Two Stories in the Bus Recording

Harrison was erasing the server’s contents. The original recording of Owen’s roleplay assignment was at risk, along with the history that could establish when it had been taken.

If the cloud copy disappeared, the version on Harrison’s computer could be passed off as something he had downloaded after the display case was damaged. The sequence of events would be lost.

The screenshot in my purse would prove little without the digital record behind it. A picture of a log was not the same as a verifiable log.

“You needn’t concern yourself with Owen’s privacy, Mr. Harrison,” I said, lowering my voice. “You have enough to manage already. Those attendance lists must keep you busy—especially the names of children who no longer live in this state.”

The condescending curve of Harrison’s mouth fell away. Fluorescent light made his suddenly pale face look almost gray. His eyes flicked toward Owen, who kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

He understood that I had learned something. I had also made sure he knew I was looking into it.

My satisfaction lasted only until I headed down the corridor toward Owen’s locker. Then fear settled in. I had shown my hand to a man with reason to panic, and he still had access to the server.

Frank, the school custodian, came along with a weighty ring of brass keys. Their clinking bounced off the quiet hallway as he stopped at locker 412.

He selected a master key and worked it into the built-in lock. The narrow door gave a squeal as it swung open.

“Here you are, Mrs. Hayes,” Frank said kindly, moving aside. He had served the school for two decades and remembered Sarah, my daughter, from her own student days. Sympathy showed in his eyes.

“Thanks, Frank.” My words came out taut.

The locker’s scuffed metal interior was in front of me, but my thoughts stayed with Harrison. Anger had pushed me into taunting him about the records before I had weighed what it might cost.

Now I worried I had hastened his attempt to wipe out the SafeSpace recording and anything connected to it. Without the digital trail showing that he obtained the audio before the vandalism, my screenshot was merely paper. His title would carry weight; my account might not.

I took out Owen’s thick biology book and his battered algebra binder. Their hard corners pressed through my cardigan as I held them close. I needed to act before Harrison finished whatever he had begun on the school system.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Keeping the books tucked against one arm, I pulled it free and saw a message from Owen.

I had given him an inexpensive prepaid phone after Sarah died. The thought of being unable to reach him when he needed me had been too frightening to ignore.

His message read: Nana, Mr. H walked past the front desk with the computer man.

My heart began pounding high in my throat. Harrison was moving with the IT director, and there was no time to waste.

“I know the way back, Frank,” I told him, turning toward the front office.

I moved quickly along the shining linoleum, then slowed as I neared the administrative area. I steadied my breath. Panic would do nothing for Owen; I needed to think clearly.

The glass doors opened onto the front office. Mrs. Gable stood behind the curved desk with her back to me, feeding manila folders into the copier. Its steady clatter covered my approach.

Owen waited in the same plastic chair where I had left him. His face looked washed out and tense. Without speaking, he lifted a trembling finger toward the staff offices.

I looked where he indicated. Harrison’s office door stood open, apparently left that way when he went to meet the IT director.

Mrs. Gable was still occupied at the copier, trying to clear a jam from its control panel. She had noticed nothing.

The opening might not last. It might be my one chance.

I went to Owen and passed him the books. “Keep these,” I silently formed with my lips.

Then I crossed beyond the desk, my rubber soles quiet against the office carpet. At sixty-two, I had spent a lifetime obeying rules: paying bills early, keeping to the speed limit, respecting authority.

But the authority here was trying to pin a crime on my grieving grandson to hide its own wrongdoing. Whatever boundaries I had trusted no longer seemed worth protecting.

I slipped through the doorway into Thomas Harrison’s empty office. Peppermint and the scent of costly dry cleaning lingered in the air.

His desk was arranged with almost unnerving neatness. Two monitors sat locked at password screens, with a silver pen cup, a photograph of a golden retriever, and an attendance-folder basket set in tidy order.

On the desktop lay a yellow legal pad, just where Owen had said he’d seen it. I drew nearer, my heartbeat pounding hard against my ribs, and took out my phone. I woke the screen and leaned over the paper, ready to photograph what Harrison had left behind.