I spend the rest of the morning at the school, making myself useful. I help a student who’s struggling with a math problem in the hallway — a nervous boy with glasses who can’t grasp fractions. I walk him through it step by step, patient and calm, until his face lights up with understanding. He thanks me and runs off to class. Not my target demographic, but you never know if he has a hot sister.
I pliment Mrs. Chen on the art display in the main hallway — a collection of watercolor landscapes that are surprisingly good for high school work. She beams and tells me about the techniques she’s been teaching. I hold the door for a teacher carrying a stack of books, and she thanks me with a warm smile.
Small gestures. Each one noted. Each one building my reputation as the friendly new father who’s always around to help.
I pass by Hester’s classroom during a break. Through the window, I see her talking to another girl, gesturing about something. She’s smiling. The apology has shifted something in how the other students see her. She’s no longer the bully they avoided. She’s the girl who stood up and admitted she was wrong. In a town like this, that kind of humility earns respect.
By lunchtime, I’ve made enough of an impression that several staff members greet me by name as I pass. The janitor nods at me as he mops the hallway. Paul claps me on the shoulder when we cross paths near the staff room, all professional warmth for anyone watching.
Mrs. Higgins has warmed considerably.
[Mrs. Higgins trust: 72]
The pin is doing its work. She’ll do me favors before long. I make a mental note to ask her about the school’s filing system sometime. Secretaries know everything.
I eat lunch with Hope again. She’s already saved me a seat near the window. Hester sits with her own friends now — a small group of girls who seem to have accepted her apology. She’s not fully integrated yet, but she’s no longer isolated. One of them passes her a note, and she laughs.
"That’s good," I say when Hope points it out.
"Told you she was brave. The apology changed everything."
"Not everything. But it changed enough."
I glance toward the twins’ table. They’re eating together, as always, heads close, whispering. They share a single bag of chips between them, their hands moving in sync. Dana looks up and catches my eye for a split second. I smile. She looks away quickly, but not before I see the faint color rising in her cheeks.
Interesting. She noticed me watching. And she reacted — a blush, an averted gaze, a slight tension in her shoulders.
I file that away for later consideration. Shy girls are easier to approach. Shy girls with a more outgoing twin are even easier — the outgoing one does the talking while the shy one follows.
After lunch, I check in with Paul one more time. No new developments. Mary confirmed Saturday. We go over the talking points again.
"She liked you," Paul says. "I could tell."
"She liked the idea of free tutoring for her daughters. That’s what she liked."
"Still. You made an impression."
The conversation shifts to the boarding school. "My lawyer’s been looking into the legal requirements," I say. "Accreditation process, licensing, all that bureaucratic fun."
Paul nods. "And?"
"He’s putting together a timeline. Expects it’ll take six months minimum, maybe longer depending on inspections. But he found a property — the old convent on Cedar Street. Diocese is looking to offload it."
"I know the place. Been vacant for three years."
"Square footage works. Classrooms, dorms, admin offices — all there. And the land’s big enough to add a separate villa on the grounds. Somewhere private for our girls."
Paul’s pen stops. "A villa?"
"For the special program." I let him connect the dots. "Can’t have them mixing with the regular students all the time. They need a place of their own."
He nods slowly, a faint smile crossing his face. "I’ll check the property lines, make sure there’s enough room for both."
"Do it. I want a plete proposal by the end of the month."
"Consider it done."
I leave his office and walk the halls for a while, letting my presence be seen. The more familiar I am, the less anyone questions why I’m here.
I stop by Miss Delaney’s classroom. The door is open. She’s at her desk, grading papers, a strand of hair falling across her face. She looks up and smiles when she sees me.
"Mr. Roberts. Back again?"
"Just passing by. Hope mentioned she enjoyed your lesson on Romantic poetry yesterday."
Her face lights up. "She did well on the worksheet. She has a real feel for the imagery."
I lean against the doorframe, letting the conversation stretch. We talk for ten minutes about Keats and the concept of negative capability. She’s passionate, animated. Her hands move when she talks.
[Miss Delaney trust: 45]
[Miss Delaney horniness: 18]
She doesn’t notice what her body is telling her. But I do.
The rest of the day passes in a fortable rhythm. I talk to more teachers. I walk the halls. I plan.
By the time the final bell rings, I’m ready to go home. My feet are tired from walking the halls all day, but my mind is sharp. I’ve made progress. Small, steady progress.
Hope meets me at the gate, her bag slung over one shoulder. She falls into step beside me without a word, and we walk together, talking about nothing important. The weather. The homework she has tonight. The church bake sale this weekend.
"You’re quiet today," she says after a few blocks.
"Thinking."
"About Saturday?"
"About everything."
She slips her hand into mine as we walk. A simple gesture. Father and daughter. A passing neighbor smiles at us. I smile back.
I’m thinking about Saturday. About the cameras already built into the study corner’s bookshelf — invisible since the day the apartment was wired. About Mary’s trustworthiness and how quickly I can convert it into access. About the twins and their synchronized mannerisms, their shared habits. An image floats through my mind — both of them on their knees in front of me, those identical faces looking up, their tongues working in perfect sync.
One step at a time.
But the steps are getting faster.
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