The week had a texture to it.
Not dramatic — nothing so visible as that. The classroom was the classroom, second period was second period, and Nathan Kingston was at the front of it every morning with the register and the reading and the specific, professional competence that had defined the room since September. The lesson on Monday was the Carver. Tuesday was a writing workshop. Wednesday brought a close reading exercise on Fitzgerald that ran long and finished with three minutes to spare, which he used to assign the Thursday reading with the specific, deliberate economy of a man who did not waste instructional time.
It was all exactly correct.
This was, Shae had decided by Wednesday evening, sitting at the kitchen island in the mansion with her notebook open and the text on the page
