Chapter 8: The Principal's Office
Principal Vance did not look like a man accustomed to losing control, but as Marco and I stepped into his cluttered administrative office, the illusion of his absolute authority was rapidly dissolving. The room smelled of old coffee and radiator dust, completely at odds with the polished oak and glass towers I was accustomed to inhabiting. Vance stood behind his desk, his face flushed a dull red, clutching a printed notification from the municipal tax bureau that Marco had personally delivered ten minutes prior.
"This is completely irregular," Vance sputtered, his voice cracking slightly as he slammed the paper onto the blotter. "You can't just audit discretionary accounts without a formal board resolution. Who do you think you are?"
"My name is on the deeds to the land your development partners are trying to clear," I said, walking slowly toward the metal-framed visitor's chair and taking a seat without waiting for an invitation. I crossed one leg over the other, resting my hands calmly on my knees. "And your discretionary account has been funding illegal re-zoning bribes for the past three years. That makes it very much my concern."
Vance swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the closed office door as if hoping some phantom rescue committee would walk through it. "The district attorney—"
"The district attorney received the forensic accounting files twenty minutes ago," Marco interrupted smoothly, standing sentinel by the door with his hands clasped behind his back. "Along with copies of every wire transfer between your shell company and the city planning commission. You aren't dealing with a disgruntled tenant now, Principal Vance. You're dealing with an open-and-shut federal case."
The silence in the small office became heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the old wall clock above the filing cabinets. Vance sank slowly into his leather swivel chair, the bravado draining entirely from his posture. He looked smaller now, a man whose public veneer of respectability had been stripped away by the simple weight of documented truth.
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"The mother," Vance muttered bitterly, staring down at his desk. "Sarah Bennett. She didn't have the right to fight back. She was just supposed to pack up and leave when we raised the rent."
"People who protect their children don't care about your real estate timelines," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "And neither do I. Clear your desk, Vance. Your tenure here ended the moment you tried to evict a family to build a parking lot."
