Free Murder of a Sleeping Beauty by Denise Swanson

less self-absorbed. “So, are you okay about yesterday?”
    Justin looked at her blankly.
    “I mean about finding Lorelei like that, and talking to the police and everything.”
    Another shrug. “No biggie.”
    Skye waited to see if he would add anything. After several minutes, she said, “I guess you better go back to class before the bell rings, so you can get your books.”
    Justin levered himself out of the chair. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned. “You know, Ms. Denison, one thing I figured out from yesterday is that even someone who seems perfect is probably more messed up than you’d think.”
    Wow, Justin had spent time and effort thinking about someone other than himself. That was real progress. Before Skye could formulate a response he was out the door.
    In a counseling session, the last few words as the client left the room were usually the most significant. Justin must have been referring to Lorelei. But how had Sleeping Beauty been messed up?
    The bell rang as Skye was noting Justin’s statement in his file. She pulled her appointment book from her purse and flipped to the next day’s page. She penciled in Elvira Doozier at eight, followed by Frannie Ryan at nine, then added Zoë VanHorn, Troy Yates, Farrah Miles, and Caresse and Chase Wren. It would be a full day.
    Skye stood and stretched. She needed to talk to the social workers the co-op had sent, debrief Trixie and Abby, and check to see when the body would be released. And if there was time, she also wanted to question Trixie about the cheerleader meeting Zoë had mentioned, and ask Kent about the Sleeping Beauty rehearsal.
    She had set up the co-op social workers in the band room. She was impressed by their ingenuity. They had shoved most of the chairs and music stands into the center of the room, and arranged portable bulletin boards on either side, giving them each privacy.
    “I see you guys are old hands at this.” Skye gestured to their construction.
    The male social worker nodded. “Too much so. Seems like we’re called in to do crisis counseling more and more often.”
    “We really appreciate your help.” Skye looked over to the woman to include her. “I’m here by myself.”
    “No problem.” The woman picked up two sheets of yellow legal paper. “Here’s a list of who we saw, our impressions, and suggestions for follow-up.”
    “Thanks. This is great.” Skye looked over the names, about twenty in all.
    “You should send this out to these kids’ parents.” The man handed her a sheaf of photocopied forms. “It tells them we talked to their child. You can check one of the boxes on the bottom as to what, if any, follow-up is recommended.”
    “I can’t thank you enough.” Skye was overwhelmed. It was so nice to have help, not to have to think of everything herself.
    The two social workers gathered their belongings. The woman said, “There doesn’t seem to be a need for us to come back, but if the situation changes, call us and we’ll be right here.”
    Skye shook both their hands. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
    As they walked toward the entrance the man turned to her. “You really do need to get a crisis-intervention plan in place. I’ll put an outline in the mail to you tomorrow.”
    “Great.” Skye waved. “Thanks again.” For a moment she almost believed she saw halos around their heads. Of course, it was just the afternoon sun shining through the outer door . . . wasn’t it?
    Clutching the papers they had given her, Skye went in search of Trixie and Abby. Staff were required to stay half an hour after the dismissal bell. Skye had five minutes to find them.
    They were together in the IMC, formerly known as the library. Both women clutched cans of Pepsi. Abby was sprawled in one of the few upholstered seats. Her white-blond hair cascaded over the chair’s back; a tanned hand was laid across her eyes. Trixie sat on the counter, her short, compact body bent at the waist as she clasped her