“That explains nothing.”
“It explains everything.”
He parks in the visitor area instead of joining the line.
I hesitate. “We usually just pull through.”
“You’re tired. We’re already late. We’ll go inside.”
I want to argue on principle, but my body doesn’t have the energy.
“Fine.”
The front office is busy when we walk in. Phones ringing. Parents signing kids out. A little boy crying because he forgot his lunchbox. A secretary clicking through something on her computer with the defeated look of a woman who has answered the same question thirty times today.
The familiar smell of floor cleaner and crayons hits me in the chest.
I step to the counter and pick up the pen attached to the clipboard.
“Hi,” I say, writing my name. “I’m here to pick up my daughter. Olivia Moore.”
The secretary looks up.
For half a second, her expression is blank.
Then it changes.
Just slightly.
My hand stills on the pen.
“What?” I ask.
She glances toward Maverick, then back at me. “Olivia Moore?”
“Yes.”
Her fingers move over the keyboard.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Something cold slides down my spine.
Maverick shifts beside me.
The room feels smaller.
The secretary looks at the screen, then at me.
“She was already picked up.”
I blink.
“I’m sorry?”
