He shook his head. "No."

Her eyes questioned, then dropped back to her feet when it was clear he would say nothing more. Her head lowered and her hair fell forward to hide her face. Quickly she tucked it behind her ear. Coconut. Her hair smelled like coconut. Beaches and suntan lotion. And bikinis. God.

She smelled good. He didn't want to notice it any more than he wanted to notice the curve of her jaw or the straight line of her nose. Or her full lips. Or her legs that went all the way up to her shoulders. He didn't want to notice any of her attributes, but he found them impossible to ignore. He drew an appreciative breath before locking his jaw.

The last thing he needed at this stage of his life was the distraction of a woman. Normally ignoring distracting women was one of the things he did best, much to the dismay of his aunt Helen. But it seemed harder today. Today he was feeling very… vulnerable. He grimaced. Just thinking the word left a bad taste in his mouth. But it was true, be it the emotionally taxing experience with Samantha Eggleston's parents or the fact that his son's life was falling apart and there didn't seem to be anything he could do.

Dr. Marshall paused as he opened the front door of the school for her. Her hand that so gently grasped his arm for support gave a single soft squeeze.

"It will be all right, Mr. Thatcher," she said quietly. "You need to believe that."

He needed to believe that. He almost did. Almost wished he could have someone like her at his side, giving him the same kind of encouragement day in, day out. Almost.

He nodded once. "Do you think you can drive yourself home?"

She tilted her head as if to sharpen her focus and he felt suddenly exposed, as if she could see his most acute fears. He expected more wisdom, but instead she simply answered the question he'd asked. "Yes. As I said before, my right foot's fine and my car's an automatic. I'll be fine."

"If you give me your keys I'll bring your car."

He watched as she fished in her purse, coming up with a set of keys. "It's a red Jag."

He blinked. "You have a Jaguar? On a teacher's salary?"

"I inherited it," she said and pointed to the far corner of the parking lot. "It's over there."

He took the keys from her hand and helped her down the flight of stairs leading from the school. At the bottom she released his arm to grab the iron guardrail. And he felt bereft. He didn't like the feeling.

Distraction. Brad's Dr. Marshall was definitely that. Brad needed to get his act together and fast, both for his own sake and to keep his father from needing to see his teacher again.

Friday, September 30, 4:45 P.M.

Brad Thatcher sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. He'd failed his chemistry test. He knew it even though he hadn't stayed in class long enough to get his test back. One look at Dr. Marshall's face told him everything he needed to know. He hated disappointing her after everything she'd done for him. He thought of his last test, the way she'd put the test paper on his desk, facedown. He'd always felt sorry for the kids who slipped their test into their backpacks without turning it over to see the grade because they knew they'd flunked. Because they were losers.

Like me, he thought. "God, I'm such a loser," he muttered, dragging his hands down his unshaven face, the stubble making his palms sting. After that first D, his first D ever in his life, Dr. Marshall had asked him to stay after class. She'd asked him what was wrong, what she could do to help. Reminded him if his grades continued to slip he'd lose the scholarship he'd wanted so much.

Slip? He hadn't slipped. He'd dived straight off a damn cliff. He clenched his fists. She should have told him to stop fucking up. She should have smacked him upside the head. But she hadn't. She'd just looked at him, her eyes so sad. She'd been so careful not to make him feel dumb. His head dropped back and he stared at his ceiling. She'd been so nice to him. He'd wanted to blurt it all out, to tell her what had been eating him alive. He still did. She'd understand. She wouldn't pat him on the head and tell him not to fret, that everything would be okay.

But what could she do? What could anyone do?

Brad stood up, paced, then turned to stare at his unmade bed, knowing it was there, hidden between his mattress and box springs, fighting the need to drag it out, just to look at it again.

He'd become… obsessed. Disgusted, he squeezed his eyes shut, made himself turn around, made himself stop looking at the line that separated the mattress from box springs. Tried to stop seeing it in his head. He opened his eyes, chanced a glance in the mirror over his dresser. Shuddered at what he saw. His eyes were red, his hair dirty, uncombed. He hadn't shaved in days.

He was a wreck.

"Brad?"

His nerves crashed and he spun around to find Nicky standing in his doorway, his hand on the doorknob. The kid never knocked. No respect for his privacy, not from anybody in the whole damn house. Rage blazed at the intrusion and he took a step forward.

"What do you want?" he snarled, then immediately regretted his words and his tone when Nicky's eyes widened and his baby brother shrank back, half hiding behind the door. Nicky's lower lip trembled and Brad felt lower than shit. He made himself smile, but Nicky didn't smile back. He stepped forward and Nicky stepped back, not taking his wide brown eyes from Brad's face.

"I'm sorry, Nicky." He reached to ruffle Nicky's red hair and hated himself for Nicky's flinch. His brother was just now getting to the point where he tolerated their touch again. Just now getting over the nightmares of guns and monsters stealing him from his bed. Nicky didn't need any anger, least of all from him.

Brad crouched down until he was level with Nicky's freckled face. He slowly extended his hand and touched the tip of

Nicky's nose. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I was wrong to yell at you."

Nicky nodded. "Aunt Helen says it's time for dinner," he whispered back, too solemnly for a seven-year-old boy, and Brad hated himself again.

He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

Hating himself. He thought of it again, still hidden between the mattress and box springs. Wishing it weren't there, that he'd never laid eyes on it. Wishing his life was different. Back to the way it was before, but it never would be the same again. It was a hard truth to swallow.

Brad pulled the corners of Nicky's mouth down in an exaggerated frown and found himself smiling at the soft, almost silent giggle that emerged from his baby brother's lips.

Well, they could still smile, he thought.

That was something.

Friday, September 30, 5:00 P.M.

Jenna gripped the railing of the school's front steps, the iron cold against her palm still warm from Steven Thatcher's arm. She watched him walk across the parking lot, his stride long and strong. Even from here she could see the tight fit of his jacket across the breadth of his shoulders and remembered the way those shoulders had sagged as they'd talked about his son, as if the weight of his worry was simply too heavy to bear. Jenna chewed at her lower lip. She'd told him everything would be all right. She hoped she hadn't told the man a lie.

How she wished she could have said, "Oh, no, Mr. Thatcher-there's no way Brad could be involved in drugs!" in a perky little voice that would make the anguish in his eyes disappear. But that wouldn't have been honest. She'd learned a long time ago it was far better to approach a problem with all the facts, even though the facts were often hard to accept when the fear and hurt were fresh. So she'd told him the truth. Good kids can get into trouble. He knew that already. But somehow the truth had seemed to help, making his shoulders relax just a bit.