Chapter 29 #2
“Federal guidelines provide frameworks, not guarantees,” Carson replies, closing the folder with deliberate care. “Local implementation requires ongoing evaluation of all factors, including the judgment of support staff.”
He catalogs every flicker of reaction, every shift in my scent.
“Quinn’s accommodations could be subject to routine review,” he continues, as if discussing the weather rather than a child’s well-being. “Her support plan might require adjustment based on new assessments.”
“The Wright pack would never allow that,” I say, the words coming out more clipped than intended. “The board approved Quinn’s plan.”
“Her uncle may be on the board, but his is one vote among many,” Carson counters, leaning back in his chair. “And boards follow recommendations from the administration. From people they trust to evaluate situations objectively.”
He stands, moving to the credenza behind his desk, where a row of photographs displays him with various board members and community leaders. His fingers trail across the frames, lingering on one showing him with the school board president.
“Trust is such a fragile thing,” he muses, picking up the photo. “Built over years, but questioned in an instant when concerns about professional judgment arise.”
My mind races. This is what I feared, and why I’ve let Carson get away with so much over the last few months. Carson can’t remove Sprinkles from the school, but he could create complications, initiate reviews, and generate paperwork that would exhaust Blake’s patience.
He could make Quinn’s daily experience more difficult in a thousand small ways that still comply with her accommodation plan while undermining its effectiveness.
“And questions about judgment,” Carson continues, replacing the photo, “can trigger formal oversight beyond Quinn’s situation. Substitute assignments, committee positions, and interactions with other students would all be subject to enhanced supervision when concerns arise.”
He turns back to me. “These protocols exist to protect everyone. To ensure standards are maintained when judgment may be compromised.”
The threat expands beyond Quinn now to encompass my entire professional existence at Pinecrest Academy. Was this his plan all along? To get me so involved with the school that it would become one more piece of leverage to use against me if Quinn’s well-being didn’t prove enough?
“You care about your students,” Carson says, the words framed as a compliment while functioning as a threat. “About Quinn. Your dedication is admirable. I’d hate to see that work undermined by personal choices.”
My pulse pounds as the full scope of his trap becomes clear. He doesn’t need to fire me or remove Sprinkles outright. He can make everything harder, increasing pressure until I break under the weight of accumulated obstacles.
Carson walks to the window, turning his back to me in a casual dismissal of any threat I might pose.
“I appreciate your position, Leif. Truly.” His hands clasp behind his back, the night outlining his silhouette. “Which is why I’ll give you until the party to come to the correct decision. A professional courtesy, if you will, to avoid unnecessary complications.”
The reflection reveals nothing of his face, only the outline of his profile as he stares into the darkness. My own reflection appears smaller than my actual size, diminished by the angle and distance.
“I’m being generous, Leif,” Carson continues, presenting it as a gift rather than a threat. “Giving you sufficient time for proper consideration of all factors. All potential outcomes.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I check the clock with a sinking stomach. Despite all of my best intentions when I came here, I’m late.
Again.
Because of my entanglement with Carson, the gap between the life I want and the one Carson demands I accept continues to grow until it becomes insurmountable.
“I’ve always valued your thoroughness,” he adds, still facing the window. “Your ability to weigh variables and reach sound conclusions. That’s why you’re such an asset to our school.”
Carson turns back to me, and his smile remains in place, but no pretense of warmth reaches beyond his lips.
“Forty-eight hours,” he repeats, taking the long way back to his desk to pass behind me, and I shudder at the feather-light touch of his fingers at my nape. “By Friday morning, I’ll need your confirmation about the faculty function. For planning purposes.”
My hands tremble as I gather my bag from beside the chair. The leather strap chills my palm, the buckle catching on my sleeve as I stand. The tremor travels up my arms to my shoulders, each muscle fighting to maintain control.
“I understand the timeline.”
Carson settles back as I collect myself, his head tilted as if studying a curious specimen. “Excellent. I knew you’d approach this with a rational mind.”
I stride for the door, my knees wooden, my feet too heavy on the carpet.
“One more thing,” Carson adds as I reach for the door handle. “Quinn’s quarterly review committee meets next Monday. As her support coordinator, my support will carry significant weight in their evaluation.”
“I’ll have the documentation prepared,” I say, fingers closing around the cool metal of the door handle.
“I have no doubt.” Carson settles behind his desk, arranging papers. “You left once. I won’t tolerate you repeating that mistake.”
The door opens under my hand, releasing me from the office, but I leave with none of the determination with which I entered.
Saying no didn’t end Carson’s game, it only hardened his resolve to force me back into the box he built for me in Westbrook, before I dared to defy him.
Once again, I overestimated my ability to handle Carson. I thought I could compartmentalize him.
I thought I could show up for Emily.
I was wrong.