He could miss Rachel at midnight in the kitchen. He could miss her while folding laundry alone. He could miss her on the drive home after Macy was asleep and the truck cab was too quiet. But not now. Not when their daughter was sitting in an office somewhere, accused of something she had not done.
By the time he pulled into the school lot, he had only one clear thought left, stripped down to its bare frame:
Somebody was going to answer for this.
Macy was in the front office waiting area, sitting in the chair nearest the window with her backpack on her lap and both arms wrapped around it. Not crying. That was what hit him first. Not crying. Her eyes were red around the edges, but dry, and he knew that look. It was the look Rachel used to wear at funerals when she was too angry to cry in public. Macy had inherited it without ever being told.
On the low table in front of her were two sheets of paper laid carefully side by side, as if somebody had thought presentation might make the thing more legitimate.
One was her score report from the county math invitational.
Ninety-eight out of one hundred.
The other was a form stamped across the top in block letters:
REFERRED FOR ACADEMIC DISHONESTY REVIEW
Cole looked at the papers. Then he looked at his daughter.
