She touches the blank page and scoots it toward me. “Someone deleted my proposition for Leopold, along with all the prep work I’ve done to support my eligibility. Mrs. McCracken told me she put it all in my file. I don’t want to point fingers, but someone in this school doesn’t like me, and that someone has a son who is competing for my spot.”
Beverly Rivard wiped her file, a conclusion I’d already come to. “Why Leopold?”
“It’s the best conservatory in the country.”
“So?”
“So?” Her eyes light up. “The rigorous education students receive there is unparalleled. They have an elite faculty, top-notch facilities, and the best track record in propelling students into musical careers.” Ticking off names on her fingers, she lists notable alumni, such as world-renowned composers, conductors, and pianists, then adds, “And you, Mr. Marceaux. I mean, you’re in the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra.”
I’m about to call her out for being a brown-noser, but then she surprises me.
“I don’t just want to perform.” She clasps her hands together, her gaze losing focus. “I want to occupy a principal chair in a major symphony and sit beside the best of the best, in a sold-out venue, shivering under the stage lights. I want to be there, part of it all, when the music begins.”
This isn’t a pitch she prepared in advance. The passion in her voice is a thousand decibels of intensity, her entire body vibrating with the prospect of her words.
She lowers her hands and meets my eyes. “Also, as you already know, every single student accepted into Leopold receives a full-tuition scholarship. Doesn’t matter who you are or what your background is…”
We share a look, and in that space of understanding, I mentally finish her sentence. Leopold has enough prestige and wealth that it doesn’t concern itself with student bank accounts. The school evaluates its applicants on talent alone.
“Very well.” I rub the back of my neck and hope to hell she’s a terrible pianist. “I’ll update your file, and we’ll go from there.”
Under normal circumstances, being best in her class would get her into Leopold. But Beverly hired me to ensure that wouldn’t happen. Leopold will accept Prescott Rivard because I’ll make it happen. Everyone else from Le Moyne will be overlooked. That sucks for Ivory, but life’s a bitch.
“Thank you.” She smiles, her posture loosening.
“We have one more matter to discuss.”
I tuck the file away, rise from the chair, and walk around the desk to sit on the ledge beside her, facing her.
With her legs pinched together, she stacks her feet—one bare foot atop the other—against the leg of my desk. I scan the floor and spot her beat-up shoes beneath her chair. I suspect the torn plastic edges irritate her skin after wearing them all day.
When she looks up, I place a finger beneath her chin, holding the position of her head. “What happened to your lip?”
As expected, she tries to lower her chin. An evasive response. Every instinct in my body tells me someone hurt her.
I apply a small yet unmistakable pressure against her soft skin. “Stand up.”
Her breaths quicken as she lifts from the chair, guided by my touch beneath her jaw.
When she reaches her full height, I drop my hand. “I asked you a question, and before you answer, remember what I said about lies.”
She presses her lips together.
I try another tactic. “As your teacher, I’m a mandated reporter. Do you know what that means?”
Her eyes, like liquid ebony, blink. She’s distressingly beautiful, and I’m so fucked.
I unfold from my perch on the desk. Standing over her, I’m a head taller and a lot bigger. “It means I’m required to report suspected child maltreatment to protective services.”
“No!” Her fingers fly to the cut on her lip. “You don’t need to do that. My brother…he and I got into it this morning, like siblings do. It’s totally normal.”
Normal? I don’t think so. “How old is he?”
She leans a hip against the edge of the desk, a casual pose, but she’s not fooling me. “He’s twenty-six.”
Twenty-six is ten years past knowing better. If the fucker hit her, I won’t report him. I’ll find him and break his fucking face. “Did he hit you?”
“He…uh, well, we were arguing and uh…” She picks her words carefully, forehead pinched in concentration, no doubt trying to avoid a lie. “I ended up eating the frame of a door.”
“Did. He. Hit you?”
She releases a breath. “He backhanded me. This”—she points at her lip—“was the door frame.”
A raging fire erupts inside me, rushing to the surface and searing across my skin. “How often?”
She hugs her midsection, eyes on the floor, further enraging me.
“Answer me!”
“Don’t do this. I can’t…I have enough problems to deal with right now.”
“Lift your shirt.” What am I doing? Fuck, this is a bad idea, but I have to know. “Show me your ribs.”