Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Vraag
The security footage confirms what my instincts have been warning me for days.
This was not vandalism.
This was assessment.
I replay the footage twice more, slowing the frame rate, cataloging movements, angles, timing. The pattern is deliberate. Purposeful. Someone was learning the school. And someone was learning a specific access point.
I close the laptop and sit back, letting the weight of that realization settle.
StoneWatch training teaches swift response: contain, escalate, protect.
But this is a human institution, governed by procedures that favor caution over speed.
Evidence must be reviewed. Reports filed. Jurisdiction clarified.
Delay is built into the system.
I don’t like it.
“Any luck?”
Grulk’s voice cuts into my thoughts. I glance up to find him leaning in the doorway of my “office,” a converted supply closet. His expression is uncharacteristically serious.
“The first thing I did this morning was check the surveillance footage. Someone was on the grounds three nights ago.”
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “Bad?”
“Worse than random,” I reply. “There’s intent.”
Grulk exhales through his lips. “You’ve filed?”
“Yes.” I tap the closed laptop. “Initial report submitted. District security has logged it, but won’t begin formal review for at least forty-eight hours.”
“And?”
“And now we wait.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You don’t like waiting.”
“No.”
Grulk nods once. “The principal?”
“Will be notified once the review begins. I’m not bypassing protocol.”
A beat. Then, quieter, “And her?”
I don’t ask who he means; the time for pretending she isn’t important to me is over. Meeting his gaze, I say, “I’m telling her.”
“Good,” he says simply.
There’s no teasing in his voice this time. No innuendo. Just acknowledgment.
“I’ll cover your afternoon patrol,” he adds. “That gives you space.”
I incline my head. “Thank you.”
When I step into the foyer, the school hums with its usual weekday rhythm: children laughing, teachers calling instructions, the ordinary noise of safety. I station myself near the front entrance as students arrive, scanning faces out of habit more than suspicion.
When Riona walks through the doors, our eyes meet briefly across the foyer. Her smile is quick, warm, then carefully tucked away as she notices Principal Winters nearby. Professional distance settles between us like a practiced reflex.
It shouldn’t sting.
It does.
I complete my rounds and submit the necessary paperwork before heading toward the kindergarten wing. I keep my approach deliberate, visible, and unhurried. There’s no reason to draw attention.
Riona is at her desk, reviewing papers. The classroom is empty; it’s her planning period. She looks up as I enter, surprise flickering across her face before resolving into composed awareness.
“Good morning, Mr. Vraag,” she says, professional but curious. “Everything okay?”
“I need a minute,” I say. “Not about routine checks.”
Her pen pauses. “Okay.”
I lower my voice. “There’s new information about the window. I don’t want to get into it here.”
She doesn’t ask questions. Just nods once. “After school?”
“Yes,” I say. “Somewhere else.”
Her brow furrows slightly, not in fear but calculation. “Somewhere neutral, then.”
I nod. “There’s a coffee shop a few blocks from the school. Busy enough we won’t stand out.”
“Coffee I can do,” she says. “I’ll meet you there.”
By the time I arrive, the café is already half-full with college students hunched over laptops, a few teachers grading papers, the low murmur of conversation providing cover without privacy. I choose a table near the window, my back to the wall, with clear sightlines to the entrance. Old habits.
Riona arrives a few minutes later and scans the room automatically before spotting me, her expression softening as she approaches, though she reins it in quickly. She orders before joining me.
“You picked a good place,” she says, wrapping her hands around her cup. “Public, but also private.”
“That was the intent,” I say.
I open my laptop just enough to angle the screen toward her, careful to keep the footage out of sight of anyone else. I don’t play it immediately.
“Someone was on the grounds three nights ago,” I say.
She tilts her head. “Not kids.”
“No.”
I play the footage without commentary.
Riona watches intently, eyes tracking the shadowed figure as it moves along the fence, pauses at the window, and tests the lock. When the image fades, she exhales slowly.
“That’s my classroom,” she says. Not a question.
“Yes.”
She doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, she stares into her coffee, jaw tight. “You reported it.”
“I did. District security is reviewing it. Principal Winters will be notified once their review officially begins.”
“And the response?”
“Procedural,” I say carefully. “Cautious. They don’t yet believe escalation is warranted.”
“When did you find this?”
“This morning. First thing.”
Something moves across her face, not quite relief, but its quieter cousin. She holds my gaze for a moment, weighing that.
“You came to me the same day.”
“Yes.”
A beat. “I said I wouldn’t make you wait.”
She nods once, recognition that I kept my word. “But you think escalation is warranted?”
“Yes.” I close the laptop. “District security acknowledged receipt of the report. But they won’t review it for at least forty-eight hours. Nothing will change before then.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her attention still fixed on the table. Then, carefully, “They went to my window. Not the gym. Not the front entrance. Mine.” She lifts her gaze to mine. “They know which room is mine.”
“Yes.”
“And they know when I’m there.”
“That is my assessment.”
Something moves across her face—not panic, but the thing just underneath it.
She sets her cup down with slightly more force than necessary.
Her hands don’t quite settle. I watch her register what this actually means: not a random incident, not a restless kid, not bad luck.
Someone has been watching her specifically. Learning her. Coming back.
She turns toward the window for a moment. A woman walking a dog. Two students on bikes. The ordinary world, entirely indifferent.
When she faces me again, she’s steadier. Not because it’s less frightening—I can still see the effort it costs her—but because she’s decided how she wants to carry it.
“So this isn’t about the building,” she says.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
After a brief silence, I say, “Can I ask you something? Is there anyone in your life who might wish to harm you? Former partner? Family situation? A hostile parent at the school? Anyone whose attention has felt wrong?”
She considers it seriously. “No. Nothing like that. My last relationship ended two years ago, and he moved away. We haven’t spoken since.” She pauses. “There’s no one I can think of.”
“You’re certain.”
“I’m certain.” She meets my gaze. “Why? Do you think this is about me? Not just the classroom?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say honestly. “But I needed to ask.”
She nods slowly, absorbing that. Then, “So what do we do?”
“We stay alert,” I say. “We don’t upend your life. And we don’t pretend this didn’t happen.”
“And you?” she asks.
“I remain vigilant,” I reply. “Within professional boundaries.”
A beat. Then she nods. “Good,” she says. “But I don’t want you making calls for me. Even if you think you’re protecting me.”
“I won’t,” I say. “No decisions about you without your input.”
Silence settles—not uncomfortable, but weighted. People laugh nearby. Cups clink. Life continues.
“This isn’t nothing,” she says quietly. “But it’s not panic-worthy either.”
“Correct,” I agree. “It’s information. And now you have it.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Thank you for telling me. Not minimizing it. And not… deciding for me.”
“That was important,” I say.
“Yes,” she agrees. “It was.”
She glances around the café, then back at me. “What happens next?”
“Once district security completes their review, we follow up with administration together,” I say. “United. Professional. Clear.”
Her shoulders ease slightly. “I can do that.”
“I know.”
We finish our drinks without touching. Without leaning closer. The restraint is deliberate, mutual. When we stand to leave, we pause—just long enough to acknowledge what we’re choosing not to do.
We pause at the door for a moment longer than necessary, neither of us quite ready to leave.
“When they’re ready,” she says.
“So are we,” I reply.
Outside, we part with a brief nod, nothing that would draw attention, nothing that betrays the tension still coiled beneath the surface.
As I watch her walk away, the threat remains unresolved. The system is still slow. The danger is still undefined.
But something essential has shifted.
She knows.
And we are aligned.
Whatever comes next, it will not be faced in silence.