Lucia raised a skeptical eyebrow. I couldn’t blame her. To her, I was probably just some guy in a suit who argued about paperwork. Not exactly playground argument material.
“But don’t embarrass me, okay?”
I felt the corner of my mouth lift slightly despite myself. “Embarrassment isn’t usually part of my strategy.”
She looked back at me like she wasn’t entirely convinced. “It better not be.”
As I followed her into the building, I shook my head slightly, almost amused. I’d stood in front of judges, juries, politicians, and men who’d probably ended lives with less thought than they’d given their breakfast order, and yet somehow, theskeptical gaze of a six-year-old who doubted my competence felt more daunting.
I blamed Valentina. This was exactly the sort of scenario I’d never have pictured myself in.
But here I was.
Maybe my judgment really was slipping. Or maybe Valentina was just rubbing off on me more than I’d realized.
The classrooms were smaller than I remembered. Everything in them too. Low ceilings, miniature desks, alphabet charts on the walls like everyone was pretending the world was still simple. It made me feel enormous. Out of place. As if someone had shoved me into a memory that didn’t belong to me.
Lucia led the way. I followed, stepping into a conversation I could already tell was going nowhere. Two women stood at the front of the room, one looking exhausted, the other furious for no real reason. The angry one turned when she saw us. Mid-forties, tight blazer, tight jaw. She looked at me like she didn’t know what to do with me. Most people didn’t.
“Marco Grey,” I introduced myself as I offered my hand to shake. “Lucia’s mom and aunt are both unavailable today, so I hope I’ll suffice.”
“Mr. Grey, thank you for coming,” the teacher, Ms. Anderson, said quickly.
I knew that tone. I used it in court.
Lucia slipped her small hand into mine. It surprised me enough to make me glance down at her. She was holding on pretty tightly.
“This is Mrs. Turner,” the teacher went on, nodding toward the woman who was still glaring. “Her daughter, Megan, and Lucia had an incident.”
“Megan didn’t do anything,” Mrs. Turner snapped before anyone could explain further. “My daughter is being blamed for something she didn’t do.”
I didn’t say anything.
The teacher hesitated, then she gestured to one of the desks. “That’s the drawing.”
Lucia’s paper sat on the desk, smeared with thick blue paint. Fingerprints. Messy. The kind of thing kids did when they knew they were getting away with it. I looked at the drawing and then at the girl beside Mrs. Turner—Megan, presumably—who was fidgeting, hands behind her back like she didn’t know how obvious she was being.
“Can I see your hands, Megan?” I asked, my voice even.
Mrs. Turner tensed again. “Excuse me?”
“Well, there’s paint on Lucia’s drawing, and I’m guessing Megan hasn’t washed her hands recently.”
Megan’s mother hesitated, clearly about to protest, but the teacher gave her a pointed look and nudged Megan forward. Slowly, the girl raised her hands, showing off two palms stained bright blue. Lucia made a quiet, satisfied noise beside me.
I raised an eyebrow slightly.
Mrs. Turner deflated visibly, irritation fading into embarrassment. “Megan, is this true?”
Megan nodded slowly, guilt written all over her face.
Mrs. Turner sighed, running a hand over her forehead. “I’m sorry. She didn’t tell me.”
Ms. Anderson looked relieved. Lucia squeezed my hand again, clearly satisfied with the outcome, though she tried to look nonchalant about it.
“Maybe you can apologize to Lucia,” I suggested calmly, “and we can consider the matter resolved.”
Megan looked up at Lucia shyly. “Sorry I messed up your drawing.”
