Mr. Masters (Mr. 1)

“I overheard a girl from this school say something to her that disturbed me greatly.”

“What was that?”

“She said that Willow’s mother probably killed herself to get away from Willow.”

“Dear God,” he mutters. “When was this?”

“At the weekend.”

He frowns. “In school grounds?”

“No. During football practice, at the playing field.”

His face falls. “Unfortunately we’re unable to do anything about weekend activities.”

“I know. But I wanted to speak to the school counsellor and see if she has noticed anything going on here at school.”

“Yes, of course.” He scribbles a phone number on the back of a business card. “Call that number on Monday morning and make an appointment to see him. He’s very helpful.”

I smile and take the card. “Thank you.” I glance at the name.

Steven Asquith

“I’m sorry I can’t help more, but I will send out an email today to all of her teachers and ask them to call you, if you like?”

“That would be fantastic.” I smile.

"That way we can tackle it at the grassroots level."

“Perfect.”

“Shall I schedule a meeting for this time next week so we can update each other on any of our findings?”

I smile gratefully. “That would be great, thank you. I’m sure you can understand that this is a sensitive issue. I don’t want Willow to suffer any more unnecessary stress.”

“Of course.” We both stand and he shakes my hand. “Have a great weekend and we will meet again next week.”

I head out of the office feeling a little better that we are at least starting to get to the bottom of it, but then I stop dead in my tracks.

The blonde bitch—the one who asked me to buy her coffee, also known as the bully's mother—is behind the reception desk. She's wearing a white dress and black high heel pumps, dolled up like mutton with a full face of makeup. She doesn't see me, and she turns and walks down the corridor in the opposite direction.

I stand for a moment, watching her walk away.

I approach the reception window. “Excuse me, can you please tell me what that woman’s name is?”

The young girl on reception looks around. “I’m sorry, who?”

“The woman in the white dress who was just here.”

“Oh, that’s Tiffany Edwards.”

“What’s she doing here?” I ask, my eyes glued to the back of this Tiffany Edwards.

“What isn’t she doing here?” The girl laughs, and I can tell she’s not into the politics of the school. “She volunteers here.”

“Volunteers?” I ask.

“She practically runs the school.”