Eleanor’s expression shifted from stern to utterly confused. She pulled a thick file from her desk. “Carrie McMahon, age fifteen, enrolled here three months ago. Emergency contact and father listed as Clint McMahon, McMahon Design Group.” She showed me the registration form. That was my signature—or a perfect, flawless forgery.

“And the mother?” I asked, my voice dangerously low.

Eleanor checked the file. “Kathleen McMahon. She filled out all the enrollment paperwork herself, paid the tuition in full.”