24

Rachel held her breath as slow footsteps crossed the classroom, pausing in front of the desk. Even in the dark, she closed her eyes, overcoming an insane urge to giggle.

A quiet whisper of movement, a soft rustling on the desk, and the steps retreated.

Rachel heard the door open and close. The footsteps receded. She could feel her heartbeats through her whole body, down her arms, in her face.

Cautiously, she unfolded herself from under the desk. Using the cane as a brace, she leveraged to her feet and groped for her cellphone. Pressing the button to activate the screen, she lit the top of her desk with the soft blue glow. There, outlined in the dim light, was a small gift-wrapped box.

The Fourth Memento.

The light from the phone wavered as her hands began to shake. She turned the phone in her hands and tried to find Detective Smith’s number in her contacts list, but her numb fingers refused to cooperate. At length, she found the right screen and began to type. Memento here at school. Delivered fourth to classroom. As she tried to press send, the cellphone slipped from her shaking hands and dropped into her lap. She reached for it, but her hands weren’t the only thing shaking now. Full-body tremors worked their way from her heels to her head, rattling the chair. She fumbled the phone, and it fell, smacking hard against the floor. The screen shattered with a crack, and the wavering blue light went out.

Rachel groped in the dark for the classroom phone, heedlessly knocking over dishes of paper clips and cups full of red pens. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She lifted the receiver and dialed 911.

The footsteps were back. They were right outside the door.

The call wasn’t going through. Rachel realized that in her haste, she’d forgotten to dial a 9 to reach an outside line.

It was too late.

Practically throwing the phone into the cradle, she launched herself toward the floor, ramming under the desk, bashing her left knee against the floor and twisting her hurt ankle in the process. She bit her lip, swallowing a sob.

Slowly, the door opened.

Rachel lost control of her breathing. She clamped one hand over her mouth and used the other to pinch her nostrils closed. She tucked her elbows and legs in close and attempted to keep her shaking limbs from jittering into the sides of the desk. Putting her face between her knees, she began to pray. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want—

In the silence, she heard footsteps. Quiet breathing.

Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

The shadow of death.

The shadow of death.

Rachel couldn’t remember what came next. Perhaps she was about to find out.

She heard the crunch of a shoe stepping on the broken fragments of her phone. There was a soft exclamation, and the overhead lights snapped on. In a moment of pure horror, she realized that she had forgotten about her cane, which at some point in her panic had fallen sideways and now lay parallel to the desk, plainly visible from anywhere in the room.

The hands that she had kept clamped to her face shook so hard that the suction broke, and her rasping breath sounded in a burst of frantic wheezes.

“Miss Cooper…? Are you… under your desk?”

At the sound of that voice, Rachel practically vibrated from her hiding place. She unfolded and stood in one swift motion, lunging forward awkwardly to barrel directly into Lee. She knew a moment of blinding pain radiating up through her leg, but she also knew that Lee was there, and that he would catch her.

He did.

Lee flung one arm around her middle and the other around her shoulders, almost going to the ground himself in his effort to keep her from falling.

“Lee,” she rasped, her eyes streaming. She worked to catch her breath, to tell him. To warn him.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice sharp. As he straightened them both up, his eyes darted around the room, taking in the fallen cane, the broken phone, the mess on the desk. “What were you doing in here in the dark? Did you fall?” He started to release her, but her right leg buckled. He tightened his hold.

“He’s here.” She arched up on the toes of her good leg to hiss directly into his ear. “He’s here, he’s here. He’s just been here.” She turned to gesture toward the package on her desk, but realized that she could not pry her hands away from where they clutched at his shirt, ruining his perfect ironing job.

Rachel felt Lee go absolutely still.

“Who’s here?” he asked quietly, his hands smoothing down her arms, soothing her. “Rachel, who is it?”

She dropped her forehead against one of his arms, her hands still holding on. “The Memento Killer,” she whispered.

A wail of approaching sirens cut through the ensuing silence. Rachel went limp with relief. Her text to Detective Smith had gotten through. They were saved.

And that is when Lee broke into a soft, helpless laugh.