MEET ELAINE L. ORR

SEARCHING FOR SECRETS

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CHAPTER ONE

CHRISTA HECKERTT HAD ARRIVED so early that the front door of Buckingham Elementary School was still locked. She opened it and dropped her ring of school keys into her large carry-all bag. It was more than an hour before the first school bus would drop its load of lively passengers. She couldn't wait for this day to start. Last night she had worked until 8 p.m., loading software onto the three computers her class had won in the mayor's competition. Her favorite was the spelling bee, complete with a ticking clock to time the students.

There was no one in the principal's office yet, so Christa signed the teacher log and continued toward her classroom. Construction-paper pumpkins the kindergarten class had made were arrayed on a bulletin board, and the first-graders had collected bright orange and yellow leaves to rim the display. She stopped to examine them, wishing her fourth graders were still interested in crafts. But, as they informed her, they were too old for paste and colored paper. It was no different than how your own children might behave, she reasoned. They were always ready to cast aside tricycles before parents were prepared to move to a two-wheeled bike.

She stopped when she got to her closed classroom door. That was odd. Since she had departed so late and would be in so early, she had left it open when she finally went home last night. Now, it was locked. She sat her bag on the tiled floor and rummaged through it for the keys. Was that a shuffling sound in the room? She found the keys wedged in the bottom corner of the canvas bag and stuck one in the lock. She was certain she heard the door that led to the courtyard close as she opened the door from the hallway.

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed, regarding the large classroom. Light streaming in the windows fell on two of the three computers as they sat on the tables she had moved into the room just yesterday. The third was on the floor and someone had removed the housing, baring the complex assortment of brightly colored wires and computer chips. Next to the computer were a small screwdriver and a pink plastic bag.

Christa crossed the room and looked out the window. Was that the door to the Jennie’s kindergarten classroom shutting? No teachers locked the doors that opened onto the enclosed courtyard. Someone could easily have run from the fourth-grade classroom to that one. Christa ran down the hall. She knew she could not get to the kindergarten class before the thief ran out. The building was a perfect square, and the intruder could exit from any of the classrooms. Maybe she could glimpse a car leaving the area. Breathless, she stood in the main entrance and scanned the front lawn and parking lot. Principal Macklin's mini-van sat next to her own car, but no other vehicle was in sight.

She hurried back inside and into the main office. "Sandra!" she called. "Where are you?"

Sandra Macklin strode from her private office into the small reception area. "What's wrong?" Just the sound of the older woman's voice had a calming effect. Christa thought her even-keel approach to life was what made her such a good principal. But, a school break-in would be a new experience.

"Someone was trying to steal the computers from my classroom. I think I interrupted them and..."

"Good heavens." Sandra moved to the door and shut it firmly and turned the lock. "We'll call the police."

Christa followed her into the office and sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. She should have had more sense. What was she thinking, running after a thief like that? As she listened to Sandra tell the 9-1-1 dispatcher to send police first to her office, Christa moved to the window. If any other teachers arrived, she would stop them at the entrance.

Sandra hung up the phone and the two women stared at each other for a moment. "When's the last time somebody chased a burglar from the building?" Christa asked, trying to ease the worried line that had formed across Sandra's brow.

"We've had kids egg the building and I can't count the different classes of fifth-graders that have decorated the big maple tree with toilet paper, but burglars are a first." Sandra regarded Christa. "Did you see anyone?"

Christa shook her head. "I heard someone in the room and then I thought I saw the door to the kindergarten close, as if the person went in over there."

The flashing lights of a police cruiser bounced off the mirror that hung on the wall near the window. Christa walked toward the door to Sandra's office. "I'll take the police down to my room while you stop folks at the entrance," she said.

The two speeding patrol cars slowed just in time to stop at the curb. An officer jumped out of each and walked quickly toward them.

"Who's in charge?" barked the taller of the two.

"I am," Sandra Macklin said. "Someone broke into..."

"We'll search the building first," he said, and gestured that the other officer should go down the left hallway of the square building and he would go right. "Any kids or teachers in here?" he called as he moved away.

"No," Sandra and Christa said.

Christa's eyes followed the wide shoulders of the taller man. She had had only a quick glimpse of the brown eyes and a chin that jutted out more than she would have expected from his square face. Distracted, she glanced at Sandra as the principal explained the situation to the two arriving teachers now standing in the school's large foyer.

