Page 74 of Timelessly Ours
“That’s right.”
“Then why are you the one calling me?”
“Because I’m the headmaster.”
“That’s nice. But if you don’t have a solid background as to what happened right before, then I can’t take what you’re telling me into any context. For all I know, there was a fire outside and Ms. Kane jumped in to help.”
She laughs and I swallow down my anger. “Mr. Collins, I assure you there was no fire.”
“Then I suggest you find out what happened. Especially the part where someone either touched or threatened my daughter because otherwise, I don’t see how your version makes any sense, Ms. Adams.”
“Of—of course. I’ll be talking to some of the staff as well.”
“Please do.” I hang up.
My jaw clenches. The last thing I need is for Rory to be kicked out of private school.
Jesus, Nicole.
Practice is at seven and I’ve spent the last few hours coming up with drills and strategies. Something’s been bothering me about the games lately and I can’t put my finger on it.
I can’t put my finger on who.
Needing the distraction, I take off and call Nicole the moment I get in the car. But there’s no answer.
I don’t want to yell at her. My frustration is misplaced because of what Grove has asked me to do, but she needs to know, she can’t pull shit like this.
This is the kind of attention Grove reminded me I don't need.
I come home to an empty house and that makes my blood simmer. Calm down. Maybe she took her out for a donut or something.
Me: Where are you?
I’m pacing my living room, waiting for the response, which doesn’t come through nearly fast enough.
Nicole responds with an address. That’s it.
An address that’s… Downtown?
Me: Let me rephrase that. Why aren’t you home??
No response.
Okay. Maybe I could have asked better. I jump back in my Range and head downtown, checking the clock for when I need to be back at the arena.
Where the hell did you take her, Nicole?
Thirty minutes later, I pull up to the street and sigh when I see the emblem on the storefront of the address Nicole gave me.
A dojo?
I walk into the Taekwondo studio, reminding myself that I’m in public and need to keep my cool. And that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for why my daughter was driven out of town on a school night without my permission.
I follow the oak wood floor down the long aisle until I reach the window of the front desk. It slides open as I approach, and a young woman greets me with a warm smile. “Hello. How can I help you?”
She catches the attention of a slender man behind her in the office. He’s in a red uniform and black belt with all sorts of pins and badges.
He stalks over to the window. “You’re Royce Collins.”