten closet with an old combination lock she’d installed herself—just to be on the safe side. She held the lock in her palm, turned it over, saw the initials scratched on the back, and smiled to herself.

      J.M.

      Big as life.

      A bell tolled and she froze, then smiled as the peals echoed through the campus, just as they did at each hour of the day. She rotated the dial to the combination. The lock sprang and she was inside her own little chamber, her private place in the universe.

      Once the door was closed behind her, she flicked her lighter to the wick of an old kerosene lantern. As the lamp began to glow and her eyes adjusted, she saw the fruition of her years of labor, the perfect room for what she’d planned for so long.

      She’d done her work over the years, gathering items at garage sales, estate sales, the local thrift shop run by the parish, St. Vincent De Paul stores, and, when all else failed, resorting to stealing the most valued items. Then she’d lucked into an unexpected bonanza. A few years after Jake’s death, the interior of St. Elizabeth’s had been remodeled and old desks, equipment, lockers, tables, and the like had been sold at an auction.

      Which had been perfect.

      She’d bought several lockers, the numbers burned into her brain forever, lockers that had once belonged to that unique circle of friends who were linked by one boy: Jake Marcott.

      Under the cover of darkness, she’d brought them here…back home to a hidden room beneath the auditorium of the old school. Each of their graduation pictures had been duplicated, laminated, and affixed to the lockers with their corresponding numbers: Rachel Alsace, locker 102; Kristen Daniels, locker 118; Lindsay Farrell, locker 123…and there were others, of course, all of the girls in that certain special clique.

      She smiled.

      Licked her lips.

      Oh, how long she had waited.

      Now, it seemed, she was about to be rewarded.

      She sent up a prayer of thanks, made a hasty sign of the cross, then opened the locker that had once belonged to Kristen Daniels, now Delmonico. Inside were several artifacts: Kristen’s final report card, the one that had sealed her place as valedictorian over the next two in line, Bella Marcott and Mandy Kim; Kristen’s list of awards and achievements printed in the yearbook, including scholarship offers, writing commendations, and her duties as editor of St. Lizzy’s newspaper and captain of the debate team; her French III textbook, the one she’d thought she’d lost on a trip to visit the University of Washington campus.

      And finally, and best yet, Kristen’s diary, the little leather-bound book with its ridiculous key, the secret tiny volume of written notes, dreams, and wishes that had disappeared from under her mattress. Kristen had been sick with mortification, worried that her mother had found and discarded the diary—or worse yet, that some of the boys from Western, known for their pranks, might have somehow gotten into her room and found it, only to reveal its contents. She’d been in a panic for weeks when she’d noticed it missing.

      The killer smiled when she remembered Kristen’s distress.

      It had been the beginning.

      Now, in the flickering light of the lantern, she opened the diary to one of the last entries, one of her personal favorites:

      I can’t believe it! Jake said yes! I invited him to the dance and he agreed! Lindsay will be upset when she finds out and Rachel already thinks I’m out of my mind, but I’m in heaven. Jake Marcott is going to the Valentine’s Dance with me!

      Me!

      I just know it’s going to be a night I’ll never forget.

      And so it had been, the