Christa looked down the hall, straining for the footsteps of the two officers. She wondered who the taller man was, and squelched the thought. What difference did it make? Her only concern was making sure that her kids and their computers were safe. And besides, she had no interest in men.

The slow jog of two sets of feet reached her and the men rounded the corner. His eyes looked directly into Christa's as he extended his hand. "Kirk Reynolds."

"Christa Heckertt." What a rich, warm voice he had. A perfect match for the strong clasp of his hand.

"This is Officer Mark Hadley," he continued. “We didn’t see any obvious signs of a break-in. Did you notice anything ajar as you came in?”

“I didn’t notice anything,” Christa said, “but I only went from the front door to my classroom.”

“It’s possible,” Sandra Macklin said,” that the person came in when the custodial crew was cleaning. It was a warm night, they could have had a door propped open.

“I’d tell them to be more careful,” said Officer Hadley, as he gestured to Sandra to join him in answering questions from the growing group of detainees at the front door.

Kirk turned toward her classroom and Christa fell in step beside him. "Is that your classroom with the computer on the floor?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, very aware of his presence.

"Then the purse and canvas sack in the hallway are also yours." He said it more as a statement than a question.

"Gosh, yes. I should have picked up my purse at least." She felt like a child being scolded for leaving her toys in the living room.

"Natural reaction is to leave the area. Probably safer, too." They had reached the room and stood together viewing the computers. "When were you last here, and exactly how was the room arranged when you left?"

"The computers are new, so I was here until 8 o'clock working with them, and..."

"You a computer fanatic?" he asked

There was no smile, but his eyes glinted. Christa wasn't sure if he meant the question as an insult, so she ignored him. "The room was arranged pretty much the same. I always have the desks in four short rows, so no one sits back too far." Christa surveyed the neat room, with the Spanish vocabulary words on the back bulletin board and the long division problems on the front black board. She was determined that her students would learn the reasoning behind the numbers they so quickly achieved with a calculator.

"And just yesterday I brought those two tables up from storage for the new computers. You can see from the marks on the floor that I moved the guinea pig cage from that spot to the window ledge."

"I wondered if you had done that or the burglar. The door was locked of course."

"Well, no." She felt herself getting flustered under his gaze. "The building is locked, but unless there is an evening activity in the building, we don't lock the individual classrooms." His look was unreadable, but Christa felt Kirk Reynolds take in her full five feet three inches, from her shoulder-length auburn hair to her low-heeled tan pumps.

"Did you get a look at the perp..., the guy who broke in here?" he asked.

He stared at her so intently Christa felt herself flush. "No. In fact, I can't be sure if it was a man or a woman." Christa explained what she believed happened as she had fumbled for the keys to her classroom.

"Let's see what we have here, then. Hadley's checking to see if there are signs of forced entry to the building." His eyes scanned the room and he walked over to look into the courtyard. "We know someone tampered with the computer, because we see it on the floor with that little pink bag. They got in through an unlocked classroom door at an undetermined time and may have left when you arrived at...?"

"Just before seven." Christa felt certain he was mocking her. She had heard someone in the room. She hadn't imagined it. "Can't you take fingerprints or something?"

"We generally don't if nothing was stolen. And I'd have to impound your computer to do it."

That's the last thing she wanted. "I wonder why they didn't just carry it out," Christa mused. She stooped and picked up the pink plastic bag. It was an odd texture, and she vaguely remembered that when she had uncrated her fairly new home computer, some of the spare connecting pieces had been wrapped in the same material. "This isn't my bag." She held it out to Kirk Reynolds, but he didn't take it.

Instead, he put his notebook in his breast pocket. "I'll file a report, but since nothing was taken and we have no description, that's about all I can do. That and advise you to lock the classroom door now that you have these computers in here."

Christa felt shunned. Or did her feeling have less to do with his limited investigation and more to do with the fact that she didn’t want Kirk Reynolds to think she was a bubblehead who didn’t even know enough to lock a door? She met his gaze and spoke evenly. "What about the fact that this is a place where children come and go all day. Doesn't that make it more important to follow through?"

He held the door open for her to precede him into the hall, and Christa saw his jaw tighten. "Yours is my second call, and I've been on duty less than an hour. Frankly, I should have stayed with the first one, a small-time drug dealer on Market Street. But, since this was a school with an intruder, I dropped my surveillance and got here ASAP. Nobody's hurt here, but somebody bought some drugs and the dealer got away."

