“We made a snowman.”

  Al looks confused.

  “Benson and I. While he was taking a break. We made a snowman.”

  “Why?”

  “Because! Because it was snowing and it was fun, and because you and I don’t have fun anymore, Al. We just float past each other, ships that pass in the night.”

  His face tightens. “Did he make a move on you because if he did…”

  “No!” I yell. “Of course not! He’s dating a very nice woman called Jerrie. She’s a school counsellor and likes Mexican food!”

  His face settles back into his habitual morose look. “That’s alright then.”

  A cold lump hardens inside my heart.

  “Do you still love me, Al?”

  His eyes widen.

  “What sort of question is that?”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I do! You’re my wife!”

  It’s not the same thing. I hope he doesn’t ask me the same question.

  “We used to have fun,” I say helplessly. “We used to do things together. And I don’t just mean vacations. We used to enjoy each other.”

  He thinks I’m talking about sex, I can see the humiliation in his eyes. But I’m not talking about that, not really.

  “What’s got into you tonight?” he asks, his voice bewildered, bordering on belligerent.

  I shake my head. “Nothing, Al. Nothing whatsoever.”

  We go to bed in chilly silence, turning our backs on each other. Soon, too soon, I hear Al’s light snores. I climb out of bed, shivering as the heating ticks quietly in the cooling air. I peer through the curtains and see the snowman standing sentinel in the darkness.

  And I cry.

  Eventually, I go back to bed but I lie awake a long time.

  When I wake up in the morning, the other side of the bed is cold and empty. A thread of doubt winds its way through me. Did I upset Al so much that he’s gone? No, not Al. Not sensible, loyal, gentle Al.

  But the house is so quiet, and my heartbeat kicks up. I wrap my robe around me, stuffing my feet into fluffy slippers and head down to my nearly-finished kitchen.

  The coffee machine is warm to the touch, but Al isn’t there. And then my gaze is caught by movement outside, and I see Al, wearing boots and his winter coat, and he’s building another snowman. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. This snowman is slightly smaller than the one I made with Benson, and the head wobbles as Al places it on top.

  Then he looks up and our eyes meet. He doesn’t smile.

  He turns and walks to the house, determination in every step, and I hold my breath.

  The silence stretches between us as he closes the door behind him. He clears his throat.

  “I thought … I thought that your snowman needed a friend, a wife, someone to be with him for … for the rest of the winter.” His eyes meet mine. “Because the snowman would be so lonely on his own. Because he loves his wife.”

  I realize that tears are running down my cheeks and that cold, hard pebble in the center of my chest begins to thaw.

  THE END

  I hope you enjoyed this short story about love between an older couple as it changes with the years.

  My Education series follows the lives of the two characters across three decades of love and loss and reunion. It’s a two-book series (with lots of free bonus chapters on my website) and a third book told entirely from Sebastian’s pov, Semper Fi.

  MARCH

  I Accuse

  “I think we’re looking at a serial killer.”

  Special Agent Tristan Falkner met the sceptical eyes of his colleagues.

  “What are you talking about? The guy jumped out of a 27th story window—there were a dozen witnesses,” said Drew Cormac.

  Falkner threw the younger man an irritated look, wishing again that his regular partner hadn’t chosen this month to have her baby. He hated breaking in a new partner.

  “Why are we even talking about this,” Cormac continued, “when we have a case load that…”

  ASAC Martinez interrupted Cormac’s rant even though he understood the man’s frustration.

  “Explain your thinking, Tris,” he said. “What are you seeing that we’re not?”

  Falkner grimaced. The connections were tenuous, he knew that, but it was there; he felt it in his gut. Unfortunately, even though the FBI trained its agents to trust their own instincts, they also required facts and evidence—Falkner was short on those.

  “Ten years ago, Oliver Davis-Smith attended Burnbridge, a private college in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and was a member of the Digamma Rho fraternity.”

