What happened to the money?
I nod politely. I thank him. I leave without pushing, because pushing would turn my face red and my voice sharp, and I’m trying very hard not to crumble in front of the man who controls my classroom budget.
In the hallway, Jack falls into step beside me.
He doesn’t ask questions until we’re far enough away that no one can overhear.
“What wrong?” he murmurs.
I swallow hard. “He said there’s no funding.”
Jack’s gaze sharpens. “And you believe him?”
I hesitate.
Then I shake my head once. “I knew there was funding last month.”
Jack’s jaw tightens. “You’re sure.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m not making it up.”
Jack nods, slow. “Then the question is: where did it go?”
A chill slides down my spine.
I try to laugh it off—because that’s what I do—but it comes out thin. “Maybe it got redirected.”
“Maybe,” Jack agrees, voice calm. “Or maybe someone redirected it on purpose.”
My stomach knots. And suddenly Safe Steps doesn’t feel like a cute teacher project.
It feels like a thread.
To me.
I glance up at Jack. “Do you think it’s worth looking into?”
His eyes hold mine—steady, intense. “Yes.”
The certainty in his voice makes my chest tighten.
“Okay,” I whisper.
And with Jack beside me, “okay” feels like a plan, not a prayer.
After school,we head back to the safe house.
The kids wave. Levi yells, “BYE MR. SINCLAIR! DON’T GET ATTACKED BY BEARS!” and Jack actually lifts a hand in a small wave, which makes my heart melt into a puddle.
In the truck, I finally let myself exhale. I stare out the window as fields roll by, golden and quiet.
Jack breaks the silence. “Tell me everything you remember about the funding.”
I blink. “You want details.”
“I want facts,” he says. “Dates. Amounts. Who mentioned it. Who had access.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
