When I walked into the room, I saw Cherrie setting up the sheet music stand. My steps faltered when I saw the surprised look on her face.
“Girl,” she whispered, “what’s with the funeral outfits? Did you forget our ‘fabulous senior year’ pact?” A sharp, brittle laugh escaped her before she managed to stifle it.
I mumbled something about a sleepless night, the words catching in my throat. His image, the cold, slippery certainty in his eyes, surfaced in my mind. Cherrie’s laugh vanished, replaced by the clench of her jaw.
“We’re going to the police station after rehearsal,” she declared, her voice firm and determined. “That creep is getting reported. He needs to lose his job after scaring us like that.”
I swallowed back my comment about how useless that would be. After all, what would we
