Larissa exchanges a look with Callahan. Then she seems to reach a decision.
“Sentinel will require a retainer of two hundred fifty thousand,” she says. “They’ll want to know why we’re asking and what we intend to do with their findings. I can position this as due diligence for a potential hire or partnership, but if they uncover actionable evidence of ongoing misconduct, they’ll likely report to the university’s Title IX office regardless of our wishes.”
“Good,” I say. “I want him reported. I want every victim he’s ever touched to know someone finally looked. But I want to controlthe timing.”
“I’ll set the process in motion,” she tells me.
Callahan speaks up. “Sir, if you want this contained, I recommend we coordinate with Sentinel’s security team. Universities can be... territorial about their reputations. If Kendrick has institutional protection, there may be pushback. Attempts to discredit the investigation or the investigators.”
“Handle it,” I tell him. “Whatever protection the investigators need. Whatever evidence preservation is required. I want this airtight.”
He nods. “Yes, sir.”
They get up to leave. “Callahan, stay a moment.”
He stays while Larissa closes the door behind him.
“When you coordinate with Sentinel, there’s only one rule,” I tell him. “My secretary is to be left out of all communications. Sentinel will want to contact former students and potential witnesses for information. That’s fine. But Bree Dawson is not to be contacted forany reason. I want her left out of all the investigations. Is that clear?”
“Completely understood,” Callahan replies.
When he’s gone, I don’t clear the privacy setting.
I sit in the silence of my office and think about what I’m doing.
Bree trusted me with her most painful secret. She asked me to respect her boundaries. And I’m about to bulldoze through those boundaries because I’ve decided I know better.
Part of me knows this is wrong.
The rest of me doesn’t give a damn.
Because the alternative is letting that fucker continue to destroy women like he destroyed her.
And that’s something I can’t live with.
She’ll understand.
She’ll forgive me.
My desk phone rings. I pick up. Bree’s voice: “Mr. Rossi? Your eleven o’clock is in fifteen minutes. Did you want me to push it back?”
I press the button. The glass clears to transparent.
She’s seated at her desk, every inch the competent secretary. But her eyes search my face with an intimacy that has nothing to do with work.
She’s worried.
About me.
About what just happened behind the opaque walls.
“No,” I tell her. “Keep the schedule as is.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t move. “Is everything... is everything all right?”
The lie comes easily. “Just some legal housekeeping. Nothing you need to worry about.”
She nods. Doesn’t quite believe me.
