CHAPTER ONE
KILLING SOMEONE IS not nearly as simple in real life as it is on television.
“What the...” Janie Vincent sputtered. She grabbed her coffee cup, more for comfort than for the caffeine at this late hour, and ordered herself to stop reading.
But she was already hooked.
She glanced back at the art book’s cover. Yup, this was Derek’s book, the one he’d done as an assignment for the Intermediate Canvas class Janie was assisting in. His first two pages had stayed true to the assignment: he’d drawn thumbnail sketches of what he was working on for the class’s main project. Page three was where he’d strayed. Oh, he’d included thumbnail drawings amidst his prose. But prose didn’t belong in the workbook unless he was summarizing his ideas for future drawings. She seemed to be looking at a mixture of fact and fiction, original art complementing a master. Derek had drawn windy, mountainous roads with sharp curves, a dark four-door car, and a re-creation of The Scream by Edvard Munch.
The re-creation had more hair.
He had, however, made no indication of what medium he intended to use or final dimension. Maybe he was planning a graphic novel?
Even though it was obvious that Derek had not adhered to the assignment guidelines, she continued to read:
For one thing, murder is black-and-white and mostly soundless after the bullet fires. Maybe the sound of the report temporarily deafens you? Or maybe you go into shock?
Derek, by far, was her darkest student. What he created in class always centered on battle scenes. Occasionally, he included bleeding dragons and eerie castles in the distance.
But they didn’t scare her as much as the drawings in this art book. Derek had somehow managed to make his stick figures ominous. Frowning, she stopped reading long enough to take another a sip of coffee. Her hand, clutching the cup, shook a little. Then, because anyone could be watching, she glanced around the student union to make sure no one had noticed her shocked response. She’d hate for a student to think she was this aghast over his homework.
She didn’t expect to see Derek; he’d been absent a full week—since he’d turned in the art book last Wednesday.
I knew Chad and Chris planned to kill her before we even stopped the car. She knew it, too, and looked at me with pleading eyes as if realizing I was the only sane person in the car. Before that night I was sane. But from the moment I figured out he was going to kill her, and from the moment she stared at me, silently begging me to intervene, I was no longer sane. I was simply the man in the backseat. The only one close enough to her that she could make eye contact with.
If this were truly a graphic novel, then it was pretty good. Too good.
In the drawing, a lone mailbox braved the wind by a tall, dark, ragged tree. Four people occupied the vehicle. They were stick figures, but he had added minute details—a big nose on one, hair sticking straight up on another—that made Janie long for a magnifying glass. The tiny license plate even bore minute letters and numbers.
But Derek Chaney’s fiction didn’t really belong in an art book.
A tiny sliver of concern snaked its way up Janie’s spine. Surely Derek wasn’t keeping track of actual events...?
Chad was cussing and driving. Chris wasn’t saying a word, just stared out the window that wouldn’t roll down. And, for the first time, no one complained about the broken air conditioner. Maybe Chad was thinking about heat. He’ll feel it soon enough; Hell is hot. And that’s where he’s going because Chad pulled the trigger. He better get used to the heat.
Derek had always been a disturbed young man. As a brand-new teaching assistant, first time in a college classroom, Janie had been ill equipped to deal with his mood swings. She’d tried to give him some stability by partnering him with other students.
But they mostly avoided him.
She’d sought help early on from Patricia Reynolds, the course’s main instructor and chair of the art department.
“Derek needs this class more than anyone else,” was Patricia’s response. “Right now he’s antisocial with a bad temper, but if he can make a connection with art, feel good about something he’s created, who knows how his future might change.”
Janie had nodded. There’d been a teacher in her past—Mrs. Freshia, seventh-grade English—who’d read one of Janie’s personal art-book entries and taken the time to ask, “Are you all right?” And then she’d believed Janie when she’d said, “No.”
Mrs. Freshia had testified in court on Janie’s behalf so that she could go live with her sister, who at just eighteen years old, wanted to be her guardian.
Katie had wanted her. Janie had hoped somebody wanted Derek.
So Janie had offered him alternatives to some of his more gruesome ideas. She’d tried to be friendly, to engage him in conversation. He’d smirked, then drawn a scar down the side of one of his female warrior’s face. A scar just like Janie’s, maybe a bit more pronounced.
She’d long ago come to terms with her physical scar, though. He couldn’t hurt her that way.
She’d lent an ear, but he hadn’t wanted to talk. So she’d backed off, hoping Patricia was right. Derek hadn’t
