Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
“Turn around. I’ll fasten it around your neck. There. It fits you perfectly.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so.”
“Is it a gift?”
“It’s yours to keep, sweetheart. Whenever you miss me, it’ll remind you that you’re always in my heart.”
“Thank you, Sabella,” Sophie says, putting emphasis on the words like she does when she gives one of her generous hugs.
“Now come. Let’s wash your hands before dinner. I think I smell spaghetti.”
“Spaghetti,” Sophie exclaims. “That’s my favorite.” She adds quickly, “After your grilled chicken and chocolate cake, Bella.”
Sabella’s laugh is soft. “I told you Heidi was a great cook.”
Their conversation fades as a door opens and closes—the en-suite bathroom.
Downstairs, the front door slams. Boisterous laughter barrels through the lounge. The three boys charge up the stairs, shoving each other.
“No running in the house,” I say, making my voice hard.
They fall in line, watching me with dirt-streaked faces as they file past. Guillaume is last. He scurries sideways like a crab, holding his arms behind his back.
“Guillaume,” I say.
He freezes.
Étienne and Johan run to the end of the hallway and dart into their rooms.
“What are you hiding behind your back?”
“Nothing,” he says, trying to pull off such an exaggerated innocent expression that I suppress a laugh.
“Let’s see it.”
Sighing, he brings his arms from behind his back and shows me two halves of a ceramic flowerpot.
I motion at the shards. “How did that happen?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I raise a brow. “Try again.”
“I don’t know,” he exclaims.
Crossing my arms, I lean a shoulder against the wall. “Then we’re just going to stand here until you remember.”
He stomps his foot. “I’m hungry.”
“All the more reason to remember quickly.”
He huffs and drops his shoulders in a dramatic gesture while rolling his eyes. “I kicked it.”
“Why did you kick the flowerpot?”
“Because.”
“That’s not a sentence or a reply.”
“I don’t know.”
I shake my head. “That’s not an answer either.”
“I got mad,” he cries out. “Étienne and Johan wouldn’t let me kick the ball.”
“That’s no reason to kick the flowerpot. You need to learn to control your frustration.”
He only looks at me.
“What were you planning on doing? Hiding the shards in your room?”
More silence.
I jut my chin toward the incriminating evidence. “What did you do with the plant?”
“Left it there,” he says in almost inaudible voice, fixing his gaze on a spot on the floor.
“What’s going to happen to it if we just leave it there?”
He cocks a shoulder.
“It’s going to die,” I say. “If we replant it, it may survive.”
He sticks his tongue in his cheek.
“Your punishment for breaking the flowerpot on purpose is washing the kitchen pots after dinner.”
He cuts his gaze to me quickly and opens his mouth to no doubt argue, but I hold up a finger.
“Because you tried to hide it, you’ll also load the dishwasher and unpack it when it’s done. And, seeing that your brothers knew but decided to say nothing, all three of you will rake the pine needles in the backyard tomorrow.”
He exhales through his nose, making his nostrils flare. “That’s not fair.”
“That’s more than fair. I can always add chores to the list if you’d like to argue further.”
He clamps his lips together.
“Go wash up.” I take the broken shards. “This needs to be wrapped in paper before we put it in the trash so that no one cuts their fingers on it. We better repot the plant after you’ve tidied the kitchen.”
He pouts but turns to follow my order. I watch him as he walks off with heavy steps and inward-curling shoulders, imitating a sulking hulk. I heave a sigh of my own. Can we just have one day without incidents?
The ringtone I reserve for the school sounds in my pocket.
Apparently not.
I pull out my phone and swipe across the screen before pressing it against my ear.
“Mr. Russo? It’s Mrs. Nieddo, the principal. My apologies for calling so late, but one of the parents just contacted me about an incident that took place at school today.”
“What happened?”
“Johan sold drugs to one of the pupils.”
I blow out a long breath. “What kind of drugs?”
“Marijuana.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I say, “I’ll take the issue up with him. How would you like to handle it from your side?”
“I don’t have a choice but to suspend him for a couple of days with a written warning. If it happens again, he’ll be expelled indefinitely. Social services may suggest a school for children with behavioral problems.” She hesitates. “The parents may decide to file charges. In that case—”
“Yeah. I know. Drug dealing and selling to a minor.”
She clears her throat. “We take this very seriously at my school, Mr. Russo.”
“Understood,” I bite out. “It won’t happen again.”
“Let’s hope so.” She hesitates.
“Was there anything else?” I ask with impatience, eager to end this conversation.
“I, um—I don’t know how to phrase this, but you’re not going to, eh-hem, make problems for the school or the parents of the plaintiff?”