And Kevin Baxter had just thrown him into a brick wall.
“Where is he?” Vance gasped, shooting up from his chair so fast it tipped backward. “Where is he right now?!”
“He said he was going to finish sweeping the main courtyard,” I stammered.
Vance didn’t grab his coat. He didn’t pause to explain further. He bolted around the desk, clutching the titanium key in his fist, and sprinted out of the office.
CHAPTER 3
I ran after him, my boots slipping on the marble as I chased Headmaster Vance through the corridors.
Vance was moving with a desperate, frantic speed I had never seen from him. We blew past classrooms and administrative suites, ignoring the confused stares of teachers standing in their doorways. The afternoon bell had rung twenty minutes ago, and the halls were still thick with students heading to extracurriculars. Vance shoved right through them, not bothering to apologize.
“Arthur, wait!” I yelled as we reached the heavy oak double doors leading to the main courtyard.
He didn’t slow down. He hit the doors with his shoulder, bursting out into the crisp afternoon air. I followed him out, squinting against the bright autumn sunlight.
The main courtyard was packed. It was the social hub of the school, a wide expanse of ancient stone pavers surrounded by manicured hedges and a central fountain. At least a hundred students were lingering, chatting, and waiting for their rides.
Right in the center of it all, sitting on the edge of the stone fountain, was Kevin Baxter.
He hadn’t left campus. He had just moved his G-Wagon to a legal spot and returned to hold court. Trent and Chase were flanking him, laughing loudly. Kevin was leaning back, gesturing with his hands, clearly retelling the story of how he had put the “useless old janitor” in his place. A small crowd of cheerleaders and underclassmen were gathered around him, feeding his ego.
And thirty feet away, entirely ignored by the wealthy teenagers, was Elias.
The old man was quietly sweeping up discarded food wrappers near the library steps. He moved a bit slower than usual, his posture slightly stooped from the impact against the wall, but he continued working with methodical, humble dedication.
Vance saw him.
The Headmaster didn’t walk toward Kevin. He completely ignored the star quarterback. Vance marched straight across the courtyard, his expensive leather shoes clicking rapidly against the stone.
As Vance approached, the students began to notice his frantic demeanor. The laughter died down. Kevin stopped talking, frowning as he watched the Headmaster stride right past him. Trent and Chase straightened up, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
Vance stopped three feet away from Elias.
The old man didn’t look up. He just kept sweeping a crumbled potato chip bag into his dustpan.
For a second, the courtyard was dead silent, save for the sound of the broom bristles scraping the stone.
Then, Headmaster Arthur Vance—the most powerful visible authority figure at Prescott Academy, a man who regularly intimidated senators and CEOs—did the unthinkable.
He dropped to his right knee on the dirty stone pavers.
A collective gasp rippled through the courtyard. A hundred students froze in absolute shock. I stopped a few feet behind Vance, my breath catching in my throat.