Page 2 of Marked By Moonlight

In its place sprawled his mother—naked except for the familiar gold cross nestled in the indentation of her collarbone.

And through the open doorway of his parents’ room lay his father’s mutilated body—a mangled, broken toy, blood pooling around him in an ever-enlarging circle.

CHAPTERONE

Beware the silent dog.

—Man’s Best Friend: An Essential Guide to Dogs

Stepping out of her car, Claire Morgan sniffed the smog-laden air warily. Locking her door, she faced the run-down apartment building and sighed. Brushing the salt of French fries off her slacks—evidence of her weak-willed drive-through detour—she eyed the gray building made all the more ugly by painted-on shutters framing every window. It had taken her over an hour to find it. Apparently in this neighborhood, when street signs went missing, no one bothered to replace them.

Distracted, she failed to notice the two adolescents on skateboards launching themselves down the center of the street in her path. One of the skaters clipped her hip, nearly knocking her to the pavement.

“Hey!” she cried.

One of the youths turned back and flicked her an obscene gesture.

“What am I doing here?” she muttered, shaking her head.

But she knew the answer to that question even as she asked it.

She was here for Lenny.

By all accounts, Lenny Becker had been a lost cause. Seventeen, repeating his sophomore year, he’d originally sat in the back of the class with his head down, buried in his arms. Gradually, as the year progressed, he’d started paying attention, even staying after class so she could tutor him for his SAT, which he was scheduled to take tomorrow. It was the one test he couldn’t miss; he would be there if she had to drive him to school herself.

Squaring her shoulders, she faced Lenny’s apartment building. A radio played in the distance. The rock music that echoed off the row of apartment buildings lining the block had a liveliness that contrasted with the eerie stillness of the neighborhood. Sweat dampened her nape and she lifted the hair off her neck to let the faint breeze cool her skin.

Normally, she would be popping in a movie right about now, a plate of pizza on her lap like most Friday nights. A Saturday of grading papers would follow, and then a Sunday of church and dinner with the parents. She shrugged one shoulder. A break from routine wouldn’t hurt.

And this was Lenny.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, she prayed she wouldn’t have to confront Lenny’s drunken foster father.

A dog hurled itself, spitting and growling, against the filth-encrusted screen of a ground-floor apartment. Jumping back, she dubiously eyed the tiny screws holding the screen in place—the only thing preventing the animal from mauling her.

Gripping the iron railing with a clammy palm, she fled up the steps, doing her best to ignore the sudden memory of her cousin’s mastiff attacking her when she was only eight.

The barking grew fainter as she neared the door of apartment 212. The sound of a television blared through the steel-framed door. She rapped on the door. No answer. She tried again, harder this time.

Suddenly a hard voice demanded, “What do you want?”

Claire spun around, clutching the stinging knuckles of her hand. An elderly woman with sagging jowls and deeply carved wrinkles peered from a cracked door across the way.

“I’m looking for Lenny. The boy who lives here. Do you know him?”

Small, piercing eyes studied her above the sagging chain lock. “You a social worker?” Before Claire could answer, the woman rushed forth with, “?’Cause you should’ve taken that boy away a long time ago.”

“I’m not a social worker.” Claire shook her head vigorously. “I’m his English teacher.”

The old woman snorted. “What kinda teacher makes house calls?”

“He’s been absent three days.” Three days. And Lennynevermissed class. “I’m worried. Tomorrow’s his SAT, and I want to make sure he’s there.” Claire didn’t voice her other concern—that she feared his foster father had harmed him.

The woman absorbed this. Her disdain seemed to abate, and the hard glint to her eyes softened. She peered cautiously to the left and right before undoing the chain and opening the door wider to stick her salt-and-pepper head out. “The boy’s gone. Forget ’bout him.”

“Gone?” Claire frowned.

“Yeah, gone.” The woman shooed Claire with her wrinkled hand. “Now you go on home. You shouldn’t be here.” Her head bobbed up and down. “Go on now. Leave. And don’t come back here again.”

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