“Okay, one of the sisters died and died young. That doesn’t mean she committed suicide, and as for the pregnancy story, it’s just that.”
“I know what I saw,” Alice said.
Ryland gave a condescending chuckle. “Shadows, Alice. We’ve all seen them in that building late in the day.”
“They weren’t shadows,” Alice insisted. “If Candace was here she’d tell you.”
Lauren saw Natalie shift in her seat. “I don’t know what you saw, Alice, but I do know that there are some things that fall outside our understanding of science.”
“Throwing out the scientific method?” Leonard said, but there was a twinkle in his eye. Natalie smiled, but Alice just shook her head dismissively and leaned across the table toward Lauren.
“She walks the halls at night,” she said. “If you listen you can hear her footsteps on the marble floor.”
She watched the new teacher with the intensity of a scientist studying a specimen under the microscope. It was entertaining to observe somebody new, to note the obvious physical differences and uncover the nuances.
The teacher was eating a salad, though she was already thin. A poor appetite or some sort of medical problem? Perhaps she was prone to anxiety. That would be useful to know.
She took her little notebook out and jotted down “health?” as a reminder to check for this when she went through the files. Nervousness could be exploited.
Miss Kavanaugh spilled some iced tea. That was interesting. What had caused that little accident? She peered over the cover of her book at the teacher, watching for and spotting the faint tremor in the woman’s forearms. The new teacher hid it by tucking them in her lap while sad little Bolton mopped at the stain. Something had upset her. What was it? Were they discussing Morgan Wycoff?
Foolish Morgan with her silly beliefs. She was a liability for St. Ursula’s. Everybody knew that, but only she dared to act.
She remembered tightening the rope around that wet, white skin and felt a delicious shiver running through her. It was a secret vein of gold running like a beacon through the dark mine of her body, that pleasure. When she was little she’d thought that everyone thrummed to its internal pulse.
How old had she been that time in the park? She didn’t know, only that she was young enough that the nanny had been there, sitting on a bench with the other foreign women, all of them twittering about their employers when she came running up with the dead bird hot in her small palm.
Her baby girl’s voice high and bright with the wonder of it, trying to capture nanny’s attention with the story of pressing her little thumbs against the fine bones of the thin neck hidden under that ruff of feathers.
She could still remember the horror on the woman’s round face when she held the bird out to her, its small head twisted to one side, a film already forming on its bead-like eyes.
She’d learned from this that the gift must be kept secret. So many didn’t understand and those that did lacked the strength to follow through if she wasn’t there to push them forward. Even those closest to her didn’t really understand. It was a strange power, this intense feeling. When the others hesitated, she was the one who acted, searching again and again for that exquisite sensation.
She looked up from her notebook and saw that Miss Kavanaugh had gotten up, tray in hand, preparing to leave the dining hall. She stood up as well, following at a discreet distance as the teacher wove her way through the throngs of students clustered outside the dining hall and along the walkways that led from classroom buildings to dormitories.
The wind pulled wisps of Miss Kavanaugh’s blond hair free from the clip holding it tight against the back of her neck. It blew about her face and she pushed it back with an impatient hand. She walked with her shoulders slightly raised, as if expecting an attack at any moment. Where did all that anxiety come from? How could it be exploited?
She followed along behind the teacher, her own shoulders relaxed, her stride relaxed and even, a little smile playing on her lips. No one who looked at her knew what was going on in her mind. They couldn’t know that she imagined placing her hands around that slim neck, feeling the marble column beat its nervous pulse against her fingertips. She imagined the skin cool to her touch, the fluttering of the heartbeat, the pressing of her fingers deeper and deeper into the flesh.
She smiled at Miss Kavanaugh’s back and walked on.
Chapter Five
The annual start-of-the-academic-year chapel service became a memorial service for Morgan Wycoff.
The school chapel stood to the right of the main building toward the center of campus, a stone building in a Gothic style. Lauren directed the girls of Augustine House into the building, noticing the high, arching stained-glass windows that ran the length of the chapel on either side, casting faint red and blue shadows against the wooden pews.
The long center aisle ended in two wide steps that led to the altar, a stone table covered in white linen. To the right of it was a plaster statue of a serene-looking Virgin Mary, a golden halo circling the bowed head, her long, thin palms pressed together for all time in prayer. Under the statue was an iron stand with hundreds of flickering votive candles.
Lauren waited for the girls to file into their assigned pews and then took her seat at the end of the last row. Across the aisle Alice LaRue gave her a discreet wave.
Someone had found the time to enlarge a yearbook photo of Morgan and it was standing in front of the altar surrounded by huge arrangements of white roses. The picture wasn’t particularly flattering. Morgan stared sullenly out at the congregation, the vivid hair the most striking feature of the photo.
High-pitched voices sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” and the congregation rose en masse as two rows of girls wearing white satin robes and carrying open hymnals led a procession to the altar. They were followed by a single girl dressed in the simple cassock of an altar server; she held a pole with a gold crucifix mounted at the top. Sister Rose was next, dressed in a somber black suit with a satin armband fixed to one sleeve. She carried an arrangement of white lilies and was followed by two more altar servers. Bringing up the rear was an elderly priest, his shoulders hunched as if he carried some burden under his snowy white robes.
After some opening prayers, Sister Rose mounted the steps leading to a beautifully carved and polished lectern. She had to pull the microphone down so she could reach it. “Usually this is a happy occasion,” she began, her voice carrying across the pews. “We gather today just as we gather every year at this time to celebrate the beginning of another academic year. Today, however, our joy has turned to sorrow because we’ve lost one of our own. Morgan Wycoff, one of our third-year students, died this morning.”
There was a murmur across the congregation and Lauren wondered what the students were whispering to one another. Sister Rose waited for the noise to fade away before continuing.
“It is difficult to understand why the Lord would choose to remove Morgan from us in this, the flower of her youth, but we must accept the will of the Almighty.”
It was the will of God that Morgan be tied to a tree and left to die? Lauren felt bile rise in her throat and had to swallow hard. She shifted on the hard pew.
“At times like this, when our community has been torn asunder by tragedy, we must heal by drawing closer together, finding strength, as we always have in times of crisis, in our community.”
Lauren couldn’t help noticing that the headmistress hadn’t mentioned anything about how Morgan died. Did she really believe that what happened in the woods was an accident? Did the police think so, too? It was bizarre.
“We can honor Morgan’s memory by doing our best this year, by approaching our classes with determination, our responsibilities with enthusiasm, our extracurricular