  Cormac leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, clearly bored. ASAC Martinez was frowning but listening intently.

  “Life was pretty good for him: married his sorority girlfriend, graduated second in his class from Harvard Business School, successful career until two months ago.”

  “Jeez, we know this,” Cormac interrupted and this time Martinez didn’t stop him. “His mistress records them having sex, forces him to do some insider trading to pay for her silence but she sends the tape to his wife anyway; his wife divorces him and takes the kids; he’s fired from his job, he jumps. The mistress vanishes. End of story.”

  Falkner clenched his teeth. “And two years before that there was Graham Patterson, also a member of Digamma Rho who just happened to be Davis-Smith’s roommate. He was mayor of his town and being groomed for Congress. He’s speaking at the annual conference of the right-wing Family Research Brethren, when oops, his Powerpoint Presentation on the sanctity of family is suddenly showing him having sex with someone who is neither his wife nor female. He’s humiliated, ruined and kills himself later that day by autoerotic asphyxiation. Now I don’t get that—why kill yourself in such a humiliating way? Why not use the gun he has locked in his desk drawer?”

  Cormac barked out a laugh. “So the dude wanted one last hurrah before he offed himself. So what?”

  ASAC Martinez tapped his fingers on the table. “No, I’m interested. Go on, Tris.”

  Falkner knew he was onto something.

  “Okay, so going back six years, we have another death that was written up as a suicide: another member of Digamma Rho and another friend of Davis-Smith, name of Garry Bellwood. They were such good buddies, he was best man at Davis-Smith’s wedding.”

  Even Cormac looked interested by this snippet.

  “Bellwood had a successful car dealership selling Mercedes and Beamers. Business is going great and he’s opened three franchises over a four year period. And then suddenly, he forgets to pay his taxes and goes bankrupt. Injects enough heroin to kill a bull elephant, even though everyone who knew him said he was against drugs, believed in Just Say No. And get this, the accountant who’d been working for him for two years was never found. Becca Stevens just vanished. Local cops thought she must have left because she felt guilty, but Becca Stevens didn’t even exist until she’d gotten the job with Bellwood, and there’s been no trace of her since. And believe me, I’ve dug deep.”

  Falkner had their attention.

  “Nine years ago, a fourth member of Digamma Rho was murdered: Father Jeff Driver—another close friend of Davis-Smith.”

  “I remember this case,” Cormac said suddenly. “I studied it at the Academy. A Catholic priest who was accused of child molestation. He died from blood loss when someone castrated him.”

  Falkner nodded. “The police assumed it was someone who wanted to punish him for his crimes. But although the kiddie fiddler name stuck, no one ever came forward to say that their child had been a victim.”

  “Not even later?” ASAC Martinez asked.

  “Nope. Nothing was ever found and the cops questioned all his parishioners. And get this, the guy had been quite the party animal in college but had some sort of Damascene conversion during his senior year.” Falkner paused. “Almost as if he had something to atone for.”

  ASAC Martinez leaned forward. “You think something happened and the killer has been tracking down this bunch of fraternity brothers ever since?”

  Falkner nodded. “That’s what I think.”

  Cormac wasn’t convinced. “But why make it so complicated? Why not just get a gun and blow the guys’ brains out? If this is some kind of revenge thing, why take ten years?”

  “I haven’t figured that part out,” Falkner admitted. “But there’s something here—a pattern. The Catholic priest—there was a lot of rage in that murder, like the killer was less controlled then.”

  “But how are you linking the suicides of the other three?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Falkner. “A Catholic priest is going to be the one who’s the least likely to commit suicide—it’s a mortal sin, the unforgiveable sin, so…”

  ASAC Martinez saw where this was going. “So that’s going to be the one that no one would believe is suicide, so the killer doesn’t even try to make it look like he killed himself.”

  Falkner nodded, relieved that his boss saw the pattern, as well. “Yes, and I think the killer decided then to make the others look like suicides—and they’re years apart so it’s less likely that anyone would make the connection and alert the authorities.”

