Behind the teacher’s desk stood Ms. Patricia Hill — stiff posture, perfectly styled hair, rings flashing on her fingers.
“Finally,” she said coolly. “Look at what your son has done.”
I walked to Daniel and placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched.
“Dad, I didn’t take anything,” he whispered.
“I know,” I said firmly. “Pick up your things.”
“Don’t touch them!” she snapped, slamming her palm on the desk. “They’re evidence. Five one-hundred-dollar bills disappeared from my purse. I stepped into the office briefly. When I returned, my bag had been moved and the money was gone. Only your son was here.”
She leaned closer.
“I searched his backpack. The cash wasn’t inside. So he hid it somewhere. It was him. You can tell. A boy from a broken home, wearing the same clothes every week…”
My jaw tightened.
“You searched him in front of the class? Without administration? Without police?” I asked evenly.
“I maintain discipline. Either you repay the money now, or I call the authorities. There will be a record. Social services may review your household. Think carefully.”
Blackmail. Plain and simple.
“Call them,” I said.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Call the police.”
The room froze.