My mind raced through possibilities: identity theft, a sophisticated scam, a case of mistaken identity. My hands tightened on the steering wheel as I navigated the tree-lined streets leading to the exclusive private school, a fortress of old brick and ivy.

The principal’s office smelled of old books and lemon polish. Eleanor Spencer stood as I entered, a severe-looking woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and reading glasses perched on a chain around her neck. “Mr. McMahon, thank you for coming.”

Then I saw her.