Page 66 of Disciplinary Action
“Haven’t rich people been doing that for years?” Gideon quipped.
“This goes beyond donating a library. Parents are paying upwards of fifty to seventy-five thousand dollars to cheat the system. They’re paying to have their children declared special needs in order to allow these children to cheat the system. These proctors take tests for these children, convince teachers to change grades, and, in many cases, simply take their SATs and ACTs for them.”
“That would explain the abnormally high number of students with independent learning plans at Roosevelt,” Gideon said.
“So, you’ve noticed it as well?” Simmons asked.
Gideon shook his head. “I had not. At least, not until yesterday. My…co-ed boy toy…as you called him, noted it when he realized the school had just screwed him out of the admission and full-ride scholarship to Harvard he’d very much earned fair and square.”
“I understand you’re upset about Mr. Whyte, but this is much bigger than just one rich kid missing out on Harvard,” Langston said. “You have to see that.”
“What I see is that you have an operation you’d like to keep under wraps, and I have a boy who is at home heartbroken after having his future ripped away from him for being the only ‘rich kid’ who didn’t buy his grades.”
Simmons pointed a finger at him again. “Look, if you keep pushing this, you’re going to blow our entire operation.”
“What I want is very simple. Callum gets his Harvard admissions back and his full-ride scholarship with a written apology and it never goes further than this. Just get Shea to recant his statement and admit that he lied and I’ll pretend I don’t know anything at all.”
“We can’t risk an investigation this far-reaching over one kid’s future. That’s ludicrous,” Simmons said.
Gideon stared at both men for a long moment, an idea forming. “How about a littlequid pro quothen? What if I can get you the records showing the number of children with independent learning plans and how many of them went on to ivy league schools as well as a confession from not only a member of Roosevelt’s board but, potentially, the dean of my college? Would that be worth one kid’s future?”
“Do you really think you can make that happen?” Langston asked, practically salivating.
Gideon nodded. “I do. But I’m going to need Cal’s admission and scholarship reinstated now. I’ll sign whatever paperwork you need me to sign to make that happen, confidential informant, covert op guy, whatever you need. Just fix what they did to Callum.”
“You’re willing to lose your job as a tenured professor at one of the most exclusive private colleges in the country over this kid?” Simmons asked, hooking an eyebrow.
“I’m willing to risk far more than that. Do we have a deal, gentlemen? Or not?” Gideon asked, growing impatient.
“We’ll have to clear it with our boss, but yeah. You have a deal,” Langston said.
“Good. But if this is going to work, Shea’s going to need to make a phone call and he’s gonna have to be convincing.”
Callum checked the clock again. It was after six, and Gideon still wasn’t home. It was just as well. The Korean place said delivery would be at least an hour. But still, Cal was restless. He’d taken Alexa outside to play fetch in the empty lot behind the building. He’d folded and hung up his laundry. He’d even reorganized his underwear drawer. He was two seconds away from taking a label maker to their toy chest. Was butt plug one word or two?
When the doorbell rang, he practically dove for it. He swung the door open, expecting to find their usual delivery boy, Adam, but, instead, found an elderly silver-haired woman in a black pantsuit with diamonds dripping from her ears big enough to buy Cal a lifetime supply of insulin.
“Well, you’re definitely not cold noodles,” Cal said with a nervous laugh, glancing outside the doorway, hoping, by some miracle, Gideon was right behind this mystery woman.
She looked him up and down in a way that made Cal feel exposed. He fought the urge to cover himself like he was naked instead of wearing athletic shorts and an orange hoodie.
“No, I most definitely am not,” she murmured, her voice low and throaty, like some old-timey jazz singer. “So, you’re what all the fuss is about.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were the delivery guy.”
“Yes, I believe we established that. Are you going to invite me in, or should I just make myself comfortable out here?”
“Who are you?” Cal asked, still not extending an invitation.
Some ridiculous part of him thought maybe she was a vampire and this was a trap. She had that demeanor—cunning, cruel, calculating. Beautiful in the way that icicles were beautiful. Her silver hair was swept into a complicated pile with crystal pins, and her eyes were a beautiful ice blue. She could have easily passed for a woman half her age if not for the shrewdness of her gaze and her gnarled fingers, which were so riddled with arthritis the only way she could’ve removed her diamond rings would be to cut them free.
Who was she?
“My name is Rosalind Sands, and you’re Callum Whyte, are you not?”
Maybe she was a vampire. Cal gave a heavy sigh and stepped out of her way. She wasn’t leaving, and keeping her in the threshold was starting to feel rude. She took three steps inside and stopped short when she spied Alexa cleaning her paw on the bed. The dog froze, and the two females seemed to size each other up before each breaking their gaze.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Sands?” Cal asked before biting the inside of his cheek.
