Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Leif
My knuckles ache as I grip the steering wheel on my way to Pinecrest Academy.
The folder of Quinn’s documentation sits on the passenger seat where Emily could have been if I’d accepted her offer. Late September sunlight glints off windshields in the oncoming lane, blinding me with each flash.
“I can handle this,” I mutter to the empty car. “I’ve dealt with Carson before.”
The words sound hollow to my own ears. Traffic slows at a yellow light, and I tap my fingers on the wheel, counting seconds until it changes. Two cars ahead, a mother adjusts her rearview mirror to check on a child in the back seat. The light turns green, and we all lurch forward.
Emily’s offer replays in my mind. I can come with you. Two sets of ears are better than one for these meetings.
It’s a standard review. I don’t need to bring a buddy to hold my hand. If I can’t come to an agreement with Carson to maintain the status quo, Blake will need to be brought in, but I hope it won’t come to that. He’s trusting me to resolve this without conflict.
But no matter how many times I tell myself this, it doesn’t ease the anxiety twisting in my gut.
Nothing about Carson Whitaker is standard, and everything with him is cause for worry. But it’s too late now to change my mind. Emily is on Misty Pines right now, at least thirty minutes away if the boat is on the island and she left right away. And my meeting starts in five minutes.
I turn onto the road leading to the academy, its manicured grounds appearing through the line of maple trees bordering the property.
Cars dot the parking lot in front of the brick building, and I find a spot near the entrance. The engine ticks as it cools, like a bomb counting down to an explosion.
“Come on, don’t be so dramatic,” I mutter as I flip down the visor mirror and inspect my reflection.
Dark circles shadow my eyes from a restless night. I straighten my collar, smooth a hand over my hair, and adjust the tie I haven’t worn since I started work in Misty Pines. The Wright Pack doesn’t stand on formality, and the damn thing now circles my throat like a noose.
With a sigh, I lean my head back on the headrest and focus on my breathing. I can do this. The school counselor will be present. Everything will be fine.
Grabbing the folder, I climb out of the car. Cool air bites at my cheeks, damp with leaf rot and wet grass. Classes are still underway, leaving the school hushed as I jog toward the main entrance.
I pull the right door open, steel myself, and step inside.
My loafers squeak on the polished linoleum as I walk past trophy cases and the murmur of voices behind closed classroom doors.
My palms start sweating as I reach the office of academic affairs and pull open the door, releasing a rush of air heavy with coffee and copier toner.
Inside, the outer office hums with quiet activity. A secretary types at her computer, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder as she schedules appointments. Wood filing cabinets line one wall, each drawer labeled in neat block letters.
The secretary covers the mouthpiece of her phone. “Can I help you?”
“Leif Hollis,” I say, drawing my shoulders back. “I have a two-fifteen appointment with Dean Whitaker.”
She checks a schedule on her desk, running a manicured finger down the list of names. “Yes, Mr. Hollis. Dean Whitaker is expecting you. Please have a seat. He’ll be with you soon.”
I settle into one of the chairs in the waiting area, placing Quinn’s folder on my lap. A clock ticks above the secretary’s desk, each second increasing my anxiety. It takes conscious effort to keep my breathing steady while my pulse races.
The inner office door opens at two-fifteen. Carson Whitaker stands in the doorway, his tailored suit pressed, and his sandy hair combed into submission.
Gray-green eyes assess me before his mouth curves into a practiced smile. “Leif, thank you for coming. Please, step into my office.”
I rise and follow him into the inner sanctum, the secretary tracking our movement before returning to her computer screen. The door closes behind us with a soft click, and I flinch.
Carson’s office mirrors his old space at Westbrook, only more imposing in its attempt to impress.
Dark mahogany furniture dominates the room, with a massive desk positioned before a wall of bookshelves, a conference table surrounded by high-backed leather chairs, and a sideboard holding crystal decanters and glasses.
Framed credentials and awards cover the walls, each one a testament to Carson’s rise through educational ranks.
Sunlight filters through vertical blinds, casting striped shadows across the plush carpet. Carson’s cherry-and-iron pheromones saturate the air, triggering warning signals in my brain.
“Please, sit,” Carson gestures to a chair positioned before his desk, its seat lower than his own.
