Page 46 of For Your Own Good
The Unity of Life Church is where he goes for answers. When he was trying to decide if he should ask Missy to marry him, he came here to pray for guidance. When she was pregnant, he came here to pray for a safe delivery and a healthy child. When he recently hurt his shoulder, he came here to pray for a speedy recovery.
The praying always made him feel better. Always made him feel like he’d come to the right place.
Now it doesn’t.
He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be talking to God. He should be talking to the police, starting by telling them what Ingrid did to him.
Or at least what he remembers. It isn’t much.
At the fundraiser, where he saw Ingrid, she was wearing a sleek black dress that showed off her curves. Their conversation was normal at first. Nothing out of the ordinary for a teacher and a board member. The bar came next, and a drink.
“I’d really like to discuss the math curriculum with you in more detail,” she said. Her lips were a deep shade of red. Painted-on color that didn’t smear on the edge of her glass.
“I’d like that,” he said.
“And I’m not just saying that. I really do mean it.”
“So do I.”
“Then let’s go,” she said. “Right now. Let’s go around the corner to Mona’s. We can have a drink and discuss it.”
He went. Because when the president of the Collaborative requests your company, you show up.
And when she keeps ordering cocktails, you drink.
They talked about math, about Belmont, maybe even some gossip. Nothing too bad, nothing harmful. Although by then, the night had become a little hazy.
She ordered two more drinks.
It never occurred to him that she might not be drinking them, that maybe she was emptying her glass into the planter behind them. He didn’t think about that until later.
He remembers, sort of, when they got up to leave. She took him by the arm and led him out the door. A burst of cool air hit him, although he didn’t shiver, didn’t feel too cold.
That’s the last thing he can recall.
He woke up alone in a hotel room.
31
THE MALL, ORwhat’s left of it, is an atrocious place. Sonia walks past the empty retail spaces, heading into the only decent store left. She has nothing to wear to court. Nothing that fits, anyway. And that won’t do, not at all, because she’s going to be on TV.
No way around it, as far as she can tell. The trial itself won’t be televised, but everyone is filmed walking in and out of the courtroom. She’ll be identified, too. Everything will be on the record and public.
The idea that she, Sonia Benjamin, a representative of Belmont Academy, is being forced to testify against one of their own is abominable. It makes her want to scream.
Instead, she grabs a piece of hard candy out of her bag and shoves it into her mouth.
She already knows what they’re going to ask. They went through it in the preliminary interview, and again this afternoon, when one of the DA’s assistants had called. The woman sounded as young as Sonia’s students.
Her questions were the same as last time. As much as Sonia wanted to lie, she didn’t. Couldn’t. And she can’t stop thinking about how her answers will sound in court.
Did you ever see Courtney Ross with her mother?
Yes.
Once? More than once?
Several times.
