Chapter 2 - THE EMPTY STORAGE ROOM
“Mr. Brooks, let’s not overreact.”
Principal Coleman’s voice crackled through my phone speaker, thick with fake diplomacy.
“Overreact?” I echoed, looking at my daughter’s ruined science book sitting in the trash can. “I spent forty thousand dollars on educational materials specifically so this exact situation wouldn't happen. And I’m looking at a classroom of children who are terrified to admit they don’t have textbooks.”
I didn’t wait for his excuse.
I hung up.
I looked at Emma. She was still clinging to my hand, her small shoulders tense.
“Emma, sweetie, go gather your backpack,” I said gently. “You’re coming with me to the principal’s office.”
She nodded quickly and hurried to her desk.
I turned back to Mrs. Carter. She was pale, her hands gripping the edge of her desk so tightly her knuckles were white. The anger she had shown my daughter was completely gone, replaced by something that looked entirely like fear.
“Mrs. Carter,” I said quietly, making sure the children couldn't hear. “I don't know what kind of administration you’re working under. But if you ever humiliate my daughter—or any child in this room—over a book again, my next call won’t be to the principal. It will be to the state education board. Do you understand me?”
She swallowed hard. “Mr. Brooks, you don't know what’s happening here.”
“Then tell me.”
She glanced at the classroom door, terrified. “I can't. Just... look in the old gym storage. That’s where the delivery went.”
I narrowed my eyes. Before I could ask anything else, Emma took my hand. She had her backpack on, her little face looking up at me with absolute trust.
We walked down the long, linoleum-tiled hallway. Brookfield Elementary was a historic brick building, beautiful on the outside, but inside, the cracks were showing. Faded bulletin boards. Water stains on the ceiling tiles. It was exactly why I had written that donation check.
We bypassed the main office and went straight for the old gymnasium at the back of the school.
The heavy wooden doors were locked.
Through the narrow wire-mesh window, I peered into the darkness.
I turned on my phone’s flashlight and pressed it against the glass.
The storage room was massive. It was supposed to hold two hundred sealed cardboard boxes of brand-new textbooks, workbooks, and scientific calculators.
It was completely empty.
Not a single box. Not a single book.
“Daddy?” Emma whispered. “Where are the books you bought?”
“I don't know, honey,” I murmured.
Then, the flashlight beam caught something metallic catching the glare on the dusty wooden floor.
I stepped back, gripped the heavy brass door handle, and shoved my weight against it. The old lock gave way with a sharp crack.
I walked inside, my shoes echoing in the empty cavern. I walked over to the spot where I had seen the reflection.
It was a heavy, silver money clip.
I picked it up. My blood turned to ice water.
It was engraved with three initials: M. A. V.
Marcus Allen Vance.
My business partner. The man who had managed the logistics of my donation through our company’s philanthropic wing while I was in Chicago.
Why was his custom money clip on the floor of an empty school storage room?
“Mr. Brooks!”
I turned around. Principal Coleman was standing in the doorway, flanked by two school security guards. His face was red, his breathing heavy.
“You broke the lock on a school door,” Coleman snapped. “I could have you arrested.”
“Go ahead,” I challenged, walking toward him, the silver clip burning a hole in my pocket. “Call the police, Coleman. Let’s have them file a report on the two thousand missing textbooks while they’re here.”
Coleman’s eyes darted to Emma, then back to me.
“The books aren't missing,” he said smoothly. “They were deemed structurally inappropriate for the current curriculum by the school board. We sent them back to the distributor for an exchange.”
It was a lie. A very practiced lie.
“An exchange?” I asked.
“Yes. Now, I must ask you to leave the premises immediately, or you will be trespassing.”
I looked at him. Then I looked at Emma. This wasn't the place to have this fight. Not yet.
“Come on, Emma,” I said.
We walked past Coleman. But as I passed him, I noticed something sticking out of his breast pocket.
It was a first-class boarding pass.
Printed for a flight leaving tonight.
May you like
And the destination wasn't an educational conference.
It was the Cayman Islands.