  “What made you make the connection?” ASAC Martinez asked.

  “It was the Digamma Rho link—something clicked. Whatever happened, the trigger, the source of all this is back at Burnbridge College. I’d bet my badge on it.”

  ASAC Martinez nodded. “Okay, what’s your plan?”

  Falkner blew out a relieved breath now he’d been given the go-ahead.

  “Two-fold: I want to go to Harrisburg and interview the Dean and any members of staff who knew the dead men and the Digamma Rho fraternity; and secondly, I want to talk to Conran Bates, a TV reporter in Baltimore. He was in the fraternity and also at Davis-Smith’s wedding.”

  ASAC Martinez stood up. “I can give you a week then I need you back here. Take Cormac.”

  Falkner slid a sideways look at Cormac; he’d hoped to work the case alone.

  “Looks like we’re taking a trip to Harrisburg, partner,” said Cormac with a grin.

  Falkner was happy to let Cormac drive—he was too irritating to be a passenger; at least if the guy drove, he’d have to focus on driving instead of driving him nuts. Unfortunately, Falkner had vastly underestimated Cormac’s ability to multitask.

  “You really think there’s something to this Digamma Rho Killer?”

  Falkner didn’t even bother to answer that.

  “Okay, okay, I know you got Martinez convinced but it sounds like a bunch of hooey to me. It’s just coincidence. I know what you’re gonna say—FBI agents don’t believe in coincidences, but I was a math major and I’m telling you, from a statistical perspective, coincidences are inevitable, like the probability of two people having the same birthday in a group of only 23, that’s more than a 50% chance.”

  “And the probability of three people the same age committing suicide over a ten year period, successful men who haven’t been in a war zone? The suicide rate is eleven per hundred thousand people annually, that’s 0.00011%. So three of them in ten years?”

  Cormac scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Okay, so it’s not a high probability, but it’s not impossible, especially given all three of them were in high pressure, high achieving environments.”

  He side-eyed Falkner as he drove.

  “You want to talk to Conran Bates on the way? We’re going past Baltimore.”

  Falkner shook his head. “No, we’ll talk to Bates on the way back.”

  Cormac was silent for nearly a whole minute.

  “Tell me what you know about Becca Stevens.”

  Falkner withheld a smile. Cormac wasn’t as dumb as he tried to sound.

  “Becca Stevens was born in Winston-Salem in 1991 … and died in 2015—leukemia. But her social security number had her working for Garry Bellwood for 25 months.”

  “And whoever this woman was, as his accountant, she had access to all his bank records.”

  “Yup.”

  “How much was his unpaid tax bill?”

  “$5.7 million.”

  Cormac whistled through his teeth. “And the money was never traced?”

  “No, but I did find something interesting.”

  “Is this sharing hour, Falkner?”

  “Funny. At the time Becca Stevens went missing, several large donations were made to charities around Harrisburg: a free clinic, an AIDS charity, and a woman’s refuge, totaling…”

  “Let me guess, $5.7 million.”

  “Ding ding ding, we have a winner.”

  “That doesn’t make this Stevens woman a killer—just a very clever thief.”

  “It’s a theory.”

  Cormac looked thoughtful. “What do you know about the mistress of Davis-Smith?”

  “Not much. The tape doesn’t show her face. Fair skin, slender build, no discernible birth marks. Blonde hair but looks bleached. A friend of Davis-Smith said he thought her name was Jenna and she had a southern accent—maybe Georgia.”

  “Y’all sure about that?”

  Falkner rolled his eyes.

  “Any missing mistresses, office staff, female friends of Jeff Driver or Graham Patterson?”

  Falkner sighed. “Not that I’ve been able to find.”

  They were both silent.

  Cormac tapped the steering wheel as they slowed, the traffic congealing where MD-201 N became MD-295 N.

