Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (thriller book recommendations .txt) 📕

The woman, Lynch’s woman, replied, Tempting. But I think we better not, Byron.

Lynch’s teeth relented and he swallowed blood. He didn’t know what he’d do if his bedroom camera caught them fornicating. He might drive there and kill them both. He pumped his fist and smiled, crimson along the gums.

You and this new guy. Are you two an item?

I’m not sure.

Really? Why not? Why the heck am I—

You need to move out because it’s best for you. Not because I found someone else. With him, I don’t know what will happen because…like you said, life is difficult. I don’t know exactly how he feels and he’s dealing with life too.

She’s talking about me. SHE’S TALKING ABOUT ME! The halls of his mind were fuzzy, the pathways changing, and he no longer knew how to think clearly.

Have you two…?

No.

Is he blind? I saw how you’ve been dressing.

He’s preoccupied.

Are you blind? Big good-looking guy like that… Surely you noticed.

I noticed. But I was engaged. And I don’t break the rules, at least when I can help it.

Lynch stood up and his rolling chair shot backwards. He lumbered away from his desk, hands balled into fists.

“Big guy, preoccupied…” he said. Lynch paused to enjoy the sensation of his chest swelling, the pure sweetness of requited affection. A shocking change from his primary emotion—rage. “I was engaged. Was engaged… She WAS engaged.”

He stopped pacing to brace himself on his desk, his hands gripping the edge near the glinting fish hooks. The fish hooks he no longer needed. Probably no longer needed.

We really screwed it up, didn’t we.

We really did.

From here on out, we’ll do better.

Lynch’s strength gave out and he lowered to his knees. Dropped his head and bit the edge of the desk, leaving teeth prints in the mahogany. Clamped down until it hurt, hurt enough to provide release.

On screen, the man said, Are you still going to that big Christmas party?

No, I don’t think so.

Lynch’s eyes popped open.

Why not? I’ll go with you, if you don’t want to go stag.

No thank you. That’s not it, said Daisy.

She wasn’t going? Why the hell not?

Not in the holiday spirit, huh. Me either, said the man.

I just can’t this year.

Lynch released the table with his teeth. Stared at the screen. His fingers moved automatically, like drawing the point of a hook across his thumb over and over, the reflex of a child in thought.

Whispering, cold and quiet. “No, Daisy. The guest of honor can’t skip the party. Tomorrow is the most important day of your life. Of our life.”

52

Dean Gordon sat in his office on the morning of the Christmas gala. He was leaning backward in his chair, his fingers pressed thoughtfully to his lips.

On his computer screen, an email from the school board of trustees waited for his reply.

…We are concerned the severity of Daniel Jennings’ charges is being made light of by the head of our Academy. The safety and security of our student body must come first, and yet an instructor accused of assault and battery remains on campus. It is the board’s directive that Mr. Jennings be removed from his post immediately and indefinitely…

The board’s directive. Gordon snorted. This email had been written by Lynch alone. What a disaster the hiring of Daniel Jennings had become. Not for anything he did wrong; in fact the students and faculty loved him. So did the parents. It was Lynch who bore the blame. He’d been suggesting to Gordon for weeks that Jennings should be released, offering no real reason.

Farther down the letter.

It is also the determination of the board that the Academy hire a new athletic director and football coach for the next school year. We leave it to your discretion when to alert Tyron Murray about his need to secure a position elsewhere…

Firing Coach Murray was unconscionable. A hard-working and well-respected man who took a lesser football team to the state finals. Another demand directly from Lynch, who thought his son Benjamin was the next great NFL star. Everything about the email reeked.

On his screen, just visible behind the Outlook window, was the audio file of Lynch and Ms. Hathaway. The file she says Lynch had doctored to cover his assault in the car. He still had the note from Jennings about Lynch’s erratic behavior in the classroom, throwing books and speaking inappropriately to Ms. Hathaway. And now Mr. Jennings claimed Lynch planted cocaine in his truck, something he wouldn’t put past the man.

Gordon minimized the Outlook window, revealing an open Excel spreadsheet behind it. The budget projections for the next school year. They planned to spend forty-thousand dollars per student and that was the bare minimum. Fifty-thousand or higher was more in line with their competitors, but the Academy was only charging thirty-two for tuition, room, and board, and that was if the student didn’t qualify for assistance, resulting in their current huge deficit. Gordon had checks to write before Christmas totaling half a million dollars. And another half million in January. Another in February.

It could work. It would work, based on trends. But only if the school’s benefactors didn’t bail. Only if he appeased the wealthy titans.

Some days Gordon thought about quitting. Moving with his wife to Arizona and the dry heat and not providing Peter Lynch an address. Jettisoning himself from the grind. Escaping the budgets and instructor complaints and banal chores. Chores like arranging for substitutes when a teacher no-showed, as Daisy Hathaway had done today. Very unlike her.

Gordon picked up his phone. Paused. Replaced the receiver. Better practice the speech first.

“Mr. Jennings, this is Dean Gordon. I’m afraid the school board would prefer…no, the trustees are directing you…have directed you to leave… The trustees have directed you to vacate the apartment provided for you. In an abundance of caution. The safety of our students…the student body…”

He picked up the receiver again and Jennings’ voice drifted from it.

Let’s not pretend you’re innocent or ignorant. You have a guess about what happened to Craig Lewis. You