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After seventeen calls, someone finally contacted me to say they’d found nothing to work with in relation to my reports.
Not even the house.
Since their one-on-one assessment with Andromeda hadn’t raised F-level flags, they couldn’t do anything more without a correct address.
So before taking matters into my own hands and getting killed, I tried to call Willow using the number she left with me.
After all, when I met Willow Harding, she seemed as eccentric as my teaching assistant, Zahra. A bit odd, but invested in Andromeda’s education. She asked all the right questions, focused heavily on what Andromeda wanted, then paid for the entire school year up front once Andromeda confirmed that she did desperately want to come here…
I was not expecting Andromeda’s father to pick up the phone and respond as though he had no idea his daughter was in an elementary school. I was not expecting the deep-seated sigh that occurred when I asked if he knew Willow Harding. I was hardly expecting him to actually show up today when I asked if we could organize a parent-teacher conference and discuss some things.
But.
Here he is.
A black mirror in contrast to his beautiful and delightful daughter.
Lifting a hand, he swipes it down his face and narrows his eyes, breaking our staring contest well before I know where to begin. The only thing my review is doing is making me angry, which makes the smile I’m forcing to cover that anger hurt.
“So,” he starts, “Meda…” His brutal attention flicks around my office—from my bright motivational posters, to my bookshelves filled with colorful, thin story time books, to the cabinets where I keep back-up food and clothes. In case any of my littles need them. For any reason. Like the ones that compelled me to bring this man to my office. He all but winces. “She…goes to this school?”
“She does.”
He grunts.
Extremely articulate, this one.
“It did seem like this was new information when we talked on the phone.” I smile, blindingly iridescent. From one angle, the curve of my lips radiates chipper elementary-teacher joy. From another, it conveys a high potential I’m plotting a murder. “I hope that won’t change. She’s been doing extremely well in her classes. She’s made a lot of friends.” I shift my points toward a language most monsters understand. “And the payment for this school year is nonrefundable.”
“Willow,” he grumbles, and the cheap leather creaks as he adjusts his position.
I’m still not entirely over how chairs that normally make people look small seem like doll house furniture beneath this man. It’s unsettling. More so when I picture little, twig-tiny Andromeda in his care.
I bite my tongue before I accidentally stand, plant my palms flat on my desk, and growl, What does your daughter mean when she says you two work late, huh?
I want to stab him. I want to pin all his long limbs to the ground and demand answers for why his daughter doesn’t have more than one set of clothes, doesn’t bring any food for a lunch, doesn’t have an adult escort to or from school…
I could go on.
But then I really would need to wash blood out of this cheap ash gray carpet.
Some of Andromeda’s behaviors have implied she’s neurodivergent, but given the surrounding red flags, I’d be remiss to ignore the fact that some neurodivergent habits can be the result of trauma. Naturally, that begs the question what trauma?
And, naturally again, blurting that question is not a tactful way of dealing with a parent I’ve just met and don’t trust.
Keeping my I actually do not hate you smile on my face, I say, “Does Meda live with you or with Willow?”
“She’s not allowed at Willow’s.” Plunging his fingers back through his short dark hair, Pollux releases a hard breath. “I don’t know how Meda wound up here.” His lip curls as he peers at my nice and neat office once again. “This place is like a daycare.” He mumbles, “I thought she was mentally older than daycare…”
My nerves prickle, and I crush the large fluffy bee I crocheted then sewed onto my skirt in my fist. “Your daughter is seven. Eight in February. And this isn’t a daycare. It’s an elementary school.”
His eyes punch my way. “Seven?”
“According to the paperwork Willow filled out.”
Pollux’s expression twists. “Ah. Okay, then. Seven. Almost eight. That wasn’t information she relayed to me when we talked about…this.”
In my mind, I’ve knocked him to the floor and wrapped my fingers around his throat. I’m shaking him like a ragdoll and cursing, because why the bad word does he not bad word know how old his daughter is??