  “Anything else hinky about Digamma Rho?”

  “There was a serious complaint about hazing the year after the fab four graduated—a freshman lost a finger in a firework explosion but he wasn’t interested in naming names. He later scored a very nice internship with Davis-Smith’s father.”

  Cormac gave a disgusted snort. “Rich pricks with deep pockets.”

  “Certainly in Davis-Smith’s case.”

  “I know you’re working an angle, Falkner. How about you sharing it with your partner.”

  Falkner studied the passing scenery. Finally, he spoke.

  “It’s just a theory, but I think the killer is a woman.”

  Cormac didn’t respond right away. “You know that a serial killer is ten times more likely to be male than female?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you still think a woman did this?”

  “From the questions you’ve been asking about Becca Stevens and Jenna the mistress, you think so, too.”

  “How does that fit in with Graham Patterson’s male lover?”

  “The man’s face was never shown and he didn’t come forward. He was never found. Sound familiar? And it’s not just that—the killer didn’t want to just kill, she wanted to ruin them, starting with their reputations, their jobs and their relationship with wives and children, if they had them.”

  Cormac nodded slowly. “It’s about revenge.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think something happened at Burnbridge?”

  “I think one of those fraternity parties, or one of those hazing events had gotten even more out of hand than I’ve found out so far. We’ve got to dig deeper.”

  Cormac grinned. “Good thing I’m handy with a shovel.”

  When they arrived at the college, Cormac waved his badge at the security guard by the Dean’s office and parked in the staff lot. He headed for the entrance but Falkner didn’t follow him.

  “I thought we were talking to the Dean about Digamma Rho.”

  “You talk to him—push him hard on the hazing incident. Tell him we’re hearing rumors about other more serious allegations. Make him sweat.”

  “He’ll lawyer up.”

  “Persuade him that talking is in the college’s best interests—lawyers mean more people involved, right?”

  “Okay.”

  “And get a list of students who dropped out between 2010 and 2012 and text it to me.”

  Cormac nodded his understanding. “On it. What are you going to do?”

  “Take a stroll around the campus. When you’re finished with the Dean, go on over to the frat house and shake the tree, see what falls out.”

  The first place Falkner went was the library. Burnbridge was a private college and small enough that they still had yearbooks for each graduating class.

  He asked for the Head Librarian and introduced himself to the worried looking woman, explaining what he wanted.

  “Our Annuals are over in this section,” she said, leading him to the stacks on the third floor. “We stopped publishing them five years ago. Fewer students want them and the printing cost is so high. Which year did you want?”

  She handed Falkner the yearbooks he wanted, and studied the four men who’d died, as well as Conran Bates who’d survived longer than his fraternity brothers, from their freshmen days to senior year.

  When Cormac texted over the list of students who’d dropped out, Falkner looked at the female students first. He already knew that 29% of college students didn’t graduate, but that was down to just 4% in this exclusive private college of just 900 students: that was between 30 and 40 students each year. If his theory was right, the killer was one of the 95 pupils who’d dropped out between 2010 and 2012. Interestingly, more than 70% of the dropouts were female.

  Falkner frowned—that was a really skewed number. What the hell had been going on at Burnbridge back then?

  He started working through the list of 69 women who’d dropped out of college—all but five he found either on Facebook or Instagram, and of those five, two had died.

  Three women unaccounted for. He went back to the Annuals, searching for photographs to go with the names.

  Alana Fandre from Texax, Kristy Roberts from Virginia and Molly James from Arkansas. Alana was dark haired and dark eyed, Molly was blonde and petite with a broad grin, and Kristy looked shy and insecure with glasses and a nervous smile.

  All of the women would have studied here at the same time as the dead men. Beyond that, he couldn’t find any correlation. They hadn’t left during exam season or at the start of the semester when most students dropped out, in fact the dates seemed random.

  Cormac found him an hour later, still poring over the Annuals.