Somewhat taken aback by his harsh words, Christa fumbled for a response. "I'm sorry you couldn't make your drug arrest, but my first concern is these kids, and..."

"My first concern is kids, too, Ms. Heckertt." He spoke fiercely, his voice low. "Let's just say we go about it differently."

KIRK SLAMMED THE DOOR OF HIS SQUAD CAR. He had almost had "Fast Freddy," a regular suspect, but hard to catch making a sale. He didn't look like an obvious user himself or drive a flashy car. He and a couple of his buddies blended in with shoppers at the up-scale mall on the southeast side of town, and when they went onto the university campus they looked more like faculty than students.

But, Freddy had been careless today. Standing in full view on Market Street in downtown Iowa City, he had talked for several minutes with a young woman who appeared to be a university student. Kirk, car parked out of sight in a near-by alley, watched in anticipation. Freddy already had one felony conviction. If Kirk could get him on a charge of possession with intent to distribute, Freddy would face a long sentence. That was just the incentive the district attorney could use to offer a plea bargain to get Freddy to turn over his unknown supplier. As the small packet changed hands, Kirk had placed his hand on the car door. But, the police radio announced the possible intruder on the premises of Buckingham Elementary School, with people in the school.

Hadley pulled his car alongside Kirk’s. “I didn’t see you at the station, and saw you’d checked out a car. What were you up to?”

Kirk gave him a thin smile. “I had a tip this morning that Fast Freddy might be hanging around Market Street. I didn’t want to wait. Thought I’d be back before roll call.” He grimaced. “If we hadn’t had this call, I would have gotten him on a sale.”

“Damn. That’s the third time in a month he’s slipped away from us.”

“Tell me about it.” He started to roll up his window. “See you at the station.”

His thoughts turned back to the school as he drove. It wouldn't have been such a waste if they at least had a suspect's description. But, Christa Heckertt hadn't seen anyone. He turned his irritation on her. Her suggestion that he should "follow through" because the break-in had occurred at a school probably made sense, but he couldn't get bogged down in paperwork. She was a looker, though. Her slender shoulders and waist were highlighted by the soft green sweater. He supposed she knew that it brought out the green in her eyes. And those beautifully-curved lips.

"Damn." He had almost missed the stop sign in front of the bookstore. He had to stay focused. His inattention had cost him dearly two months ago. Kirk was now the most ardent anti-drug cop on the Iowa City police department. That was his only purpose in life now, and even the gorgeous Christa Heckertt would not distract him.

THE DRIVE ALONG THE IOWA RIVER always had a calming effect at the end of a hectic day. And this day had been chaotic. The school was abuzz with chatter about the burglar, and everyone wanted to talk to her during the lunch hour. There was general agreement among the other teachers that the theft was because the newspaper had announced Christa's class won the mayor's contest and thus had three expensive new computers. "Practically an ad for a cunning thief," as the fifth-grade teacher had said.

Christa turned onto Burlington Street and drove across the river. Her destination was the small shopping mall in the center of town. She had bought her home computer at the electronics store there, and the owner was always willing to answer questions. The pink bag lay on the seat beside her. She wanted to know why someone would have brought it with them, and what they intended to do with it.

The garage next to the mall was crowded with shoppers and movie-goers, and she had to drive to the top tier to get a space. That level was not under roof, and she knew it was rarely crowded. Christa shivered as the late afternoon wind whipped at her neck as she hurried into the mall.

She passed a jewelry store and saw a young couple leaning over the glass case pointing at a diamond ring. Stop it, she said to herself, trying to quell the wave of sadness that always engulfed her when she thought about her broken engagement with Trevor Windham. They were together three years, with Christa certain of a future that included marriage and children. It had been a harsh lesson. You can’t create a family with a self-centered man. She straightened her shoulders. Every minute she thought about him was wasted time.

She hurried on, anxious to get to the electronics store so she would have something else to think about. "Good afternoon, Mr. Watkins," she said as she entered the store. He nodded and raised a single finger to let her know he would be with her as soon as he finished ringing up a sale.

Christa walked toward the display of personal computers and laptops in the back of the store. Each was on, and various colorful images stared at her from the video monitors. She sat down at one and jiggled the mouse so the computer would come out of its “sleep” mode.

