CHAPTER FIFTEEN
U
rena got suspended for two weeks. The teacher who’d caught her in the hallway didn’t quite hear what she said, but word somehow got back to the office that she’d threatened and bullied another student.
Someone used the perfect buzzwords to light a fire beneath the movers and shakers.
When the admin team investigated the allegation, the hallway cameras ensured they summoned me to talk shortly after lunch.
I spent the time doing everything but talking.
Urena’s suspension might have been a done deal, but I didn’t think for a second that she’d been declawed.
It’d take her five seconds on her phone to make a post on social media.
Why she hadn’t done so yet was beyond me.
Perhaps she preferred to be here in person to witness my downfall like a spectator sport.
Another alternative was that her parents could have taken her cellphone for getting suspended.
Either way, I wanted to avoid poking the sleeping dragon, so I sealed my lips—figuratively—when the principal pressed for more information about why Urena yelled the things she had. He didn’t seem to buy my oblivious act, but he released me to classes either way.
Which was why when my name got called during first period Friday, I assumed it was a follow-up interrogation.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
KOLTON: Damn, you’re popular, Wordsmith.
KOLTON: What’d you do this time? Rob a bank?
RALPH: Kole, you don’t have a serious bone in your body, do you? Everything ok, Willa? Is it about your schedule again?
HUNTER ARMSTRONG: I’m still at work. What’s happening?
KOLTON: She got called to the office.
RALPH: Second time in two days, lamb.
HUNTER ARMSTRONG: Have anything to do with that girl’s suspension?
RALPH: Who?
HUNTER ARMSTRONG: The crazy one who claimed she was Ben’s girlfriend.
That lit a fire under Ralph and Kolton, and the questions and speculation rolled in.
What threw me for a loop was when Manuel messaged, especially when I saw the preview before it disappeared. The guys could speculate. I switched from the group chat to Manuel’s.
MANUEL: Sooo… some guy in a suit comes into the office, talks to the principal, and then your name is being called over the announcements?
MANUEL: Should I be worried?
ME: A suit? What? Like a lawyer?
I almost asked if it was the mayor, because that could be a distinct possibility.
It wasn’t as if I knew many people who wore suits, but not every person my age would recognize the public figure on sight.
The only reason I knew him was because he’d shared a stage and microphone with my dad during a Fourth of July parade way back when.
The mayor invited him personally, citing that he was a strong boon for our community—as if people still talked that way.
Dad pulled a few strings and brought a few of his friends who’d driven some of their best built off-roading rigs.
It’d been a major hit with the locals. At the end, Dad unveiled a new mint Jeep for the raffle.
He’d customized it from the sponsorship of one of his larger name brand Jeep companies, and more buzz translated to more popularity, which equaled more votes for the politician.
Would Manuel recognize Mayor George Orten on sight?
If he did, he wasn’t saying. I refrained from asking, thinking of what to do if it was him.
MANUEL: He wasn’t a cop. That’s all I know.
I didn’t reply. Instead, I queued up Hunter’s number, leaving it loaded and primed to call inside my pocket. He didn’t have classes during the first half of the day and would most likely answer his phone.
Who knew how much longer Ralph and Kolton could keep texting during class?
Inside the office, Mrs. Handy smiled at me, though it lacked some of its usual shine. Manuel sat nearby, his homework spread around him but forgotten. He didn’t bother with a smile, his eyes darting to the principal’s office.
The door was shut.
“Mr. Richards would like to see you, dear. You can go on back. He’s expecting you.”
I nodded at Mrs. Handy, shared one last loaded glance with Manuel, and began the walk to my death.
Not funny, Ben’s voice whispered through my mind. Considering the circumstances, yeah, it was pretty far from comical.
I studied the door for a heartbeat, wanting to steel my nerves, but quickly realized I’d turn tail, screaming, if I worried much longer. I bit the bullet and knocked.
It took less than a second for Mr. Richards to answer and usher me in. “Willa, come in, come in.”
Inside, a man, dressed impeccably like Manuel said, sat in one of the two chairs in front of the principal’s desk. My heart stuttered, and my breath caught.
Then, the man turned.
Not the mayor.
My fear shifted from life or death to worrying about why this official-looking man in a suit needed to talk to me.
“Ah, thank you for joining us, Willa. This is Mr. Veritas,” the principal said with a straight face. Mr. Truth? Really? “He said he has a matter he wishes to discuss with you, and that your parents already granted him permission to speak to you.”
