Chapter 2
After the bell rang, Carl dragged himself toward the staff room. He hated this place. The smell of old books, overly sweet tea, and chalk dust. Worst of all — the comments.
"Oh! You're Mr. Hale's boy?"
"Your father was such a brilliant student!"
"We still remember his graduation speech!"
He didn't care.
He avoided eye contact and made his way to a desk near the back, where Robert Ashton sat, slightly removed from the rest. His sleeves were now pulled down, neatly buttoned. His collar, still a little rumpled. A small tattoo on his forearm — something abstract — had vanished beneath the fabric. But Carl had seen it once, briefly, last term.
"Ah, Mr. Hale," Robert said, glancing up with a half-smile. "Thanks for coming."
Carl stood stiffly. "You wanted to talk about the essay?"
"Yes," Robert nodded, holding up a printed sheet. "This one."
"Was it bad?"
"No," Robert said, raising an eyebrow. "Actually... it was good. Surprisingly good. You have potential. A lot of it, honestly. You just need the right direction."
Before Carl could respond, a voice interrupted:
"Ashton? That you?"
Sister Rose.
She was one of the younger nuns — maybe in her late thirties — but already carried the sternness of the older ones. She approached with a sweet smile that never quite reached her eyes.
Carl tensed.
"Oh dear," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "He's not in trouble, is he?"
Robert stood up slightly straighter. "Not at all. Actually, quite the opposite."
"Good." Her smile stayed plastered on. "Wouldn't want you to scare off another student."
Carl stepped back from her touch. "If that's all, sir, I'll go."
Robert gave a short nod, clearly noticing the discomfort. "Yes. That's all. We'll talk more soon."
Carl didn't wait for Sister Rose's next question. He turned and walked out, ignoring the way she watched him go.
Behind him, Robert sat back down, loosening his sleeves again. He looked down at the essay in his hand — Carl Hale written in sharp, neat letters at the top.
He sighed.
Something about that boy...
There was more behind the silence.
----
Carl walked through the school gates, the chatter of students echoing behind him. His car was already parked outside, engine running, driver waiting. He got in silently, shut the door, and slipped in his earbuds.
The drive to the Hale estate was quiet — as always.
The Hale mansion loomed at the end of a long, tree-lined road. Massive iron gates slid open as the car approached, revealing sprawling lawns, marble steps, and a house far too large for a family that was never home.
Carl stepped out, bag slung over one shoulder. He walked through the front door, already removing his earbuds—then stopped.
Voices.
He glanced up and saw them — his parents — seated in the living room. His father on a leather armchair, phone in hand. His mother standing beside him, arms crossed, dressed immaculately as always.
Carl said nothing.
He walked right past them, heading for the stairs without a word.
"Carl," his mother called after him.
He didn't stop.
Didn't even flinch.
He climbed the steps two at a time and disappeared into his room.
---
Grozel appeared a few minutes later, holding a folded shirt in one hand and a look of concern in the other.
"Why didn't you answer your mother?" she asked softly, placing the shirt in his wardrobe.
Carl didn't look at her. He was lying on the bed, one arm across his forehead.
"She's not my mother," he muttered.
Grozel sighed — not surprised, but saddened.
"How long do you think they'll stay?" Carl asked, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
He didn't expect an answer.
He heard the soft click of the door opening again. Grozel stepped back. Carl sat up instinctively — and saw her.
Yvonne Hale.
His mother.
She looked too young to have a teenage son. Her skin flawless, hair neatly pulled back, makeup perfect. Everything about her was calculated and expensive.
Grozel gave her a small nod and quietly slipped out of the room.
Yvonne folded her arms. "What sort of behavior was that, Carl?"
No response.
"Answer me."
Carl rolled his eyes and looked away.
"Are you not the least bit happy we're back?" she asked, voice tightening.
He looked at her flatly. "How long are you staying?"
Yvonne's lips curved. "Longer than you think."
Carl scoffed. "So... two days?"
She ignored the jab. "I see you're not yourself. I'll come back when you're speaking like my son."
She turned, heading for the door.
"Guess that'll be never," Carl said under his breath.
She didn't respond.
The door clicked shut behind her.