She wanted to know what was on the machine, so she went to the menu that showed the list of programs housed on its hard drive. It quickly showed her a list of about 20 programs, and she studied it carefully. There was a mix of games, word processing, and educational software. Nothing especially interested her. She noted the sign on top of the computer touted its huge hard drive. She smiled to herself. It was probably enough room for every piece of software in the entire elementary school. Not like the old days, when you had to take some programs off before you could load others, so you didn't run out of space.

"How can I help you today, Ms. Heckertt?"

She looked into the storeowner's affable face and returned the smile. "I'm looking for a little advice." She reached into her pocket and pulled out the pink bag and showed it to him. "Someone was trying to take apart one of my classroom computers this morning, and I interrupted him. He, or they, left behind this bag and a small screwdriver. I’m hoping you can tell me what the bag’s for."

Mr. Watkins took the bag and turned it over. "It's made of polyethylene foam. Meant to protect sensitive computer components from static. You don't know the damage static does until it's too late. Doesn't actually destroy the data, but could cause other parts of the system to crash and that would have the same effect as wiping out everything."

"I see." Christa looked at the small bag. "So, what would go in here?"

"If you bought a new hard drive, for example, it would of course be in a box, but inside that box it would be wrapped in material identical to this." He handed it back to her. "Sorry about your burglar."

"Me too," she said, staring thoughtfully at the bag. "To transport the computer, would it be safer to take out the hard drive and put it in this pink bag?"

Mr. Watkins looked at his watch and snapped his fingers. "I was supposed to call a customer at five o'clock to tell them their computer was ready. Can you wait just a minute?"

"Sure," Christa said. She looked at the game software. Many of them were, in her opinion, pure trash. Pretty violent, too. But, a growing number of the games combined play with education. If nothing else, the children learned better hand/eye coordination by working a joystick or a mouse. She noticed a sign highlighted games with numbers. 'Learn how to decode spy messages." The software package was called "Crypto Gram," and said anyone could prepare a message with a hidden meaning. That was all she needed, Christa thought. Software that would teach her fourth grade boys ways to write notes she would not understand. Last week she had intercepted one that said 'everyone drop your pencils at 1:30." With this, their plot would be unintelligible.

Mr. Watkins stood beside her again. "You were asking about making the hard drive safer to transport. With older computers that was a concern. Now, all computers have what we call 'automatic park'." A new customer came into the store, and he nodded at them to acknowledge their presence. "Every time you turn it off it knows to put the heads in a special position so that if you pick it up or jostle it there can't be any damage."

Christa wasn't sure what the "heads" were, but she was certain Mr. Watkins knew what he was talking about. "That makes me think," Christa said, "that the person didn't want the whole computer, just the hard drive."

"Or maybe something else, like the modem. But components are so cheap these days, it's hard to imagine someone going to all that trouble." He gestured to the far wall, which had all kinds of unfriendly-looking boxes with internal computer parts. "It would be a heck of a lot easier to shoplift one of my new parts than break in a school and take apart your computer." He winked at her.

His sense of humor was one of the reasons Christa felt comfortable asking him so many questions. She stood and held out her hand. "Thanks, Mr. Watkins."

"Don't know as how I helped that much," he said.

"You did," she replied matter-of-factly, and returned his wink.

Back out in the mall, Christa strolled slowly, looking in the windows at the winter clothes on display. She needed a new casual jacket, but wasn't willing to spend the money just yet. She'd wait for a sale. The Iowa City public school system paid her well enough, but she still had to maintain a strict budget. Especially since she had bought her new home computer, scanner, and printer, with the combined price tag of more than $1,500. Her old one still worked, but it was like trying to wash your clothes with a wringer washer. They were clean when you were done, but it took a lot longer to do the job.

The purchase had eaten up better than half of her savings, but she could easily rationalize spending the money. While her schoolteacher mother had kept her grades in a leather-bound book and composed her tests on an electric typewriter, Christa used her computer for literally everything. She couldn't imagine having to hold onto copies of all the paper she generated each school year. She turned in her grades each marking period and then kept the information on the computer. At the end of every school year, she downloaded that year's tests and other files onto a small disk and put it in her safe deposit box at the bank. The same disk had her thoughts on each student. After six years, she remembered all the names, but she sometimes had to think quite awhile to put a face and name together, or remember who was good at what. She wanted to remember everything about them.

