At Jake's words, I could no longer feel the warmth from the snapping fire. I had to take a few deep breaths before I trusted my voice enough to try talking. "Jake, honey, what makes you say that?"

Jake's eyes dropped to the rapidly-cooling mug clutched between his little hands. Another crystal drop traced a damp path down his cheek, but he remained silent. I set my mug aside, no longer concerned about cocoa, and knelt beside him. "Did you hear someone say that?"

His small head quivered, then slowly bobbed, though his eyes never left his hands.

I eased into a more comfortable position. It wasn't the first time I'd gone through this ritual of dragging information out of reticent children. "Who was it? Was it your dad?"

Sniffle. Sniffle. Another dripping teardrop. Then he shook his head no.

"Your mom?" No. "Someone at school?" No.

I took a deep breath, trying to stay patient and calm. "Jake, you need to tell me what you heard, sweetie. Things like this are very important. Do you remember last year, when I talked to you about good secrets and bad secrets?"

The mug slipped from his trembling hands and clattered on the hardwood floor, sending milky-brown liquid everywhere. "I gotta go," he blurted out, already on his feet and moving toward the door at top speed.

"Jake, wait!" I called, scrambling after him. "Jake!"

But he was gone, the door banging loosely against the doorframe behind him. By the time I was on the porch, the boy was nowhere in sight. After peering into the twilight haze for several minutes, I finally gave up and returned to the living room. My body mechanically went through the motions of retrieving a towel and sopping up the spilled cocoa, but my mind was far away, back in the school, last year. Was Jake one of the boys who made things up? I racked my brain, trying to remember any instances that stood out. No, he never was the type to make things up. But, if I recalled correctly, he was the hyper-sensitive type, the kind that heard vague things and drew specific conclusions.

I could feel the muscles in my shoulders relaxing. He might have heard someone say something about me, but it wasn't necessarily a threat. I smiled as I carried the towel back to the laundry room. Maybe someone was planning a surprise for me, and said that I'd 'just die' when I saw it. Kids can be so literal.

It was still early, but I was tired. I never got enough sleep during the week. After getting the mugs in the dishwasher and surveying the living room floor for any evidence of cocoa still waiting to be dealt with, I turned out the lights and headed upstairs. I might get a little reading done before going to sleep, but for now, I just wanted to get into comfy clothes and underneath the cozy down comforter on my bed.

Doorbell chimes sounded just as I reached my bedroom door. I groaned, but the realization that the doorbell might be chiming Jake's return sent me dashing back down the stairs, vaulting the last two, and diving for the door.

Marcus Thomason, Jake's dad, gave me a nervous smile as he stood on my porch with one arm around his wife, Irene. "Hey, Ms. B. Sorry to bug ya so late."

"That's fine." It took me a moment to switch mental gears from expecting to see Jake at my door. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, ma'am," Marcus said, still with the same funny smile on his face. Irene seemed to be trying to smile as well, but she was failing miserably. "We just, um, Jake just got home, and said he'd been over here a bit, and I just wanted to come and check up on things."

"Jake's been telling all sorts of stories lately," Irene blurted out. She sounded like she was reading lines off a script. "Funny things, and it's been scaring people all over."

Marcus nodded, giving her a little squeeze. "We just wanted to make sure he didn't tell any of his stories over here and get you all riled up over nothin'."

Years of experience in dealing with people, coaxing information out of them and lying to their faces, had given me a confidence that most people will ever know. I had been ready to brush Jake's declaration off as an overactive imagination, but now I knew without question there was a real threat at work here. Marcus and Irene's story was about as flimsy as a paper nail.

I smiled, a much more realistic and convincing smile than Marcus'. "Well, that's so sweet of you to come over and tell me that, but Jake and I just had a little cocoa together. That's all."

Marcus' smile faltered, but only for a moment. "So, uh, so he didn't say anything to you that sounded, uh, funny?"

"Not that I recall."

The two paused for a moment, their expressions shifting in uncertainty, but Irene soon took the lead. "Well, we're glad. He's been telling all sorts of stories lately."

"Right," Marcus nodded. He looked like a bobble-head on a 4x4. "All sorts of funny stories. Well, glad he didn't get you scared. Uh... Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight!" I chirped, waving and smiling as they made a quick departure. The instant they were gone, I shut and latched the door. This was bad. Very, very bad.

So Jake really had heard a genuine threat, I thought as I hurried up the stairs to my bedroom. Someone's going to try to kill me by Monday. And now his parents are trying to cover it up. They weren't the ones who made the threat, I was fairly certain of that. But it was clear they were somehow involved.

I dug past shoes and discarded dresses in the bottom of my closet to the small safe hidden in the back corner. I'd been in this town too long anyway. Much longer than any other town. I spun the combination dial back and forth in the correct sequence. My training had been ridiculously scant, but there was one thing they'd drilled into me time and time again: if a threat comes up, you have to assume your cover is blown.

Underneath stacks of important documents was a plain manila envelope. I dug it out, managing to cause a small landslide in the process, and removed the thin cell phone from inside. I dialed from memory and listened to the cheerful, steady ringing on the other end.

"Yeah?"

Agent Chomsky's voice was a bit slurred, though I could barely tell over the pulse-thumping music in the background. "My cover's blown," I said loudly. "I have to leave town."

