Murder At Granite Falls. Roxanne Rustand

when Carrie stepped out of the grocery store. She paused, shaded her eyes with her hand, and scanned both sides of the street as if she knew someone was watching.

      He remained motionless, his dull clothes fading into the shadows and the dark gray wall behind him, his hat settled low over his eyes. She’d come so close to seeing him, several times, it was almost funny. Now, her gaze flitted past him. Hesitated. Then swept by him once more before moving on.

      It was amusing to observe her inability to protect herself, to clearly identify danger, even in this innocuous setting.

      He smiled to himself. He had time. He’d nose around, and find out exactly what was going on out at the Wolf River Rafting Company. And when he was ready, he’d pay her a little visit so she’d receive a taste of what was to come.

      He could hardly wait.

      It felt so good—so normal—to walk into her classroom the next morning, that Carrie smiled to herself. She hadn’t slept well at all last night, with the grocery clerk’s words running through her thoughts in an endless litany and her ears attuned to the slightest sounds outside. That stranger hadn’t just been casually looking for her around town. He’d wanted to find out where she lived. Had someone blithely shared the information—and sent that prowler to her door?

      Since Monday night she’d felt restless during the day, too. Wary. Repeatedly had a crawling sensation at the back of her neck at odd times and would whirl around, only to find that nobody was there. But here at school, surrounded by all of the kids and teachers, she could finally relax.

      Just ten feet inside the door of her classroom, Carrie saw a creased piece of paper on her desk.

      Ordinary typing paper. Nothing unusual. Except that even from a distance, the carnage drawn on it sent a flutter of distaste through her midsection and unsettled the peanut butter and marmalade toast she’d eaten on the way into town.

      Some fifth-grade boys liked to doodle in the margins of their notebooks…weapons and bombs and war scenes. That was nothing new. But as she drew closer, the exquisite detail and blatant suffering in the characters’ eyes were too real, and an entirely different slant from the norm.

      One monstrous, semihuman figure had a look of pure evil on its face, with oversize sharp teeth, and was bedecked with multiple guns and swords and knives. Several bodies lay dismembered on the rough ground, blood flowing from them to mingle and form a river of crimson that ran to the edge of the page.

      She shuddered as she stared down at it, an uneasy feeling forming in the pit of her stomach.

      It was fifth-grade-level art, in style and execution, but the artist must have spent hours on the fine detail. Granted, this was a humanities enrichment class focusing on art appreciation. Maybe the child had been proud of his work and wanted to share it. She leaned closer, then turned the paper over.

      But if so, why hadn’t he—or she—signed it?

      “What’s up?”

      At the unexpected voice behind her, Carrie startled and spun around, a hand at her throat.

      Marie grinned. “Sorry—I thought you heard me say hello from the doorway.”

      “I didn’t. I was studying a picture left on my desk.” Carrie handed her the drawing. “Creepy, isn’t it?”

      Marie gave it a superficial glance and rolled her eyes. “Boys.”

      “I know. But this is more than that. Look at the faces, and amazing detail. There aren’t just X’s for the eyes of the dead. These people are hurting.”

      “Yeah, well…you’re the art teacher. This was probably done by some kid who’s a little more advanced. So, would you like to meet for lunch this afternoon?”

      Advanced in artistic skills, true…but also possibly troubled. Carrie dropped her gaze to the drawing once more. Just holding it gave her a sense of the child’s intense emotions. Please, God, don’t let this mean that this child is suffering through a bad situation.

      She closed her eyes, visualizing each of the twelve students in her class. All of the boys wore T-shirts and shorts or faded jeans; most of the girls wore pretty summer tops. Had she seen any bruises? Unusual behavior? Nothing that she could recall.

      “Uh…Carrie?”

      “Sorry. Yes—lunch sounds wonderful.” She slid the drawing into the top drawer of her desk and dropped her purse into the bottom drawer. “Any place you choose.”

      “Silver Bear Café, south edge of town. Best place in town, and the tourists haven’t found it yet. There’d be a half-hour wait at any of the touristy places. By the way,” she added with a lift of an eyebrow, “I hear you had some excitement on Monday night.”

      Carrie’s heart sank. “News sure traveled fast.”

      “Courtesy of my police scanner.” Marie chuckled. “Everyone has one around here—it’s faster than just heading down to the feed store or café to hear the latest news. Memorize all those official code numbers, and it’s a wealth of information.”

      “Great. So now the whole county knows the new school-teacher makes unnecessary 911 calls, and is apparently afraid of the dark?”

      “Just because there wasn’t a prowler still out there when Rick showed up doesn’t mean you didn’t have one.”

      At the ruckus emanating from the riverbank, Logan set aside his camera, took a last disgusted look at the massive rip he’d just photographed as evidence for the insurance company—too straight and even to have been from natural causes—along the deflated, fifteen-foot side tube of one of the larger rubber rafts, and strolled over to check out the latest fishing disaster.

      Sure enough, the Nelson twins were in the thick of things—teasing and chortling over the tangled lines of two younger boys. Another two ignored the others as they sat on the bank tossing rocks into the water.

      “Dylan, Austin, lay off,” Logan said mildly as he took hold of the fistful of tightly knotted filament. It was too tangled to ever pull apart. He eyed the two younger boys, both with nearly white-blond hair, who had come out just a couple times with the older ones. “Looks like you tried to get this apart, and it just got worse. Right?”

      The boys nodded.

      “Some days are just like that. Let’s see. You are…Robbie and Danny?”

      They both nodded.

      “Fifth grade?” Logan guessed high, hoping to elicit a smile.

      “Third.” Danny’s lower lip trembled. “Robbie’s in fourth.”

      “Do your parents know you’re out here?”

      “We rode our bikes,” Danny said evasively, dropping his gaze to the rocky ground.

      “Mom has to work on Saturdays. She don’t care,” Robbie added with a defiant tilt to his chin. “Just so we get back for supper, is all.”

      “I see.” Logan pulled a knife from the sheath at his belt and cut away the mass of fishing line, then reattached each hook and bobber. “There you go, boys. What did you say your last name was?”

      “Jensen,” Danny piped up as he eagerly reached for his rod.

      “Now he’s gonna tell, stupid,” Robbie hissed, elbowing his younger brother in the ribs. “See if we get to go fishing then.”

      “I don’t care if you’re here, but your mom does need to know and give her permission. Okay? The river can be a dangerous place.”

      “Nobody owns the river,” Robbie shot back. “We learned that in school.”

      “You’re right,” Logan countered, hiding a smile at the boy’s spunk. “But the land is mine, and since I’m the responsible adult here, I just want you to be safe. And for your mom to say it’s okay.”

      “But…but