I sink into it, the folder balanced on my knees, as Carson circles to take his place behind the massive desk. The power dynamic couldn’t be clearer. He’s elevated, and I’m diminished.
“Water?” He indicates a crystal pitcher on the sideboard.
My mouth has gone dry, but I wave away the offer. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Carson settles back in his chair, fingers steepled before him. “Well then. Let’s discuss Quinn’s support plan, shall we?”
Uneasiness ripples through me. “Don’t we need to wait for the counselor?”
He tuts with disappointment, triggering in me an immediate desire to apologize for questioning him. “Jenny was called away to deal with a sick child, but since we’re both already here, we’ll proceed without her. I have all the notes to go over.”
My mouth opens, but a raise of his eyebrow has me snapping it closed again.
Carson opens a folder on his desk, sunlight catching on his polished cufflinks as he flips through the pages. A look of pleased surprise settles over him, as if uncovering good news he’d anticipated all along.
“I must say, based on young Quinn’s history, she’s made remarkable progress integrating with her peers.” His finger traces down a page of notes. “Her teacher reports significant improvement in social interactions, and her academic performance has been steady despite the transition.”
I clutch my own folder tighter. With Carson, praise always serves as a prelude to criticism.
“And Sprinkles… What an exceptional service animal.” Carson closes the folder and folds his hands on top of it. “The training evident in his behavior speaks to your thoroughness in preparing for Quinn’s needs.”
My shoulders remain rigid despite his complimentary words. “Blake and Nathaniel deserve the credit for Sprinkles. They ensured he received the best possible training.”
“Of course. A pack effort.” Carson’s lips fold around the word pack as if it’s the epitome of societal achievement. “Speaking of which, how are the Wrights adjusting to Quinn’s school routine? I understand her integration was their primary concern.”
“They’re pleased with her progress.” I keep my answers short, offering nothing he can use as a weapon later.
Carson leans back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. “Excellent. Your expertise has been invaluable to them.”
The clock on the wall ticks through ten seconds of silence. Carson waits for me to fill the conversational void, but I recognize the tactic from past interactions and hold my tongue, my palms damp on the folder.
“Unfortunately,” he says at last with practiced concern, “a pattern has emerged that warrants our attention.”
And there’s the pivot.
My stomach tightens. “What pattern?”
Carson slides his chair back and stands, moving to the window where he adjusts the blinds, allowing more light to stripe across the carpet.
“Several parents have expressed concern about Sprinkles’s presence in the classroom.” He turns toward me, backlit by the window, his profile swallowed by shadow. “Nothing formal, of course. Just inquiries about our service animal policies.”
“The school approved Quinn’s accommodation before she enrolled.” The folder crinkles in my grasp, and I will my fingers to relax. “Her paperwork is complete and on file.”
“Yes, yes.” Carson waves a hand dismissively. “The legalities are well-established. This is more about perception, Leif.”
Instead of resuming his seat, he stays on my side of the desk and leans his hips against it, his crossed feet almost touching mine with familiarity.
“You remember how parents can be. There have been some whispers about how the large donation the Wright Pack made to the school under the previous dean’s administration bought Quinn’s special accommodations. ”
“That’s not—”
“I know,” he soothes with a gentle rumble. “Any child with similar needs would be treated the same. I’m on Quinn’s side.”
Instead of soothing me, the borderline purr raises goose bumps all over my body. “I think I would like a glass of water.”
I stand to put distance between us and stride to the sideboard.
“Ms. Peterson has also noted minor disruptions of students being distracted by the dog’s presence, as well as space considerations during group activities.
” Carson’s fingers drum a light rhythm on his desk.
“Again, nothing serious if taken on a one-on-one basis, but collectively forming a pattern that we should address proactively.”
My heart pounds as I pour myself a glass from the decanter and take a sip.
There have been no disruptions. Quinn reports daily on how well Sprinkles behaves, and how the novelty for other students wore off within days.
I’ve spoken with Ms. Peterson every morning, too, and she’s never mentioned concerns.
With a steadying breath, I turn back to Carson. “This is the first I’ve heard of any issues.”
Carson settles into his chair behind the desk, his demeanor softening into a version of empathy that might pass muster if experience hadn’t taught me better.