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“Then let’s talk about Reverend Lynch. What about that mansion on the lake? That’s not normal, either. Preachers—at least upstanding Christian preachers—don’t normally live in houses worth several million dollars.”
Edie sighed dramatically. “Of course they don’t. I already explained that the school owns it, and I think it was bequeathed by someone connected to the academy, or maybe some grateful grandparent; I’m not really sure.”
“Grateful rich grandparent.”
“It’s not a crime to have money,” her mother admonished. “Why do you have to be so negative, Julia?” The conversation went downhill after that.
Jules hung up feeling even worse. Was she really putting her own negative spin on this? For all her help, Erin had warned Jules that the way Shaylee was being treated was normal. “All rehab centers cut off communications,” Erin had said. “They have to break negative patterns.”
Maybe Jules was taking this too seriously. Shay was, and always had been, the princess of high drama, waiting to become queen, but so far, Edie wasn’t giving up her crown.
Jules tossed her pen onto the desk and told herself to give it a rest, consider the fact that everyone seemed to think Shay was in the best place for her.
Diablo jumped onto the desk. His long tail flicked, and his gold eyes stared at her fingers as she took another turn at the keyboard of her computer. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, and Googled Cooper Trent. Ever since having drinks with Erin and Gerri, she’d wondered about him. It was stupid and she knew it, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“Oh, great,” she muttered, seeing that there were dozens of articles about him. Photos, too. She weeded through them all, searching for the most recent information, and found that a few years back, he had signed on with the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department in Grizzly Falls, Montana. He was listed as the arresting officer in a few articles, but those had been several years before. When looking at the Web site for the county, Deputy Cooper Trent’s name wasn’t listed, his picture missing.
So either he was fired or he quit and was now off the radar.
Not that she should care. The cat hopped into her lap, looking up at her and meowing. “I know,” she admitted, stroking his sleek head. “I’m an idiot. So what else is new?”
Trent locked the door of the equipment storage shed and gave it a tug, hearing the metal bolt rattle as it held fast. Used as storage for the canoes, snowshoes, kayaks, and hiking and fishing gear, this outbuilding near the boathouse was one of his responsibilities. Satisfied his gear was secure, he turned his collar up against the wind and headed across campus to his cabin, one of several that housed the staff. His place was a long haul from here—over a quarter mile away, on the far side of the dorms and rec hall, closer to the kennels, stable, and barns.
But he wasn’t complaining. He figured he’d gotten lucky. He didn’t have to have a roommate, mainly because of the state of repair of his particular bungalow. It was not only the smallest, but was also the oldest on the campus, one of the few buildings that remained from the years when this isolated spot had been a haven for hunting and fishing. Built in the early 1900s, the original lodge had been demolished and the gravel access road had washed away in spring thaws and flooding. But a few small cabins were still standing. Barely.
Trent could deal with a leak in the bathroom ceiling and plumbing that screeched when he twisted on a tap or flushed the toilet. He’d take a dilapidated old cabin if it meant privacy. The newer staff quarters were like town houses, big enough for two with common walls, each unit identical to the next.
No thank you.
Being near the stable was a plus for him. He had always felt more comfortable with animals than most people, to the point he’d been considered a loner by some, a cowboy by others. Not that he gave a rat’s ass.
When he wasn’t teaching sports like basketball and volleyball in the gym, Trent was the go-to guy for wilderness survival and a backup for Bert Flannagan, who was the horse and dog handler. All his years on the rodeo circuit had been on his résumé when he’d applied for this job. His experience had convinced Reverend Lynch that he should spend time with the animals, which, Trent thought, shoving his hands into the pockets of his denim work jacket, was far more preferable than working with his peers.
The kids he liked.
Sure, a lot of them had attitude problems, and some were seriously on the way to becoming criminals, but for the most part, they could be challenged and changed. He couldn’t say the same for some of the teachers and counselors here.
Was Tobias Lynch, the reverend, theologian, head administrator for the school, as pious as he portrayed himself to be? His wife, Cora Sue, spent little time on campus, preferring the mansion on the shores of Lake Washington, just miles from the civilization of Seattle. Trent didn’t blame the woman, but it was an unusual setup for a high-profile guy like Lynch.
And what about Salvatore DeMarco, the math and science teacher, who was as quick with a knife as he was with a smile? Trent had seen DeMarco gut a fish in seconds, snap a rabbit’s neck, and take down a buck with a bow and arrow. DeMarco was an ex-Marine who’d served in Afghanistan. With a master’s in chemistry, he taught science and math, but also gave lessons in self-defense and survival.
Adele Burdette, headmistress for the girls, was an enigma; Trent hadn’t learned much about her, but she rubbed him the wrong way.
Bert Flannagan was another curiosity. True, Flannagan had a way with the animals, but Trent suspected the man had a cruel streak. In his midfifties with a military haircut and eyes that were often slitted in suspicion, the guy was leather-tough and well-read, more fit than most thirty-year-olds.
Trent had overheard Spurrier and Flannagan talking once, and there was mention of Flannagan once being a mercenary. The truth? A joke? A lie to impress? Trent was betting there was at least a kernel of truth to it; the guy just had that look about him. Trent had never seen him mistreat an animal, though Flannagan reprimanded students all the time. Most recently, Trent had seen him rip into Drew Prescott and Zach Bernsen, two of the TAs, who had tried to pawn off the chore of cooling their mounts to underlings. The boys had deserved the dressing down they received.
As the latest teacher hired—the new kid on the block—Trent wasn’t yet privy to a lot of the inner workings of the school, but he’d done his homework before he applied for the position, and it hadn’t taken him long to figure out that some of the counselors and teachers here weren’t on the up-and-up.
Like you?
He felt his mouth twist in self-deprecation. He, too, was a phony, getting this job on a trumped-up résumé. But he didn’t feel bad about the lies on his application, the deception he was perpetrating. It was necessary if he was ever going to find out what the hell had happened to Lauren Conway. The sheriff’s department in this county was stretched thin. A handful of deputies struggled to cover hundreds of miles of deep forest; rocky, mountainous terrain; and long stretches of curving, dangerous highways. Power outages occurred regularly, hikers or campers got lost, and the snaking roads winding through the rugged Siskiyous presented ample opportunity for accidents.
On top of all that, Blaine O’Donnell, recently elected to the position of sheriff in Rogue County, wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier. As far as Trent knew, the guy wasn’t really crooked, just lazy and inept.
So what had happened to Lauren Conway?
