Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (life books to read txt) 📗

He set the coffee down. “I get it.”

“And helping you helps me, somehow. I needed to do this.”

Neither planned it but they were hugging. Two people who’d survived something awful taking comfort from the only person qualified to give it. His chin above her head, her arms careful not to squeeze his ribs.

Hathaway felt him shiver and knew she was letting herself get too close. Knew he was lonely and this wasn’t fair to him. But she didn’t let go either. He smelled clean.

“Are we really not taking that video to the police?” she said.

“The video isn’t as good as those cops think, so let’s not tip our hand. If we press the issue they’ll retaliate by charging me with assaulting an officer. I’m okay calling a truce.”

She opened her eyes. “Daniel, is that a rifle case in the corner?”

“Shotgun. Not loaded. I need to move the bag under the bed.”

Hathaway didn’t let go until they heard sounds outside, the maintenance crew arriving with Jennings’ new window. She left so he could change but his scent remained with her.

22

Peter Lynch’s daily car was a Jaguar F-Type, purchased without a test drive. In April he’d told the concierge salesman he wanted the fastest and the most expensive sports car he could purchase in the next hour, and fifty-nine minutes later he had it. He’d been pulled over eleven times since and never issued a ticket—no officer wanted the hassle of appearing in court and fighting for his or her reputation over a speeding violation. Lynch’s vindictiveness was legend.

He piloted the Jaguar to Valley Academy’s campus ten minutes before class let out, parking at a spot designated for him by a bronze plaque. He used the spot once or twice a month but his space was closer than the Head of School’s, and the faculty was forced to walk by it every day. Which was the point.

Last year he’d ordered the middle school’s secretary’s Subaru towed when he found it in his spot. She worked for Roanoke City Schools now.

He got out and examined himself in the Jaguar’s window. Nodded at his reflection and walked toward Daisy Hathaway’s classroom, feeling taller the closer he got.

The bell rang as he reached Old Montgomery Hall and students recognized him. After all, he was everywhere.

Mr. Lynch, let’s sue my science teacher!

Fight for justice!

Mr. Lynch! You help because you’re concerned!

His commercials were quoted at him often, a necessary aggravation—the advertisements grossed his law offices six million a year. He shot the boys with his finger and a wink.

Angela Pierce, the Director for Upper School, intercepted him before he reached the classroom of Daisy Hathaway.

“Mr. Lynch.” Pierce’s face was white, the cowardly little pissant. “You arrived quickly.”

“Time is money, Angela. For some of us.”

She made an attempt at getting in his way but backpedaled. “I haven’t alerted Ms. Hathaway about your conference yet.”

“No need. Scurry off to attend the pivotal and pressing matters waiting for an assistant principal after the students are gone.”

She backed into the wall with a bump. “I’ll sit in on your conference, if that’s okay. One sec while I grab my planner.”

“No.”

“Is something wrong, Mr. Lynch?”

“Not yet, Angela. I was in a good mood until you started panting.”

“Sir—”

A wave of anger roiled over him.

In his mind, he saw a riot of collages. Saw himself choking Daisy Hathaway after she admitted she loved the new history teacher. The scene shifted, a different outcome, and she didn’t love the history teacher and she was undressing for Lynch, long legs, green lingerie matching her steady gaze. He saw them grow old together, her devotion unflagging. He saw a prostitute with Daisy’s face waiting to be paid, afraid to speak. He saw his daughter tossing petals at the wedding. He saw himself hitting Daisy because he loved her and she wouldn’t flinch because she loved him back.

He saw other faces, women he’d married too quickly, other women who had flinched, soft women unlike Daisy, he saw flopping rabbits strung up by their ears, he saw his brother’s broken mouth, his father angry, he saw himself standing with a shovel.

“Mr. Lynch?”

He returned, warmer now. He dabbed at his forehead with the sleeve of his Tom Ford suit—only the best for the lonely and lovely.

He smiled, the big teeth off-putting. Pathetic how easy fools were reassured with a smile.

“Good bye, Angela.”

She made a choking sound as Lynch let himself into the classroom.

A memory, him receiving Daisy’s CV and the attached photograph, several years ago. He’d insisted she be hired for the upcoming school year.

Daisy was even more striking than her photograph and his knees weakened in her classroom. She was surprised to see him. Her eyebrows arched and her chin raised.

He gave a good leer. Though women were too simple to admit it, they wanted to be ogled by their superiors. Needed the approval. They were drawn like a dog in heat to money and power, and he had them in spades.

“Mr. Lynch,” she said.

“Ms. Hathaway. A moment of your time.”

He closed the door. The glass pane rattled in the frame, Angela Pierce still visible through it.

In the same room with Daisy now and he found the oxygen thinner. She’d dressed in slacks and a turtleneck with a thin cable knit design. The turtleneck was snug across her breasts. He thought she might be a C cup—he’d researched her measurements online but was frustrated by the dearth of information. Her hair was up in a ponytail.

“Do you need to discuss Benji, Mr. Lynch? He has a B at the moment, honestly earned.”

“Right now we’re talking about us, not Benji.”

“Us?”

“Yes, Ms. Hathaway. Your shirt’s new, isn’t it.”

Daisy glanced at her watch. “I have an English department meeting in five minutes. Perhaps you can walk with me and tell me what you need.”

“What I need.”

“Yes.”

“You’re excused from the English department meeting, Ms. Hathaway. Say the word and I’ll fire them all.”

“Mr. Lynch—”

“Call me Peter.”

“Mr. Lynch—”

“English is a remarkable language, Ms. Hathaway, isn’t it. Did you know we