His Son's Teacher
You forged my signature? You're only eight years old!"
Nick Tulane shifted his butt on a child's chair five sizes too small for his six-foot-three frame and stared down at the top of his son's head. Talk about déjà vu. How many times had he been the kid sitting there beside his dad, head bent low, waiting for the bad news to be delivered?
The other kids in Matt's class had left fifteen minutes earlier, filing out of the room with their backpacks and bags in tow, all of them chattering, yelling. Laughing. But Matt wasn't laughing. And that, more than anything, cemented the truth in Nick's mind. His son had actually
"I didn't mean toI just did. The teacher didn't say anything."
"So you thought you were going to get away with it?"
The knot in Nick's stomach tightened. Matt's voice trembled, but there was something more there. And whatever it was, whatever reason Matt had for doing such a thing, it was big. Why else would the counselor have called both of Nick's businesses in order to track him down and set up a mandatory meeting on the last day of school? "What was in the note? Did you play a prank on the teacher?"
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