We go in a pack.
Jess tucks her scarf tighter, jaw set. Liz shows up mid-stride, falling into step. Joy clings to her coffee; Rowan is thumbing out something on her phone.
It’s only a few blocks uptown to the precinct. February air bites our cheeks, traffic snarling, city noise everywhere. We cut through it, two women flanking me on each side, a formation.
“Bet the desk sergeant’s never seen a PTA meeting likethis,” Jess mutters as we push through the glass doors. For a second, it almost makes me laugh.
Inside smells of cheap coffee and disinfectant. Liz doesn’t wait, but marches to the desk. “We’re here to file a sexual assault report. Seven years old. Who do we talk to?”
The officer blinks, nods, then leads us down the hall.
The next hour is a blur. A quiet room. A female detective with steady eyes. Questions I never wanted to answer. Liz beside me, Jess and Joy behind me, Rowan pacing.
I say his name. Max Miller. Out loud. On record.
When we’re done, the detective slides a card across the table. “You’ll get a case number and a victim advocate. We’ll contact you before we speak to him.”
She doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Because this was seven years ago, the challenges are real—memories fade, witnesses move, records get lost. Some charges have no statute of limitations; others do. The DA will decide what’s viable. Our job now is to document everything and look for corroboration.”
She ticks through it, calm and methodical. “We’ll check for prior complaints in his name, campus or event security logs, any medical records, old texts or emails, journal entries, friends you told at the time. If there are other reports, that pattern helps.”
I nod. My throat is raw.
“If he contacts you,” she adds, “save every message. Don’t engage. Call us. If you feel unsafe, call 911. We can discuss a protective order with the ADA.”
Her gaze holds mine. “This can move slowly. You may not get the ending you deserve. But you did the right thing today. We’ll do our best, and we’ll be straight with you as we go.”
Outside, the hallway feels colder. But I’m standing. And his name is now on the record.
By the time we are back in York, February rain spits cold across my cheeks. Jess hooks her arm through mine and takes the lead. I keep my head down and match her steps—heavy, uneven, forward.
We duck into a little lunch spot a few blocks from the apartment. Rowan shoulders the door open, Joy shakes rain from her sleeves. Menus hit the table.
Rowan doesn’t even glance up from her phone. “The cops will crawl, follow the rules. But we’re not letting our boy get away with this, are we?”
My brows lift. “We are not killing anybody, no matter what a lowlife he is.”
“Girl, we’re not monsters.” Joy slides into her chair. “Of course we won’t hurt him. Not that he gave you the same courtesy.”
Jess’s eyes narrow, cautious. “What are you two up to?”
Rowan finally looks up, smile sharp. “Just painting in the margins. He’s left ten years of digital crumbs—LinkedIn humble-brags, alumni boards, client mixers. Pieces of himself are spread everywhere.”
Joy leans in, bright with barely contained pride. “I stayed up half the night prompting one of my models to trace him. Old newsletters, cached event photos, panel listings—boom. It stitched the overlaps in minutes. What used to take an investigator weeks? Now it’s one smart prompt away.”
She tilts her phone toward me. “And I did it from bed, sipping chamomile tea.” Her grin widens. “Receipts. Three bottle-service girls, two escorts. ‘I’ll pay tomorrow’ texts, ignored Venmo requests. We called them last night—three of the women signed off this morning, as long as we blur.”
Jess exhales, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Then blur. Faces covered, handles gone, timestamps intact. This is documentation, not doxxing.”
Rowan taps her screen, unapologetic. “Already queued. Alumni listserv, Finance Women’s Slack, two Fishbowl threads simmering. Next time his firm posts about ‘thought leadership,’ the replies won’t be friendly.” She lifts a brow, wicked. “If I wanted to go nuclear, I could yank his old passwords from a dark-web dump.”
Jess’s glare is instant. “We’re not criminals. We don’t need hacks—we’ve got his own mess and the truth.”
Rowan’s smile doesn’t fade. “Message received. But if he thought he could get away with this, he picked the wrong decade and the wrong women.”
Joy beams. “AI did the sprints. We wrote the play.” She taps her tote, a magician revealing a trick. “Burners are live. Domain’s up—WhereIsMyMoneyMax dot nothing-special. There’s a form to a locked drive so other women can upload screenshots.”
Jess’s eyes are cool, strategist mode engaged. “Good. Now funnel it. Anonymous tip to his firm’s ethics hotline with the link. CC compliance and HR—use their own ‘reputational risk’ language.”
