"I can't do that. Today," Blackman added quickly. "I need time."

"How much time?" Lutz asked, mentally planning to beat the shit out of Rudy for his sheer stupidity. It would have been so easy for him to pass that test. There were ways to manage situations like this. But did his blockhead of a son think? No. He walked into the class, unprepared, and handed in a blank sheet of paper. Idiot. Just like his mother.

"A few weeks."

"Unacceptable," Lutz bit out. "I want Rudy playing next week, Dr. Blackman, or you'll find your plans for the new stadium severely underfunded."

Blackman swallowed. "That stadium is not for my benefit, Mr. Lutz. It's for the school."

"Bullshit." Lutz smiled and watched Blackman's trembles creep up a notch or two. "Your promise to build a new stadium is the only thing keeping your contract negotiations open for next year. You lose your job, you lose everything." He shook his head. "For a man who makes his living administrating, you've done a piss-poor job on your own finances. Here and at home." Blackman's face slackened in shock and Lutz chuckled. "I make my living based on obtaining information and using it most effectively. I know everything about you, down to the color of the boxers covering your pathetic skinny ass." He placed his hat on his head. "You'd be wise to remember that." He held up a finger. "One week. This time next week Rudy is back in the game."

Blackman jerked a nod. "One week."

Satisfied, Lutz took his leave, carefully closing the door behind him.

Friday, September 30, 4:40 P.M.

Steven helped Dr. Marshall to a chair at the worn table that dominated the teachers' lounge and wordlessly pulled up a second chair for her foot. She lifted her foot to the chair, silently grimacing.

"You should ice that ankle," he said.

She met his eyes, visibly smoothing her grimace to a smile, and once again he felt warmth curl around his heart. A man could get used to such a comfort. Unfortunately Steven Thatcher could not be such a man.

"We keep an ice pack in the freezer," she said, gesturing to a refrigerator in the corner.

Easily he found it in the freezer door. Murmuring her thanks, she gestured to an empty chair.

"Please sit, Mr.-I'm sorry. Agent Thatcher."

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter." He sat. And waited.

For a full minute she stared down at her hands before lifting her head. "You saw Brad's test," she said abruptly and Steven could only nod. His voice seemed stuck in his throat. She leaned forward, her expression now earnest. "Brad was in my basic chemistry class last year, Mr. Thatcher. He made it a year I'll never forget. He loved to learn. He was always prepared. He was polite, alert. Now he's not any of those things."

Steven closed his eyes and massaged his temples, a headache pounding behind his eyes. "When did you see him change?"

He felt her fingers close around his wrist and pull his hand from his face. He opened his eyes to find hers narrowed and worried. "Are you okay, Mr. Thatcher? You look pale."

"Just a headache. I'll be fine. It's just stress. Really," he added when she looked unconvinced. "When did you first notice a change in my son?"

She settled in her chair, back to business. "Four weeks ago. When school started in August I was thrilled to have him in my advanced chemistry class this year. Then right after the Labor Day break he was different."

Steven frowned. "Different, how?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Restless at first. He missed simple questions. We had a test the Friday after Labor Day.

He got a D. I was stunned. I thought I'd give it a few weeks, see if he snapped out of it." She shrugged again. "Then today I graded his latest test and he failed it. He's grown more isolated every day. I couldn't wait any longer. I had to call and let you know."

Steven made himself ask the question that had kept him awake most of the nights over the last four weeks. "Dr. Marshall, do you think my son has gotten involved in drugs?"

She pressed her fingertips to her lips and sat quietly for a moment that stretched on and on. He thought she wasn't going to answer at all when she sighed. "Good kids can get involved in drugs, Agent Thatcher." She met his eyes, her gaze sympathetic. "But you knew that already. The truth is I don't know. I hope to heaven he's not, but we can't afford to believe he's not."

Steven watched her bite her lip and felt a strange calm settle around his shoulders. We. She'd said we. He still didn't have the slightest idea what to do about Brad, but knowing this woman shared his frustration and seemed to genuinely care for his son provided a foothold, a place to rest, if only for the few minutes he sat across from her. "Then where do we go from here?"

She smiled, so gently it made his heart clench. "The guidance counselor would be a good place to start. He's a friend of mine and very experienced." She pulled a sheet of paper from her briefcase and wrote a name and phone number. "Call Dr. Bondioli on Monday. He's expecting you."

Steven folded the paper and slid it into his pocket. "You were sure I'd be willing to talk to him."

"Brad's a good kid. Good kids rarely raise themselves."

"Thank you. Believe it or not, I feel just a little better."

Dr. Marshall stood, balanced her weight on one foot, and extended her hand. "I'm glad."

He pushed himself to his feet and shook her hand, feeling a reticence to let go that was foreign to him. He abruptly released her hand. Foreign, unwise, and unwanted. "Thank you for agreeing to see me tonight. How's your ankle?"

She put some weight on it and winced. "Better."

Steven hesitated. "Is there someone you can call to get you home?" His eyes dropped to her left hand, quite of their own volition. No ring. No husband. No way, he thought. Don't go there. But he had. He wondered if his face was as heated as hers had become. Her eyes dropped to her feet.

"No, I'm afraid not," she murmured, almost as if to herself, and he wondered if he'd hurt her feelings. But when she looked up, her smile was firmly back in place. "No significant other. Just my trusty dogs." Briskly she gathered her belongings. "No worries, though. My car's an automatic and my right foot's still good, but I could use some help getting to my car if you don't mind."

"Not at all." He took her briefcase and offered his arm, steeling himself for the warm feel of her touch.

She isn't married. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the thought aside and with it the little spark it lit inside him. He needed to focus on getting her to her car and then getting home to find out what the hell was wrong with his son. That's what he should be focusing on. If he were a good father that's what he'd be focusing on. He must not be, he thought grimly, because what he was focusing on was the way her shoulder barely brushed his as she limped across the tiled lobby floor.

She fit well at his side. She was tall, taller than his wife had been, and the comparison stung as much as the memory. He tried to squelch the memory, to push it down deep where he could pretend it didn't exist, but once begun it continued to roll. There was a time, long ago when the boys were small, when Melissa would nuzzle her cheek to his chest… He'd lower his head, smell her hair… A sharp pain struck him square in the heart. He couldn't allow himself to remember anymore.

Melissa was gone, taking… no, stealing everything comfortable with her. Damn you, Mel, he thought, anger sweeping away the yearning.

Steven straightened so abruptly that Dr. Marshall looked up in surprise, her sudden movement sending her black hair swinging over her shoulder.

"Did I step on your foot?" she asked. He could see she was in pain. Her lips curved, but the smile was for polite show only.