They had?
My face must have displayed the skepticism the statement deserved.
Mr. Veritas grinned and pulled a paper from a file folder stamped with a bright red “CLASSIFIED” across the front. He handed the document to me.
Mr. Richards startled, eyeing the folder as if it was the first time he’d seen it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Veritas, but who did you say you worked for again?”
I scanned the paper, seeing the waiver of representation, along with my mom’s signature at the bottom, dated for today. Mr. Truth must have made a pit stop along the way. She’d been gone before Nick and I woke for breakfast.
Had she even read what she’d signed? I was still a minor, who wouldn’t turn eighteen until May, but at a cursory glance, I noticed this paper gave this strange man the authority to treat me like an adult.
Mr. Truth shot a rather sharklike grin the principal’s way. “I didn’t.” For a moment, it seemed he wouldn’t say more, but he turned to me and pulled a badge from his pocket.
“FBI?” Mr. Richards blurted with alarm, catching the golden insignia adorning the black leather fold before I did. His eyes, rounded with horror, turned in my direction.
With practiced ease, Mr. Truth flicked his wrist, holding the ID up for my inspection.
Mr. Gray Veritas, Special Agent, FBI.
The face glaring out from the picture was a few years younger.
Despite the stern look, the lines around his cheeks didn’t cut so severely into his skin.
His medium brown hair had grown a few inches longer since it’d been taken, now resting in a shaggy length that he tended to run his hand through.
Dark eyes, though average of color, cut straight to one’s soul, as if he could read anyone’s secrets and found the world wanting.
The principal cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I see that paper again? I think I’d like my secretary to make a copy, if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Truth—that was what I’d be calling him from now on—released a smug snort. “Sure, Mr. Richards, and while you’re doing that, do you have anywhere private where I can speak to Miss Walker?”
Mr. Richards, who’d begun to look more sure-footed when the FBI agent handed over the consent paper without a fuss, reddened. “Whatever for?”
“That’s classified.”
Like the stamped folder that’d housed the paper my mom signed.
What other documents lay hidden within its leaves?
“This is beyond unacceptable. She’s a minor and in my care, as is any student the instant they step foot on these grounds—”
“Actually, the rights of the parent still trump the rights of the school, for now anyway, and you’ll find that paper allows me a lot of leeway, including talking with Walker without supervision.
It’s a nifty trick, since I needed to ensure confidentiality.
In fact, that’s exactly why I got it. Now, could you lead us to a room?
Any room will do. Or, if you read further, you’ll note I also have permission to remove her from the premises if I think it’ll suit the case. ”
“I beg your pardon!” Mr. Richards blurted as Mrs. Handy opened the door.
“Is everything okay in here, Mr. Richards?” she questioned, noting the tension in the room. “Did you need me? Perhaps to show Mr. Veritas out?”
The FBI agent stood. He was a tall, fit man and cut an imposing figure of authority paired with his black suit, even without the jacket draped over his chair. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for a while yet, Mrs. Handy. Actually, do you have a room I could borrow?”
Mrs. Handy cast an unimpressed look at him before glancing at Richards.
The principal released a world-weary sigh. He rubbed his temple with one hand as the other gripped the paper hard enough to crinkle it. “Go ahead, Tammy. Show them to the small conference room. No one’s using it to my knowledge.”
The secretary’s brows rose in surprise, but she schooled the reaction and plastered a pleasant smile on her face between one breath and the next. “Of course, Mr. Richards. Right this way, Mr. Veritas. You know, that’s an interesting name by the way. Did your mother…”
“Willa,” Richards called when I reached the doorway. He closed the distance between us, peering down the hallway at the FBI agent who kept glancing over his shoulder, unable to interrupt Mrs. Handy as she streamed a slew of nonstop words about innocuous, trivial topics.
Somehow, they’d coordinated the move, either telepathically or from working together for years and anticipating what the other was thinking.
The principal lowered his voice. “Why would your mom sign something like this?”
I bit my lip. “I don’t know. She works a lot of hours. Maybe she didn’t pay much attention to what she was signing?”
It would have been highly irresponsible if that proved to be the case later. Her long work hours always arose as a point of contention in the times Mom and Dad fought, but with this? It was no longer a matter of missing dinnertime or family camping trips.
She’d signed away my rights.