I stride down the empty school hallway, the rubber soles of my shoes squeaking on the polished floor. My coat drags at my shoulders, the strap of my messenger bag cutting into my neck.
At night, the school becomes an echoing shell, stripped of the chaos it holds during the day.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find a photo of fresh bread beside a simmering pot of stew.
Emily
Bread’s out of the oven. Stew’s simmering.
Come hungry.
My stomach twists at the reminder that I skipped lunch while finishing the PTA meeting minutes, and there had been no time to stop and grab something after dropping Quinn at the docks.
The meeting ran an hour late with parents arguing about fundraiser allocations and class field trip budgets. Then, after everyone left, I had to stay to clean up the refreshments.
The thought of Emily’s kitchen, of sinking into her couch with a bowl of stew, quickens my steps toward the exit.
Through the glass doors I see that darkness has already settled over Pinecrest. My fingers hover over the keypad, ready to type a reply?—
“Leif! Just the man I was hoping to catch.”
My spine stiffens, and I turn to see Carson striding toward me from the administrative wing, his leather briefcase swinging at his side. His dress shirt remains crisp despite the late hour, not a wrinkle in sight, and his sandy hair catches the hallway light.
“Heading out?” His smile appears genuine, but I don’t buy it. “Give me five minutes of your time first?”
I clutch my phone tighter, the screen dimming in my grip. “I have dinner plans. Can this wait until morning?”
Carson’s smile doesn’t falter as he reaches me, though it doesn’t touch his gray-green eyes.
“Five minutes.” His hand settles on my elbow, steering me back toward the office wing. “It’s regarding the committee presentation next week. Quite urgent.”
He steers me away from the exit, the pressure of his hand sending a flutter of panic through me. Still, my feet follow on autopilot, years of conditioning overriding my urge to pull free.
“I need to get going,” I try again, the protest weak even to my own ears. “I’m already running late.”
“This won’t take long,” Carson says without slowing. “It’s better to address concerns now than scramble later. The board has expectations.”
My phone buzzes again. I don’t have to look to picture Emily’s name lighting up the screen, wondering where I am and if I’m still coming.
The administrative offices are dark except for the emergency lights. Carson flips a switch as we enter, and fluorescents hum to life, casting harsh shadows across the carpet while the sharp scent of cleaning solution mixes with Carson’s pheromones.
“The Millers expressed concerns about the service animal policy implementation timeline,” Carson continues, as if we’re mid-conversation by mutual agreement. “I thought you mightwant to address those points before the holiday break, given your investment in the project.”
A knot tightens in my stomach. It always starts this way, with reasonable requests wrapped in professional language, concerns framed as legitimate, appeals to dedication that make refusal sound selfish.
I check my watch to find it’s already seven forty-five. The PTA meeting ended fifteen minutes ago. I should be halfway to Emily’s cottage by now.
“Couldn’t this be an email?” I ask, the question edging toward desperation as we approach his office door.
Carson pauses, his hand still on my elbow, and turns to me without stepping back, forcing me to tilt my face up to meet his stare.
“Leif,” he says, my name a gentle reproach on his lips, “some matters require personal attention. You understand this better than most.”
The threat lurks beneath the surface of his words. I understand better than most what happens when I push back too hard, when I refuse to play along. The memories of Westbrook rise unbidden, and a shudder goes through me.
My phone vibrates with a reminder of the unread message, and the dinner I’ve been looking forward to all day slips further away with each passing second.
“Five minutes,” I concede, my shoulders slumping beneath my coat.