"Who's 'is?"

I clenched my teeth. I knew that the agents had real lives, and it was perfectly normal for people to go out drinking on Friday nights - but did it have to be this Friday night? "Chomsky, it's me!"

There was a long pause, then I heard him excusing himself. After a minute, the background noise faded. "What'd you say?"

"I said, my cover's blown," I said, using the same voice I use when I'm explaining something to one of my students. "I have to leave town."

"Oh." Another long pause. "'old on a sec. Y'r leavin'?"

"My... cover... has... been... blown," I said for a third time.

A loud beep rang in my ear, then a few more. "Chomsky? Chomsky, are you still there?" I demanded, my fingers tightening on the phone.

"Please hold," a perky, pre-recorded voice sang. "You are being transferred now."

I crossed the room to sit on the bed. I'd never spoken to anyone but Chomsky before, but then again, my cover had never been blown before, either.

"This is Agent Wilkes. Who is this?"

The agent sounded stiff and formal. I'd never been fond of such people, but it was a relief after Chomsky's drunken mumblings. "I can't give you my name, but I can give you my ID number."

"Proceed."

After rattling off the number, I returned to the closet to pull out my suitcase. "My cover's been blown. I have to leave town."

Now Wilkes paused. I had to wonder if this really was any better than Chomsky. "Are you certain?"

"No, but I received a serious threat, and we have to make that assumption."

Another pause, but this time it was accompanied by the clacking of keys. "Okay," Wilkes finally said. "There's a bus to Portland stopping at the grocery mart in forty-five minutes. Give the driver your name, and he'll get you there. Keep this phone with you and call me once you're ten minutes out of town."

I opened my mouth to thank him,, but Wilkes had already disconnected. "Well, thanks anyway," I told the silent phone, then stuffed it in my pocket before setting to work packing up the essentials. It was going to be hard leaving my students, but that was an inescapable part of my life. And Amy would be coming to an empty house tomorrow, but that couldn't be helped. The other thing drilled into me over the years was that personal attachment to anyone in these towns was a liability. Sentiment was a luxury I just couldn't afford.

Once the suitcase was packed, I turned out the lights and crept out the back door, locking it behind me. A faint stirring in my heart made me pause, but I pushed it back down. I did feel attached to this town, after all the time spent here, but there was no space for emotions here. I turned my back on my house and set out on the half-mile walk to the grocery mart.

***

The streetlight directly above the bus stop was the only one functioning properly. The others sputtered on and off at random. It wasn't helping my anxiety any. But I still had to play the part, so I tried to look casual, as if I sat at bus stops in the dead of the night all the time. In reality, I felt like a giant target.

What time was the bus supposed to arrive? I glanced at my watch. Fifteen more minutes. Pulling my coat tightly against the wind, I wished I'd thought to linger in the house a little longer. By the time the bus arrived, I'd likely be a total icicle.

The streetlight directly across the street from me blinked on and a short shadow reached in my direction. I looked up, startled, at Lucy, one of the girls from my class last year. Her clothes were dark and she stared at me with wide, solemn eyes.

I stood. "Lucy? What are you doing here, sweetie?"

The light flickered again and a few more children were suddenly there, standing on the sidewalk and staring. Most from my class last year, a couple from this year. My heart went into calisthenics. "What are you doing out so late?" I winced inwardly at how shaky my voice sounded. "Where are your parents?"

The street across from me was almost full now, though I hadn't seen a single one of them in the act of arriving. They all just stood there, staring at me. Like they were waiting for something.

I took a step backwards, searching their faces. "You shouldn't be out so late." In any group of children misbehaving, there was always one who cracked, letting their fear of punishment outweigh the peer pressure. I just had to find that one here. "What will your parents say?"

Jake and Amy were at the front of the group, holding hands. I swallowed hard as my heart picked up the pace. They hadn't been there a second ago. All traces of tears had vanished from Jake's face, and he stared at me as solemnly as the others.

"Jake? Jake, what's going on?" I asked. He'd reached out to me and warned me earlier. Maybe I could get him to reach out again.

"Ms. B!"

The man's voice was cheerful, but I still jumped a mile when it boomed out from beside me. I spun and found myself face to face with Hiram Lockley, the town's mayor. I recognized him from one of his visits to the school. I still would have recognized him even if he hadn't visited the school, however; his beaming visage decorated posters all over town.

His smile now was similar to the one on the posters. It was a preacher's smile - not one of the good preachers, who actually care about people, but more like one of those preachers who smile only because they know people like that. "And just how is our town's loveliest teacher this fine evening?" he asked, his smile stretching even further.

I glanced back over at the other side of the street to find it empty. A cold shudder passed through my body. Had I been seeing things?

Mayor Lockley went on as if he didn't notice my distress. "Fine evening, no question. Now, where might you be off to?"

My brain finally kicked into gear and I managed to give him a polite smile. "My parents bought me a new car," I said, one of the many fast and easy explanations in my repertoire. "I'm taking the bus out to them, and driving the new car back."

"Oh, that's awful nice of them. But I'm afraid I can't just let you leave town like that." He reached out and put a hand on my arm. The gesture had all the appearance of friendliness, but his fingers bit into my arm like a vice. "Not just yet."