An hour later, a police cruiser pulls up in front of the house. Darcy watches through the peephole as two officers emerge from the vehicle. They stand talking across the roof of the cruiser for a moment, then they approach the door together. She recognizes the man. Oh, hell. It’s Julian, the cop who volunteered to attack Darcy at self-defense class. Won’t he be pleased to see the woman who embarrassed him?
A stocky female with short blonde hair accompanies Julian. The woman rings the doorbell. Darcy waits a few heartbeats before answering so they don’t think she poised beside the front door, waiting for them to knock.
“Ms. Gellar?” The female officer flips open a notepad. “You called the department about a threatening letter?”
The female’s name tag reads Faust.
Julian buries his head in his own notepad. When he lifts his gaze, recognition flashes in his eyes. Recognition and annoyance, Darcy thinks.
“Yes,” Darcy says, standing aside. “Come in, please.”
Officer Faust waits in the foyer while Darcy pads to the kitchen. Julian runs his eyes over the downstairs and focuses on the hallway, which leads to a series of closed bedroom doors. His tongue prods at the inside of his cheek, bored.
“My daughter found this note sticking out of my son’s locker at school,” Darcy says, handing Faust the letter.
The female officer performs a quick scan of the letter. She hands the note to Julian, who blinks at the letter before giving it back to Darcy.
“So your daughter didn’t actually see the person who placed the note,” Julian says.
“No.”
“Not much to go on.”
“I understand, but isn’t that how investigations begin?”
“There’s no way to determine if your son wrote the note himself and intended to drop it in another locker.”
“What? No. My son isn’t violent, and I know his handwriting, anyway. This isn’t his.”
“Does your son have enemies?” Officer Faust asks.
“A couple boys on the football team bullied Hunter when I picked him up two days ago.”
Julian itches his lip to hide his smirk, but Darcy sees. The star of the self-defense class raised a wimp. The irony must be killing him.
“Who were the boys?”
“I don’t know their names,” Darcy says, folding her arms. “We moved to the village three months ago and I’m still learning names.”
“Where did you move from, Ms. Gellar?”
“Virginia.”
“Virginia,” Officer Faust repeats, jotting down Darcy’s answer. “It says in my notes you’re currently unemployed.”
“Retired.”
“You’re quite young for retirement. What sort of work did you do?”
Darcy bites her tongue. They’re more interested in interrogating her than taking the letter seriously.
“Law enforcement.”
Officer Faust raises her eyebrows.
“Police?”
“FBI, actually.”
Another scribble on the notepad.
“Why did you move to Genoa Cove, Ms. Gellar?”
“I fail to see what my previous line of work has to do with someone threatening my son.”
Julian takes a step forward. Is this an aggressive move meant to intimidate? Up close, he is larger than he seemed while they fought on the mat.
“You’re probably overreacting. This is typical teen stuff, boys getting under each other’s skin. No violence occurred.”
“Not yet.”
“Boys like to play games with each other,” Julian says. “Nothing ever comes of notes like this. Clearly your son upset someone, and now the other boy is fighting back, not that threats are ever justified. It’s all bluster. Give it time and this will blow over.”
“It sounds to me like you’re blaming the victim.”
“Not at all. If you’ll allow me to take the note, I’ll follow up with the school and see if we can get to the bottom of who wrote it. Problem is there’s no signature. Unless a witness comes forward, there’s no way to prove who wrote the letter. It becomes a he said, she said situation.”
After the officers leave, Darcy leans her back against the door and closes her eyes. She hadn’t expected much to come of the letter, but she’d hoped the officers would take the threat seriously.
Hunter arrives at four. An engine guns as Darcy peeks through the window. She recognizes the tinted windows before tires squeal and the Ford Fusion jets down the road.
“No practice today?” Darcy asks, arranging a stack of mail on the table.
“Nah. Coach says we need a day to heal up before the game.”
“Who dropped you off?”
“Oh, nobody. That’s just Squiggs.”
“Squiggs have a real name, or is he a Scooby Doo character?”
“Sweet,” Hunter says crunching on an apple. He pokes through the refrigerator. “Any cold cuts left?”
“Your sister found a letter in your locker.”
He freezes. So Hunter knew about the note. He shrugs, brushing it off as no big deal.
“Hunter, do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what? It’s only a letter. Not like anything is going to happen.”
She tries again, but Hunter won’t budge. He skips out of the kitchen with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. After his door closes, she considers calling around to verify Coach Parker canceled practice. She doesn’t. Darcy trusts Hunter, though her son is hiding something.
The revolving doors routine continues as Darcy boils a pot of water on the stove. Jennifer shuffles into the kitchen with a bit more color on her cheeks.
“What’s for dinner?” she asks.
Darcy knows her daughter well enough to spot disinterest. She couldn’t care less about dinner and has something on her mind.
“Pasta.”
“Better not be with a cream sauce. My stomach can’t handle anything super heavy.”
“Tomato sauce.”
“Good.”
Jennifer slides onto a chair and taps her phone on the table.
“What’s on your mind?”
She pauses, biting her nail as the water percolates.
“Kaitlyn knows who wrote the letter.”
Darcy sets the wooden spoon down and sits across from her.
“Oh? How did she find out?”
“Kaitlyn overheard a couple guys bragging about it outside the weight room after school. For what it’s worth, I think the letter was only to scare Hunter.”
“Why would anyone want to scare him?”
“Because he’s new.”
“You’re new.”
“Yeah, but he isn’t fitting in.”
Darcy parts the curtains, a compulsion she’s followed with increased frequency since she saw the smiley face on Amy’s house.
“Because he dresses different and likes loud music? That’s ludicrous.”
“It’s more than that. The company he keeps…they aren’t good kids.”
“Who is this Squiggs character?”
Jennifer’s eyebrows shoot up.
“You know him?”
“He dropped Hunter off a few minutes ago.”
“I shouldn’t say anything because I don’t have proof. But most of us are pretty sure Squiggs is supplying most of the drugs in school.”
The air rushes out of Darcy’s chest. Losing her son to drugs is her greatest fear. Because a part of her believes it could happen. Isolated, introverted, and balancing on the edge of depression, Hunter is a prime candidate for addiction. And he learned from watching his mother.
“But Hunter doesn’t do drugs,” Jennifer quickly adds. “He’d tell me, I think.”
Darcy makes a mental note to look into Hunter’s new friend.
“What’s this kid’s real name?” Darcy asks, lowering her voice so Hunter can’t eavesdrop.