“I haven’t called the cops yet because”—he shook his head—“well, one, his dad is a police officer, but also, I’ve built some trust with this kid and don’t want to put him through that kind of accusation if there’s no chance it’s him. Having said that, I obviously can’t ignore the possibility either. I wasn’t close enough that night to rule him out. You may have been.”
She let out a breath. “You want me to try to ID him?”
“Yeah. If he’s the one, I’ll call the cops. It needs to be reported. But if he’s not, then I can save him another run-in with the law and protect some of that trust I’ve built with him.” He glanced at the clock. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you have a few minutes, my class with him is about to start. I can tell the kids you’re there to learn about the program.”
She chewed her lip, the thought of possibly seeing the person who’d put a gun to her head making her throat want to close. But if he was the one, she needed to know. “Um, yeah, okay. I can stay.”
He nodded, face grim. “All right. I hate to ask you to do this, but I couldn’t think of a better way.”
“It’s okay. I don’t want anyone to be falsely accused.”
“Right.” He stood and stepped around the desk, putting a hand out to help her up from the chair. The warmth of his fingers seeped into hers as he gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Thanks for this.”
She nodded and tried to ignore the tremor of pleasure the simple act of holding his hand inspired. “Of course.”
Their gazes held for a moment, but then a bell sound came over the loudspeakers, announcing the end of a period and breaking the spell. He quickly let go of her hand and led her out into the hall.
The hallway filled with teens, and she and Wes were swept into the flow. The noise rose to a level that made conversation impossible, and Rebecca just let herself watch all the kids as they passed. Teenagers laughing and talking. Some quietly making their way through the crowd like mice in a maze. Others rushing to the two vending machines for a drink or snack. And a few bumping fists with Wes or greeting him as Chef G.
Rebecca’s muscles tensed as the crowd thickened, any reminder of high school life setting off that hyperalert part of her, but Wes seemed completely comfortable in the chaos, making sure to respond to any kid who acknowledged him. Rebecca focused on that and the obvious affection he had for his students. Maybe he was just teaching them how to fry an egg and it wasn’t his dream job, but anyone could see that it was more than just marking time for both him and the kids.
Wes cupped her elbow and ushered her through a stream of people into a room at the end of the hallway. A few kids were already in chairs behind one of the tables in the room, and a short Hispanic girl was behind the big counter in the front, loading ingredients from a cabinet onto the tabletop.
She raised a hand in greeting when they walked in. “Hey, Chef G, can we try that oven-fried chicken recipe Steven found? The one that uses pancake batter? I have an idea for a maple syrup sauce that might go with it. It’ll be like chicken and waffles without the waffle.”
“Yeah, Lola, that’s fine. I defrosted the chicken before I left yesterday. It should be good to go. But let everyone else get here before you start anything.”
Rebecca followed Wes to the front, her attention skimming over the kitchen area. The white Formica counters were chipped and the stove was electric, which even she knew was not ideal. And Wes hadn’t been kidding about the oven. It was legit avocado green—and not in a cool retro way, just an old, ugly way. But the girl, Lola, was humming to herself as she pulled ingredients out of the cabinets like she was about to cook at Le Cordon Bleu.
More kids filed in, about ten in total, and Rebecca nervously skimmed over the faces of all the boys. When a tall, skinny white kid wearing a beanie walked in and greeted Wes with What up, Chef G? her breath stuttered in her chest. His voice didn’t sound familiar, but when Wes told the kid, Steven, to take off his hat and the guy removed his beanie, stringy dark hair fell into his face. Rebecca stilled, snapshots of memories flashing in her head. Snapshots she couldn’t trust. Friday night, she’d been hearing Trevor Lockwood’s voice, seeing his face. This kid resembled him, but had she seen this kid or was her memory just superimposing familiar features?
“Hey, Steven, Chef G said okay to the waffle chicken,” Lola announced triumphantly.
Steven grinned. “Sweet. I was thinking we should add something spicy to the maple sauce. Straight-up sweet is just, uh, whaddya call it, Chef G?”
“One note,” Wes supplied.
The kid snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m not doing no one-note chicken. This is going to be like a rock song.” He mimicked moving his fingers along guitar frets. “All kinds of notes.”
Wes laughed, but Rebecca could tell it was a little forced. His gaze slid to her, questions there. And she could see it in his eyes, that desperate hope that this wasn’t the kid, that his student wasn’t capable of putting a gun to a woman’s head and shooting a dog.
She found herself shaking her head.
No? he mouthed.
She swallowed hard, glancing at Steven, who was now joking with another student and taking ingredients out of the fridge. From behind, he reminded her so much of Trevor that it made her insides cramp. But that was the problem. Her memory was screwing with her. Everything about that night was a mix of past and present, images blending.
She already knew the stats on eyewitness memory and how faulty it was. She’d learned that as far back as Long Acre when conflicting accounts from students on how many shooters and what had happened had been the norm in the days following. Friday night, she’d been in the middle of some traumatic flashback during the holdup. Her brain had barely been functional. There was no way she could positively identify this kid. Resemblance was a possibility, but it wasn’t proof.
She stepped over to Wes and pulled him out of earshot of the group. “I can’t say no for sure, but I don’t…think so.”
He frowned. “He was right next to you when the dog attacked.”
She licked her lips. “I was panicking. My head was somewhere else, and my attention was on the dog. It was all happening too fast.”
Wes crossed his arms and eyed the group, evaluating. “Okay, how about this? Why don’t you stay for the class? I’m going to watch him when I introduce you. You may not recognize him, but if he was the one, he’ll recognize you.”
She frowned. “Not necessarily.”