Most Likely To Die. Lisa Jackson
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rebound, that she’d never gotten over Jake Marcott, the kid who had been killed her senior year of high school. In the time that had followed his death, she had not only made Jack a martyr but a saint as well. Ross had done some digging and, as far as he could see, Marcott hadn’t been a candidate for canonization. Whether it had been guilt or love or some other deep, primal emotion, Kristen had never let go of him. Ross had seen it coming, even before they’d married, but he’d been young enough to believe that she would get over the murdered boy and that she would start living. With him. He’d thought he could make her love him because he’d fallen so hard for her: the athletic girl with the red-brown hair, sad hazel eyes, and throaty laugh.
Intellectually Kristen had tried to move on.
But emotionally she’d never let go.
The ghost of Jake Marcott had never quit haunting her. Haunting them. Sometimes, late at night, after they’d made love, he’d catch her staring at the shadows on the ceiling or looking through the diaphanous curtains that moved in the summer breeze.
Maybe now, with the damned reunion, she’d be able to get some closure. He sincerely hoped there was a chance that she could finally be free.
“You can’t tell me what to do, okay?” Lissa said, still trying her best to push his buttons.
“No, it’s not okay.”
“So now you’re going all authoritarian on me?” She sighed loudly, tipped her chin down, and glared at him.
“I’m your father.”
“Big effin’ deal.”
“It is.”
“Hey. Don’t be that guy.”
“What guy?”
“The father guy. I’m not one of those kids that you have to…I don’t know, throw a baseball to, or take hiking, or spend”—she made quote marks with her fingers—“‘quality time’ with or even relate to. I’m fine. And I’m fine with Zeke.” She grabbed her soft drink and chewed on the straw. “You don’t even know him.”
“I know he doesn’t have the respect to walk you to the door, that he’s got his hands all over you, and that I haven’t heard you’ve even gone on a real date together.”
“A ‘real date’? You want me to go on a ‘real date’? What? Like where he comes to the door in a suit and tie and smiles at you and Mom and brings me home by ten. That kind of date?”
“Sounds about right,” Ross said equably.
“Dad, that was fifty years ago, and even you and Mom didn’t do anything so stupid. If you haven’t noticed, our family is not exactly Aussie and Harriet.”
“You mean Ozzie.”
“I mean we’re more like the Osbournes than the Neil-sons.”
“Nelsons…Oh, I get it. You’re putting me on.” Beneath her act of boredom, the crazy-colored hair and make-up, was the little girl who had often run to him, her arms in the air, the ribbon in her dark hair always falling out, bandages on her knees. She’d been thrilled to see him and had always announced wildly, “Daddy’s home…Daddy, put me on your shoulders…Daddy!” That girl was still there, just buried in anger, sadness, and too much make-up. “Should I be flattered that you think I’m like Ozzy Osbourne?”
“Why are you doing all this now?” she asked on a huge sigh. “Acting like you care or something.”
“I do care.”
She snorted her disbelief.
“I mean it, Lissa, and I’ve missed you.”
“Save me,” she whispered, arms folding over her chest, chin jutted forward in rebellion.
“Okay, I screwed up. Is that what you want to hear?”
She didn’t reply, and he shoved his uneaten food to one side and turned to look her squarely in the eye. “I think we should get something straight, okay? No one in our family is perfect. We’ve all made mistakes. But I am your father and the adult here. So we’re going to figure out why a smart girl like you lets her grades slide into the toilet and hooks up with a guy who hasn’t shown me that he has an ounce of respect for her or anyone else.”
“You don’t even know him!”
“You’re right. I don’t.” He found his cell phone and slid it across the table. “Call him. I think it’s time we met.”
“What?”
“You know his number, right? Dial him up, tell him I want to meet him.”
“Now?”
“No time like the present.”
She glanced away. Thinking. “He’s probably busy.”
“Thought you said he was coming over to your house to watch television. Call him.”
“To have him come here?” she asked, pointing at the floor.
“Yeah.”
“With you?” She was shaking her head. “He won’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“It would be too weird. With you. You already don’t like him.”
“So this is his chance to change my mind.”
She eyed the phone, then stood up and walked to the couch, where she flopped down. Picking up the remote control, she started flipping through the channels. “You’re so lame,” she accused.
“Probably. So, since we’re not entertaining Zeke, let’s figure out what the problem is in chemistry. I can’t help you much on the German, but I’m a chemistry ace.”
“Lucky for me,” she mumbled with more than a touch of sarcasm.
“That’s right. This is without a doubt your lucky night.” He sat beside her on the couch and cracked open the huge textbook before taking the remote from her reluctant fingers and turning the television off.
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
He grinned. “Come on Lissa, how much fun would that be? I figure I’ve made a mistake, not being around so much, but I’m changing my ways, turning over a new leaf. So you’d better get used to it.”
She probably should have gone straight home.
That would have been the smart thing to do.
It was getting late and she was tired and there was still the issue with Lissa. But after all the talk about St. Elizabeth’s and its imminent closure, after seeing a smattering of her classmates and remembering what they were like in high school, after being dragged kicking and screaming to the past, Kristen couldn’t help herself.
Maybe it was the reporter in her.
Maybe it was just curiosity.
Or maybe it was because it was time to put to rest some old ghosts.
Whatever the reason, she headed out of town and toward Beaverton. Though her old alma mater and her current home were less than five miles apart as the crow flies, they were separated by hills and canyons and winding roads. She’d never felt any need to visit the old campus. In fact, if she thought about it, she’d studiously avoided returning to St. Elizabeth’s.
Until tonight.
The beams from her headlights cut through the night, shimmering against pavement growing wet with new rain. She wound through the steep hills of Douglas fir, oak, and cedar, her wipers slapping slowly. She wasn’t completely alone on the county road that ran past the school. Taillights glowed red in the road ahead when she crested small hills, and she met a broken line of oncoming headlights.
How many times had she driven this route during her four