The Sinner. Kathleen O'Brien

was, of course, the point of the exercise. From that moment on these students would be a little more cynical, a little more observant. They wouldn’t automatically trust eyewitnesses. They wouldn’t take anything for granted, which might someday save someone’s life.

      He watched with them, leaning back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his desk, waiting for Dilday to come out. He was sorry, for Dilday’s sake, that it was raining. Cold January rain in Heyday, Bryce had discovered on the way to school this morning, felt like tiny silver needles pricking every exposed inch of your skin.

      But Dilday owed him big-time. A little soggy chill wouldn’t begin to pay the debt.

      Some of the kids were already getting restless. Bryce made a mental note of their names. If they didn’t settle down, they’d never make good lawyers or even law enforcement officers. Short attention spans couldn’t make it through stakeouts or endless hours of boring depositions. Heck, they’d never even make it through the dusty tomes of the law library, which were the most stultifying books ever published.

      Suddenly a young woman appeared on the far side of the courtyard, walking toward them through the rain. Bryce looked once—then looked again.

      Slowly, he let his pencil fall to the desk. She wore the standard college student uniform—blue jeans and down-lined jacket with the hood pulled up to keep out the cold and the rain. She held an armload of books to her chest, as if trying to keep them dry.

      She could have been anybody.

      But he knew that walk, trained from childhood to sashay subtly, putting one foot elegantly and directly in front of the other. Head held high, from years of balancing a book there, or a beauty pageant crown. And of course he’d know those long legs anywhere. His hips burned suddenly, as his body recalled exactly how those legs had felt, wrapped around him as they wrangled on the sofa, just seconds away from the consummation they both craved.

      He stood up, as much to ease the pressure as anything. He didn’t need a closer look—he already knew. That wasn’t anybody. That was Lara Lynmore.

      The only question was—what the hell was she doing here?

      He moved to the window. But just as Dilday Merle and his hapless student appeared and launched into their carefully scripted argument, the rain began to fall in earnest. Now half obscured by Dilday, the young woman bent her head to her books and began to jog along the shining silver sidewalk.

      The students watched Dilday Merle, but Bryce watched the woman. He saw the hood fall back, exposing dark, nut-brown hair that wasn’t quite what he’d expected. He moved closer still, trying to see through the streaks of rain and thrashing branches.

      But it was too late. She made a sudden turn and darted into the science building. Damn it. He looked toward his classroom door, wondering if he could make it across the quadrangle in time to catch her.

      The timer on his watch beeped. The official five minutes of observation were up. Thirty-eight faces turned expectantly toward him.

      It took him a couple of seconds to remember what they wanted. Oh, hell, that’s right. He was the teacher here. For the next ninety minutes, he couldn’t leave this classroom for anything. Not even to chase the wet, long-legged mirage who would might well turn out to be an annoyed eighteen-year-old total stranger majoring in elementary ed.

      “So,” he said, collecting himself just in time. “Tell me what you saw.”

      The students began to call out details. Trees, leaves, rain, a kid streaking through muddy puddles on his skate-board, obviously late for class. Someone had seen a cat, though the others booed that report, insisting he was nuts.

      Thirteen cars—no, ten—no, eleven cars and three trucks. And, of course, Dilday Merle lecturing some poor boy—no, it was a girl—no, another teacher.

      “Did any of you see a woman?” It was stupid, but he had to ask. Surely, if the famous Lara Lynmore really had just loped across the Moresville College quadrangle, someone would have noticed that.

      Thirty-eight blank faces stared at him. “You mean the woman Dean Merle was chewing out?”

      “No, that was a boy,” another kid insisted. “I know him. He’s in my psych class.”

      “It was a girl,” a boy with spiky brown hair said. “She was hot.”

      “God,” another student, this one a female, said scornfully, “You’re such a sketch, Matt. It was a boy.”

      “I don’t mean the person with Dean Merle,” Bryce amended carefully. “I’m talking about another woman. Running down the sidewalk behind them.”

      Several heads shook. Several students frowned, determined to remember, determined not to fail on this, their very first day.

      “No.” Ilsa, her hands folded in front of her, the perfect student, looked at him seriously. “I didn’t see a woman. What kind of woman? A teacher?”

      No, damn it. Young. Sexy. A movie star. A woman with dangerous legs and an angel’s face. But he couldn’t say that. With all the sexual harassment rules these days, he couldn’t even say it had been a very pretty woman, or they might think he was a weirdo. They’d think he was a “sketch.”

      And besides, maybe he’d better shut up.

      If he had begun hallucinating, if he was going to start seeing visions of Lara Lynmore every time he turned around, he’d probably better keep that little piece of insanity to himself.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THE HIPPODROME SUPERMARKET on the outskirts of Heyday wasn’t exactly five-star shopping, but it was open all night, so Bryce made the trip. A disturbingly skinny spaniel had been hanging outside the kitchen door of the fraternity house for the past three days. Its whining was so pitiful Bryce realized he was going to have to feed the mutt. Otherwise, the ghostly frat-boy might end up with a spectral pet.

      Bryce hated grocery shopping. Still, if he had to do it, eleven at night was the most desirable time. The brightly lit, cavernous place, which had been total chaos the last time he ventured in, was almost empty.

      Half a dozen people, tops. A nurse taking home a frozen dinner after the late shift, a harried father buying diapers, a couple of kids from the college with a cart full of Twinkies and Bud Light, and one red-nosed old guy who was paying for his wine with dimes.

      Bryce slung a huge bag of lamb-and-rice nuggets—how horrible did that sound?—into his cart. Then, remembering he was out of coffee, he decided he might as well spare himself a second trip.

      Thankfully, his list was short. He hadn’t had the nerve yet to try out the frat house oven, which had about two inches of extremely suspicious black crust under the rack. He would hire a housekeeper eventually, now that he knew he was stuck in Heyday for a couple of months. Till then, he’d just eat out.

      Still, he needed to keep the bare minimum on hand. Bread, coffee, beer, an apple or two…

      The produce section, which was right next to the beer cooler, was comparatively busy. Two college boys were making a show of suggestively squeezing cantaloupes and alternately moaning and giggling.

      Bryce couldn’t help smiling. Morons. If you added both their IQs together, the cantaloupe would still out-score them.

      Predictably, they started flirting with a young woman who stood nearby, studying the bananas, a basket filled with fresh spinach and mushrooms hooked over her arm.

      “Hi,” one of the boys said, sidling up to her. “Let me tell you about bananas. See, you want to get yourself a nice, firm one. And take my word for it. Bigger is definitely better.”

      The boy shot a gleeful look back at his friend, still immature enough to be more interested in scoring joke points with his buddy than anything else. “Yeah,” he went on, delighted with his own brilliance, “these little stubby ones aren’t very satisfying.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “If