But my gut tells me we might not be so lucky. And in my experience, that feeling rarely steers me wrong.
Chapter Ten
Leif
Quinn’s hand tightens around mine, her small fingers clammy in my grasp. We stand before the broad stone steps of Pinecrest Academy, its brick facade towering three stories high against the cloudless September sky.
My heart hammers with anxiety, but I stuff it all down and give her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Ready to go inside?”
“Yes,” she says, but doesn’t move as she stares at the double doors where children stream past, their voices carrying across the courtyard in excited bursts.
A parent walking past gives Sprinkles a curious look, his service vest a splash of blue against glossy black fur, then leans in to whisper to another adult. Their eyes move from the dog to Quinn to me, and my spine stiffens under the quiet appraisal.
I wish it could have just stayed Quinn and me on the island, but her uncles are right to want her to gain social skills that can only come from interacting with her peers.
“The school looks bigger than in the pictures,” Quinn whispers.
“Buildings often do.” I gesture toward the entrance. “Let’s go find your classroom. Ms. Peterson is excited to meet you.”
We climb the steps, Quinn’s grip tightening with each one. Sprinkles stays in perfect heel position, his training evident in every controlled movement.
At the top, Quinn pauses again, and I bend to her level. “Remember what Uncle Blake said? You’re a Wright. And Wrights can do hard things.”
She takes a deep breath. “Even scary things.”
“Especially scary things.”
The doors swing open, releasing a wave of sound and scent. Children’s voices bounce off linoleum floors, sneakers squeak, lockers clang, and beneath it all, the chemical tang of floor cleaner mingles with cafeteria breakfast.
Quinn flinches at the assault, her free hand covering one ear.
I guide her to a quieter spot beside a display of student artwork. “Let’s take a moment to get our bearings.”
I scan the crowded hallway, identifying potential allies among the staff. A group of third-graders races past, their backpacks bouncing, and Quinn shrinks into my side. Sprinkles shifts to stand between her and the flow of traffic.
“The kindergarten and first-grade rooms are down that hall,” I explain, pointing to our left where colorful handprints decorate the walls. “And your second-grade classroom is this way.”
We navigate the hallway, moving at Quinn’s pace, while every instinct screams at me to turn around and to take Quinn back to the safety of the Homestead.
Carson is somewhere in this building, but he can’t touch me with all these parents and teachers as witnesses, I remind myself.
“Mr. Leif?” Quinn tugs my sleeve. “My tummy feels funny.”
I kneel beside her, carving out a pocket of calm amid the rush of students. “That’s normal for the first few days. Remember how we talked about how stress in our bodies signals our nerves to react?”
Her fingers worry at the hem of her star-patterned shirt. “Yes.”
“Well, my tummy feels funny, too.” The admission costs me nothing but gives her permission to be afraid without shame.
“Really?”
“Really.” I tap her nose. “But we’re going to be brave together, right?”
Her chin lifts a fraction. “Right.”
Room one-fourteen appears on our right, the door propped open with a wooden apple. Inside, a woman with copper hair twisted into a neat bun arranges papers on her desk.
The classroom walls burst with primary colors, alphabet charts, number lines, and a behavior chart with clothespins bearing each student’s name clipped to “Ready to Learn.”