But still… She'd said it. Out loud. She opened her eyes and looked around the group. Thirty pairs of concerned eyes looked back. No recriminations, no glee. Just concern.

No one said anything for a long moment. Then a pale Kelly Templeton said, "I'm sorry, Dr. Marshall. This isn't how the rest of us feel."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group and Lucas moved into the hall, herding the group toward the stairs. "Let's go, people. Let's give Dr. Marshall a chance to gather herself. You all get a break today. Miss Ryan, I'll get someone to cover your class this period so you can stay with Dr. Marshall until the police come." He took the lead, and one by one each teen followed him until the only one left was Josh Lutz. Josh, Rudy's quiet brother who sat on the back row of her first period class every day and took assiduous notes. Josh, who hadn't been able to meet her eyes since the vandalism had begun. Josh, whose face was paler than Kelly's had been. He looked down at his shoes, then back up. In his eyes she saw guilt mixed with mortification.

"I'm sorry, too, Dr. Marshall," he said quietly. "I wish there was something I could do."

Jenna made herself smile and tried not to wonder what life must be like for a gentle boy like Josh living with thugs like Rudy and their father. "Thanks, Josh. Just knowing you feel that way makes a difference."

He looked like he would say something more, then changed his mind. Shouldering his backpack, he set off in a loping jog to catch up with the class.

Casey tugged at her waist. "Come on, Jen. Let's go wait for Officer Pullman."

Jenna took one look back and wished she hadn't, knowing for a long time she'd see that poor creature whenever she closed her eyes.

Wednesday, October 5, 9:15 A.M.

Brad crept out of his bedroom. The coast was finally clear. Helen had gone shopping. Matt and Nicky were at school. His father wasn't home and hadn't been since the morning before.

Brad stopped by his father's bedroom door and looked in, his lips curling in contempt. His father hadn't come home last night. His lips thinned. His father had taken Dr. Marshall to dinner.

Dinner. What a joke. His father hadn't come home last night. Didn't take a Ph.D. to figure that one out. He'd thought more of Dr. Marshall than that. But his father… At this point he didn't know if there was anything his father wasn't capable of doing. Of saying. Anger pricked at him and he welcomed it. Nicky was up again last night, as he was every night, but his father was nowhere to be seen. Unavailable to soothe a little boy to sleep.

Because he was catting around. Selfishly seeing to his own needs while his children went without. No, not money, not food. Not any of those material things. But they went without just the same. Nicky and Matt especially.

He himself… He didn't need Special Agent Steven Thatcher. Not anymore. He-

The front door slammed and a few seconds later he was staring at his father across a ten-foot expanse of second-floor hallway carpet. Might as well have been a damn ocean.

His father narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm skipping school," he answered evenly. "I won't ask you what you're doing here as it's obvious you didn't sleep in your bed last night and those were the same clothes you wore yesterday. I have to assume your dinner with Dr. Marshall took a very long time."

He watched his father's eyes flash. "Brad, you cross the line. I was at work all night long."

Brad chuckled. Mirthlessly. "You must be getting old, Dad. I didn't think any guy referred to it as 'work.' Although I have to say about five hundred guys at Roosevelt would have loved to have been 'working' with you last night."

His father took a step forward, then another, until they were nose to nose. His father's eyes bored into him and a muscle twitched in his cheek. Brad's glance darted down to see fists at his father's sides and it occurred to him that he'd gone a step too far.

"How dare you?" his father hissed and Brad dismissed the small frisson of alarm that sizzled down his back. His father was a big man. Bigger than he was. But his father wouldn't hit him. And if he did, he'd just hit him back. That's what he'd do. And God help the old man because he had a lot of anger stored up. That would go a fair distance in closing the size gap.

"I call ' em like I see 'em," Brad said, preparing for the first blow.

That of course never came. Because on top of being a damn liar, his father was a coward.

"You can think what you like about me, Brad. But when you demean a woman like Jenna Marshall, you cross the line. I've tried to understand how to help you, but you've just shown me you're beyond my help. No son of mine would ever say anything like that about any woman."

"Then I guess I'm no son of yours,'" Brad said, making his voice cold, steady. Steady.

His father's chest heaved. Once, twice. "Get your books, you're going to school."

"No, I'm not."

His father took another step and towered over him and Brad felt another spear of fear.

"Yes, you will. Because I am your father and I say you will go to school. Get. Your. Books."

Brad took a step back. Fuming. Furious. Yeah, he'd get his books. He'd even go to school. Then he'd get the hell out of this house and everything that went with it.

He looked at his father and smiled. "Yes, sir.'"

Wednesday, October 5, 10:30 A.M.

"Anything?" Lennie asked.

Steven stared at the untouched paperwork on his desk, still ripped up from his fight with Brad. / handled that badly, he thought.

"Steven?"

Steven dragged his eyes up to Lennie's worried face. Steven pulled his brain to the topic at hand. Two girls. One dead, one missing. Lennie had a right to be worried. They didn't have shit.

Steven threw his pen on his desk. "We found a tire print that could have come from Samantha's bike, but the kids use that area as a stunt park, so there's a better than even chance that it didn't."

"So we have nothing."

"Pretty much." He handed Lennie a sheet of paper from his desk. "We brainstormed this morning on who could have been the ballplayer Serena overheard Sammie mention."

"All of these games were played the day Samantha disappeared?"

"Up to four days prior. Nancy has a bigger list of games for the week prior, but we figured it would have been within a few days."

Lennie scanned the page, then lowered it enough to see Steven over the top. "You've included pro games on this list."

"An adult sports figure with a yen for young girls would have an easy time attracting them."

"Pro games, college games, high school games… church leagues? That's just sick, Steven."

"But necessary."'

With a sigh Lennie laid the paper on the desk. "That's why it's sick. How will you narrow down this list? You've got over a hundred games and each one will have twenty-plus participants."

"We eliminated college teams that played nontelevised away games. As for the pros, the only televised or home game in the last four days was hockey. The Hurricanes played last Wednesday."

"I know," Lennie said. "I had sixth row seats. Nearly caught a puck in my teeth."

"Which would have ruined your dazzling smile and ended your modeling career," Steven returned sarcastically and Lennie's lips curved. "Harry and Sandra are getting team rosters," Steven continued, "and Nancy's running background checks. We'll look for anybody with a prior."