Chapter 6: Everything He Built on Sand
Monday came and Marsh did not call.
Tuesday morning, Ruth Adler did.
"Higgins submitted his resignation last night," she said.
"Effective immediately."
Samantha was standing at the kitchen counter when she took the call.
I watched her face.
She didn't smile.
"What about the audit?" she said.
"The board voted this morning.
Full audit.
Every denied accommodation request going back ten years.
They've already contacted the state office."
"And Foss?"
A pause.
"Gerald Foss retired two years ago.
But the state education department is reviewing his tenure independently.
The woman who was in the room Thursday — her name is Dr.
Ellison — she's leading it."
Samantha thanked her and ended the call.
She stood at the counter for a moment without moving.
"He resigned," she said.
"I heard."
"That's not enough."
"No," I said.
"It isn't."
Leo came in from the hallway.
He'd been in the living room, and I wasn't sure how much he'd heard.
"He resigned," Leo said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
Leo nodded slowly.
He didn't look relieved.
He looked like someone doing arithmetic in his head.
"There are other kids," he said.
"There were other kids before me.
Some of them already graduated.
Some of them probably dropped out." He looked at Samantha.
"The audit — will it find them?"
"It will find the records," Samantha said.
"Whether it finds the people—" She paused.
"That's harder."
"Then we find them," Leo said.
"We put something out.
Online.
Let people come forward."
Samantha looked at me.
I looked at Leo.
"You want to do this publicly," I said.
"I want people to know they weren't alone," he said.
"That's all."
Three days later, Samantha posted a short statement on a local community page.
She named the school.
She named the years.
She did not name Higgins.
She asked anyone who had experienced denied accommodations to reach out.
By the following morning, there were forty-seven responses.
By the end of the week, there were more than two hundred.
Some were parents.
Some were former students.
One was a teacher who had been quietly reassigned after raising concerns internally — she'd thought it was her fault for years.
Mrs.
Okafor called Samantha on Friday evening.
"I've been reading the responses," she said.
"I've been teaching for twenty-two years.
I reported what I saw.
I thought nothing happened because I hadn't pushed hard enough." Her voice was careful, controlled.
"I want you to know — I'm sorry I didn't push harder."
"You filed the complaint," Samantha said.
"It was dismissed.
That wasn't on you."
"I know that now." A pause.
"I didn't know it then."
The following Tuesday, Higgins's name appeared in the local paper.
The headline was careful, factual, dry.
But the comments were not.
I did not read them.
Leo did.
He came to me afterward and sat down at the kitchen table across from me, the way he used to do as a small boy when something was weighing on him.
"Some people are saying he should face crjminal charges," Leo said.
"Maybe he should," I said.
"Maybe." He was quiet.
"But what I keep thinking about is the kid who dropped out in 2019.
His mom left a comment.
She said he never went back to school.
He's twenty-two now and he's still trying to figure out what to do with his life." Leo looked at me.
"Higgins didn't think about that kid when he wrote those emails.
He didn't think about any of us."
"No," I said.
"He didn't."
"That's what I can't forgive," Leo said.
"Not what he did to me.
What he did to the ones who didn't make it to the stage."
May you like
I reached across the table and put my hand over his.
He didn't pull away.