Christa stopped at the bookstore and debated whether to go in. Nope. She had to get home. Because she worked late last night, she'd hardly been in her apartment. She hated that "just-stopping-by" feeling she got when she wasn't there much. And her cat resented being left alone too long. Good old Brandy. She might be declawed, but she could still think of ways to annoy Christa if her owner was away too long. Her favorite was to overturn all the waste baskets in the apartment. Christa walked into the drug store and bought Brandy a can of food. It would be a special treat, a break from her usual diet of hard food.

She stuck the small can in her pocket as she got on the elevator. The pink bag was in the other pocket, and she fingered it during the short ride to the top level. Christa looked around the parking area. There were only four cars on that tier, and it was dusk. Iowa City wasn't horribly troubled by crime, but even so, Christa didn't like the lonely feeling as she hurried to the car.

She unlocked the door and was just about to open it when the fast-moving figure darted from behind the car a few yards away. Though she didn't turn to face the man coming toward her, Christa had no doubt he was after her purse. She yanked the door and had inserted one foot into the car when he grabbed her. Christa screamed and looked at his face. All she could see was the ski mask and blue eyes. Instinctively she clutched her purse, but it wasn't his target. Instead, he lunged for her pocket and pulled out the pink bag, tearing the fabric at the corner of the pocket as he did so. With a quick movement he shoved her against the car and ran toward the stairs.

Numb, Christa watched him pull the heavy door and enter the stairway. There was hardly any sound as he ran down the concrete steps. She took a deep breath and eased herself into the car and then closed and locked the door. She leaned back into the seat and folded her arms in front of her, squeezing herself as she did so. If only she could stop shaking!

Tears stung her eyes. Aloud, she said, "You could have been killed." No, she was being melodramatic. The thief had wanted only one thing. And Kirk Reynolds thought it was a waste of his time to investigate the attempted theft of her computer. She wondered what he would say now. She reached to turn on the ignition, and realized her keys weren't in it. She opened the door and looked on the ground. They lay where she had dropped them when the man spun her around, and she picked them up and closed the door again.

The sound of the car engine made her jump. "Calm yourself, woman," she said aloud. It was a short drive to the police station. Since it was just after 5 o'clock, Kirk Reynolds might still be on duty and she could tell him what she thought of his investigative techniques.

No such luck. "He left on time today," the officer at the desk said. “But, his partner’s here early and late, if you want to talk to him.”

"He's helping his sister," came a voice from behind the sergeant. Christa recognized the officer who had arrived at the same time Kirk did.

"Oh, good," she said. What was the man's name? Hadley, she thought. "You were there this morning, too."

As Christa started to explain what had just happened to her, the sergeant pushed a button and there was a buzz as the glass security door unlocked. Officer Hadley opened it as he listened attentively.

Two hours later, Christa had a better sense of why Kirk Reynolds wanted to avoid a lengthy investigation of that morning's attempted burglary. Even the school system didn't have as much paperwork as the police department did. Officer Hadley had been more than kind. Eventually, she realized he was probably supposed to be off-duty, too, and she had hurried her explanation. Though she had seen the man this time, she could only describe him in terms of his blue eyes, ski mask, and dark clothes. Not much for police to go on, she knew, and she could tell that Hadley doubted the pink bag was the target. Twice he politely indicated that the thief must have thought he was grabbing a bag that contained a purchase. Frustrated, Christa drove toward her apartment, her haven.

Mahaska Springs was at the edge of Iowa City, almost in the smaller city of Coralville. It was located just off Highway Six, the main route into town, but when you turned off the highway and drove several hundred yards to the complex entrance, you might as well have been in the country.

A narrow creek ran behind the apartments. Beyond the creek was a small woods, creating an aura of seclusion that Christa thought went with the apartment's namesake. Chief Mahaska was the best-known Ioway Indian chief. His tribe, nearly extinct today, had given her state its name, and she liked to think he stood guard over her little corner of it. Christa found this idea especially comforting this evening. She wanted to be far away from anyone who would even think of robbing her. She knew it was silly to think one part of town was so much safer than another, but she stubbornly clung to the thought that as soon as she reached Mahaska Springs she would be protected. But, from what?

