Blurb：
When preschool teacher Corinne Hawkins receives 2 a.m. threats from entitled parent Candace Whitaker over a spilled milk allergy incident involving timid student Amelie Mayfeld, she thinks recording the harassment will end the nightmare. But after exposing Candace's lies through her hidden camera brooch and surviving a false police accusation, Corinne discovers a chilling truth: Someone still poisoned Amelie. Now she must unravel the dangerous secrets binding Candace Whitaker, her manipulative son Brody, and the toxic politics of Briarwood Patch School before another child becomes collateral damage in this war between helicopter parents and educators.Content：
§01Two a.m.
The phone shrieked, slicing through the dark silence of my apartment.
It was her.
Of course, it was her.
The screen glowed with a name I’d come to dread: Candace Whitaker.
And I knew, with the certainty of a recurring nightmare, that this wasn't a call.
It was a detonation.
“Ms. Hawkins,” her voice, sharp enough to etch glass, drilled into my ear. “Why isn’t the girl in the red shirt drinking her milk?”
It took me a moment, my brain still thick with sleep, to even process the question.
The girl in the red shirt?
Who?
Then it clicked.
The red shirt.
Next to her son, Brody.
The refusal to drink milk.
She was talking about Amelie Mayfeld.
A three-year-old.
A sweet, timid little girl who had just started at The Briarwood Patch School last week.
And this woman, this predator of peace, was referring to her as ‘the girl’.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” I said, forcing my voice into a placid, professional tone that felt like swallowing sand. “Amelie has a severe dairy allergy.”
The explosion on the other end of the line was immediate and predictable.
“An allergy is no excuse! My Brody saw her refusing her milk, and now he’s doing the same thing! He came home tonight and pushed his glass away!”
“You need to make that girl drink her milk,” she snarled, her voice dropping into a low, menacing register. “Or I’ll make sure she can’t go to preschool anywhere in this state.”
She paused, letting the threat hang in the dead air between us.
“And you,” she added, her tone turning venomous. “You won’t get off easy, either.”
§02
Before I could form a response, she hung up.
The silence that followed was more jarring than her shouting.
My phone immediately began to vibrate again, a frantic, insistent buzzing against my nightstand.
Candace Whitaker.
Again.
And again.
Then the message notifications started, a relentless cascade of pings.
I swiped the phone into airplane mode, the digital equivalent of slamming a door in her face.
With Wi-Fi still on, I opened *Call of Duty: Mobile*.
My thumb hovered over the icon, my sanctuary.
Dealing with Candace Whitaker required a special kind of decompression.
In my six months as a preschool teacher, I’d met my share of difficult parents.
But Candace wasn’t just difficult.
She was a category-five hurricane of entitlement and paranoia.
This wasn’t the first late-night call.
Not by a long shot.
There was the time she’d called, screaming, waving a class photo from a day her son had been sick.
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The End