The landing is clear, with no signs of the client-poaching monster next door. I wait for Miss George to get into the elevator, then hurry back to my desk where my phone is angrily vibrating.

The number of Tegan’s school flashes onscreen, making my stomach drop in a panic. The school never calls unless something is wrong. Did Tegan get hurt? Is she sick?

Heart pounding in my chest, I pick up. “Hello?”

“Miss Hessington?”

“Yes?”

“This is Abel Wentworth, Head of School at The Ignatius College for the Talented and Gifted. I’m calling about your daughter—”

“Did something happen?” I interrupt. “Is Tegan okay?”

“Your daughter is fine, Miss Hessington. I’m reaching out about a matter of… ah… disciplinary nature.”

Disciplinary? I must’ve heard wrong. In ten years of schooling, Tegan has never had a single detention. Has the dreaded teenage rebellion phase I thought I’d get to skip altogether arrived? Given how perfectly balanced and poised Tegan has grown up to be, I felt in the clear. But I shouldn’t have counted my chickens before they hatched.

“What happened?” I ask.

“The matter and its consequences would be better discussed in person, Miss Hessington. Could you come to pick up your daughter?”

I check my calendar for today. I have another appointment just after lunch, and I can’t make it to the Upper West Side and back in time. Thankfully, it’s not a hearing. I can reschedule and be at Tegan’s school in… “I’ll be there in half an hour,” I say to Mr. Wentworth.

“Very good, Miss Hessington. I’ll see you then.”

***

At Tegan’s school, the same institute I attended, the walk to reach the principal’s office puts me on edge, even if long gone are the days since I was a student here. Still, the halls of TAG High—short for “talented and gifted”—have remained eerily unchanged, with the same dark-red lockers and white tiled floors. The hall becomes darker as I approach Mr. Wentworth’s office. A deliberate choice probably set in place to intimidate wrongdoers—or the poor parents who’ve come to collect them, and who will surely be lectured on their lack of parenting skills.

I turn the last corner of this ominous journey and find Tegan seated on one of the gray plastic chairs lining the wall, waiting alone. Her head is bowed low, and when I stop next to her, she doesn’t meet my eyes.

I stomp my boot loudly to get her attention, and she jerks her head up. “What did you do?” I hiss.