It was dark now, so she couldn't see the brilliant hues of the leaves on the large trees that lined the driveway. At one time, this had been part of a large farm. She'd seen an aerial photo of the property, which has boasted two large barns and a rambling farm home, with the edge of the strip of trees separating the farmhouse from the hundreds of acres of cultivated land. The house had burned in the 1970s, and the property had finally been sold to the developers who created Mahaska Springs.

If she wandered to the edge of the woods, Christa could still see some of the foundation from the old house. It was the only hint of the land's immediate prior residents. She sometimes walked there hoping to come up with an arrowhead or some other trace of the original North American inhabitants of this land. Now, the five garden-style apartment buildings were home to 40 individuals or families.

On her right as she came up the driveway was the community building with the pool just beyond it. At this hour in the summer, there would still be children splashing in the baby pool and adults doing lap swims. Tonight it was a forlorn sight, matching her mood. Two stacks of deck chairs were covered with tarps, and the large mounds looked like dark-colored ghosts.

She pulled into her assigned parking space and turned off the motor. It was an effort just to remove the keys from the ignition. The day's emotional toll was mounting, and she felt vulnerable even in front of her own home. The thought made her angry, and she drew strength from her irritation. As she got out of the car, she noted a handsome pick-up truck in the space next to hers. A couple of padded moving quilts and a child's dresser lay in the truck bed. It looked as if she was getting new neighbors, and they obviously had at least one child, probably a girl, given that the dresser was in an antique white style.

She walked down the short flight of steps to her ground floor apartment and unlocked the door. For a fleeting second she wondered if anyone was inside, but the sound of Brandy's impatient meowing nixed the thought. If anyone was there, Brandy would be cowering under a bed rather than trying to wind herself around Christa's legs. She stooped to pick up the cat, but Brandy would have none of that. She marched into the kitchen and meowed more loudly.

Christa shut the door and flicked on the lamp that sat on the oak table near the door. Some things never change, she thought as she listened to Brandy's call from the kitchen. She reached in her pocket and pulled out the small can of food, then tossed her coat over the back of the couch. Brandy had earned her treat. For two nights her dinner had been delayed, and she was letting her owner know she would have no more of that treatment. Christa walked into the kitchen and uprighted the garbage can. "It's a good thing I didn't have any coffee grounds in there, cat." She emptied the entire can into Brandy's plastic dish and tossed the can into the garbage. She was too tired to rinse it out for the recycling bin.

Outside the apartment door she heard footsteps on the stairs and then saw her front door rattle as someone bumped into it. They were probably moving in the last piece of furniture. She should really be a good neighbor and introduce herself. That's what the unit's prior owners had done on her first night more than six years ago, and it had certainly made Christa feel more at home. She went to her bedroom and picked up the brush on her dresser and ran it through her tangled hair. No sense scaring the new tenants, she thought wryly.

She picked up two apples from the fruit bowl in the kitchen. Not a true housewarming gift, but the best she could do on short notice. She knocked on the door and waited several moments before she was rewarded with the sound of small feet scampering in her direction. "Wait for me, sweetheart," a woman's voice called from the back of the apartment. Good advice, Christa thought to herself.

The door opened part of the way and a woman a few years older than she smiled at Christa. "Hello," she said, simply.

"I live across the hall. My name's Christa Heckertt. Welcome to the neighborhood."

The woman's smile broadened and she threw open the door. "Do come in! I'm Frances King, and this is my daughter, Amy."

Christa judged the child to be about kindergarten age, but she didn't recognize her. They must have moved here from a different school district. "Thought you might do with a snack," she said, as she held the apples out to Frances.

"Thanks. Can you sit for a moment? We just got the last piece of furniture in and were going to take a break." Christa glanced around the apartment. Though they couldn't have been there more than a few hours, there were already books on the shelves under the window, and any unpacked boxes were stacked next to the bookcase. Christa marked Frances King for a high-energy woman. Amy's red-headed rag doll sat on the blue loveseat, and Frances gestured to it. "Move your doll, so Ms. Heckertt can have a seat."

"Who's your first guest, sis?" came the deep voice from the back room. Christa didn't need to see his face as he came into the hallway. She would have recognized Kirk Reynolds anywhere.

"This is our neighbor, Christa. And look," Frances held out the two apples. "She's brought us a snack."

"Gee, I thought we were supposed to give apples to the teacher." Christa wasn't sure if his smile welcomed or mocked her, but she was glad Frances had offered her the seat because her legs just wouldn't hold her anymore.