Page 17 of Midnight Secrets

“No—” She stopped, frowning. “Well, there’s been one.” Sitting forward and folding her hands on the desktop, she rolled her bottom lip in, running her tongue over it as she stared at a point over my shoulder. “She’s had a student skipping class. Just hers.”

“What does she teach?”

“History.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“It’s strange. It’s just been her class. The student goes to every other class without incident. We contacted the parents, and they’ve refused to do anything about it, going so far as to tell us they’ll be ignoring all messages on the subject. That their child has a reason and it’s none of our business.” Her mouth pursed. “We’ve taken action and issued the student detention more than once. They’re verging on suspension if the behavior continues.”

My eye twitched. Obviously, there was a reason this student felt the need to skip class. But no one wanted to truly dig to get the answer, preferring to punish first and ask questions later. “Has anyone tried following the student?”

“We don’t have the resources for that.”

“Really? This kid is gone for what? Forty-five minutes to an hour?”

She nodded.

“I’m sureyoucould take that much time out of your day to tail the kid and find out what’s going on.”

She bristled. “I have quite the busy schedule, I assure you.”

I hummed and decided to drop it for now. I wasn’t here to get involved in school problems. “I need to talk to this student and their parents.”

“If the parents agree, sure.”

I motioned to her phone.

She frowned. “You want me to call them? Now?”

“I’d prefer it, yes. And put the call on speaker.”

Her gaze hardened. “I would prefer to call and ask first.”

“Ma’am, this is a murder investigation. And I am not interested in why the child is cutting class. I want to know if they had anything to do with Marie Hammond’s death.”

She huffed, some of the obstinance leaving her features. “All right.” Reaching for her computer mouse, she clicked through a couple of screens, then picked up the phone. “I’m not sure they’ll answer. They’ve been letting school calls go to voicemail.”

“Do they know your number?”

“I’ve called a couple of times, yes. But most of the calls have been from Mrs. Hammond.” She dialed, then pushed the speaker button and set the phone in the cradle. A soft, electronic whir filled the room as it rang.

“Hello?” A woman answered.

“Hello,” Mrs. Byron said. “This is Pat Byron at PLA.”

The woman sighed and didn’t let her say more. “I’m sorry. I don’t have anything?—”

“This is Detective Quartermaine with the state police,” I interrupted.

The woman went silent.

“Mrs. Byron made me aware you and your student have had some issues with Marie Hammond.”

“You called thecopson us?” The woman’s incredulity came through the line loud and clear as her voice rose.

“She didn’t, ma’am. Mrs. Hammond was murdered yesterday. I’m investigating her death.”

More silence came over the line, then, “Why are you calling me? I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

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