What Janie Saw(50)
Amanda’s interpreter stopped signing for a moment and glanced at Williamson before scooting closer to Amanda, signing to her frantically. Janie left her seat and knelt by Amanda, saying to the interpreter, “Tell her it’s okay. They’ll find who did this.”
That only made Amanda cry harder.
A few students started to leave their seats, with whispers of “Can I help?” and “Do you need a tissue?” Finally one of the interpreters escorted Amanda out of the room.
Her best friend in class, Max Carter, shrank into his chair.
Looking at Rafe, it dawned on Janie how closely the threads of a small town were woven. Amanda—and Max, too—would have known Brittney from high school. They were close to the same age, so they probably went to the same church, public pools, movie theater.
Slowly, Janie lowered herself into the seat Amanda had just vacated and she reached over to pat Max on the hand. He didn’t look at her, just blushed red.
Her fingers brushed against the blank sheet of paper Detective Williamson had passed out. He was giving the class the option of writing, anonymously, any information they had.
As if the drama had no effect on him, he passed around photos of both Derek and Brittney. He also taped a few to the dry-erase board. Then, he added, “I’d also like your art books so the Adobe Hills Police Department can look at them.”
Janie saw aghast expressions on some of her students’ faces. For many, the art books were as private as diaries. Others obediently gave in their art books with no qualms at the thought of starting anew.
“Where’s Patricia?” a student asked. The older woman had taken this same class a dozen times, each taught by Professor Reynolds, and was clearly agitated by the idea of parting with her art book.
“She’s at the station going through some pictures,” Nathan said. “She’s doing all she can to help us find whoever killed Derek.” The admission caused most of the holdouts to retrieve their books and hand them over. Then Rafe made his way to the front of the room.
With just a few words, he owned the room.
“Many of you know me as Sheriff Salazar. I’m the one you hear on television talking about what we’re doing to strengthen our borders, or talking about the pitfalls of drunk driving. You probably read about me in the paper, especially in regards to our battle with drugs.”
He ran a hand through his black hair, mussing it slightly. It made him appear older, worried, sincere.
When Williamson did the exact same thing, it just made him seem older.
“When people ask me why I want to be sheriff,” Rafe said, “I tell them the truth. I want to make my corner of the world a better place, a safer place. I do that by battling everything I just mentioned—borders, drugs, drunk drivers.”
He gazed across the classroom, and Janie got the sense he was seeing beneath the students’ appearances. Instead of an older man whose fingers shook from all the medications he was on, he saw a Vietnam serviceman who missed his late wife and his comrades, and who took art at a community college as a way to keep living. Instead of a woman who’d already had her cell phone out twice and who’d dropped both her purse and her notebook on the floor, he saw a single mother who’d left her children with a new babysitter and who’d only gotten five hours of sleep the night before.
She was aware of all of this because being a teaching assistant had its perks. She wasn’t in charge of their grades or the classroom curriculum, so sometimes they confided more to her than they would with the real teacher. They viewed her as a peer.