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Sandesh spreads his hands wide. “We don’t know that yet. We know someone flew a few personal drones over the school and dropped small explosive devices at the gym, tennis courts, and on the gatehouse, which was empty at the time. Falling debris injured one of the guards.”
“If they’d wanted to hurt someone,” Rome says, “they would’ve dropped the explosives somewhere with people, not the school gym or the tennis courts. All those are locked at night.”
He’s right, and I don’t like it.
“Do you know what kind of ordnance they used?” Jules asks, pinning her lower lip beneath her teeth, then releasing. “Timed? Or did it go off when it hit?”
“It went off when it hit,” I say.
We make eye contact. She whispers, “But how did they get past the cameras? There are only a few places—”
Her eyes widen. My gut twists. Because, yeah, she practically pointed out this was an inside job. Who else would know the hidden camera layout?
Jules and Rome exchange a look. Jules’ face pales, then, realizing what she’d suggested in front of the kids, reddens. She doesn’t try to overcorrect, either, with rambling or comforting explanations. She stays silent and lets the warm blood rush into her cheeks. Smart. Sometimes talking makes things worse. l
Sandesh comes over to me. I grab onto his arm, feeling the tension in his bicep. Somehow, the strength of him comforts me. I’ll have to excise that reaction.
Leaning to my ear, Sandesh whispers, “I have an idea. A way to help with PR.”
“I’m not sure all the PR in the world will be able to fix this.”
He opens his mouth to expand when Martha comes into the room. “The police are looking for you, Ms. Parish. And you, Mr. Ross.”
Great. Time to lie my ass off.
41
JUSTICE
My public relations office inside the Mantua Academy’s administration building is a tiny square that should’ve held brooms and mops. It’s an afterthought of a room at the very end of the guidance counselor’s corridor. Right now, it seems two sizes too small. The office equivalent ofhad too much turkey and pie at Thanksgiving and now have to wear my stretchy pants.
Twenty-four hours after the attack, it’s a hive of activity. The phone’s been ringing off the hook with furious and concerned parents—people used to ordering others about. There’ve been numerous drop-bys from administrative staff, including my nosey siblings, who come and go with their hair seemingly on fire.
And the media attention… Forget it. I’ve been answering their calls since five a.m. It’s now almost six p.m. Truly, I’ve felt less exposed during gynecological exams.
All this attention could go to my head. Or… straight to my trigger finger. A finger I’m currently using, along with all my other digits, to compose another school-wide email that gives away no information while reassuring everyone. Easy-peasy.
Sure.
When and why did Momma decide putting me in a situation where I’d have to be diplomatic and courteous to irate people was a good idea? Bet she’s rethinking her decision now, because I’m floundering for words. The phone rings again. Not answering that.
This damn email. There’s nothing I can say to these people.
For forty years, the school has practically dictated their reputation—an excellent but stuffy place to send your daughter. A place of diversity with scholarships for deserving children. A place that teaches the brilliant Parish children, women who become leaders and scholars and scientists and businesspeople.
Now, it’s the target of intense and blistering scrutiny that I’m trying to mitigate.Reallynot a good thing when there’s a covert operation that houses the world’s most elite group of independent agents underfoot, and I’m so pissed I can barely see straight.
Another phone rings. My cell this time. I reach for it and knock over the three-page list of numbers, parents, and media I need to call back. Damn it. I pick up. “What?”
The person on the other end pauses. “Tell me that’s not how you’re answering the phone.”
“This is my cell, Gracie. I can answer it any damn way I please. And, just so you know, I am being extremely courteous to every idiot reporter who calls me.”
The landline on my desk rings as if to reprimand me for my lie. Glaring at it, I tuck my cell next to my ear, reach over, and unplug the cord. What Gracie doesn’t know can’t hurt her. “What do you want?”
“I want to know about this online story suggesting the school was attacked because of its charitable support of the IPT. What the heck is that about?”
I should get up and shut my door, but there is zero air in here. I’m already at the very end of the hall. And most people have left for the day. I spin away from the door for some privacy.
