“The university board.”
Ice climbs through my chest. “Did I break policy?”
“No, but the university doesn’t want its name attached to anything that brings attention from certain… circles.”
“So I’m being punished because I wrote something accurate?”
“You’re being removed from publication work until we finish reviewing the complaint.”
It hits me like a punch. “You’re suspending me?”
“Temporarily.”
“That’s not temporary. That’s silencing.”
He sighs. “You need to understand how serious this is. Someone complained through channels we don’t usually hear from. I’m not even sure who filed it. I’m telling you this because I care, Clara. You stepped into something bigger than you realize.”
My jaw tightens. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You might not survive being right,” he says quietly.
The words sting more than I want them to. My throat burns, but I refuse to let him see any of it. I turn without answering and walk away. His voice follows me, softer, strained, but I don’t look back.
By the time I push through the building doors, my face burns with anger and embarrassment. Students stare as I pass. Someone mutters, “Told you she’d get shut down.”
I keep walking, shoulders tight.
Across the street, a black SUV idles at the curb. I don’t notice it. I’m too busy replaying the conversation, too busy feeling the bruise of humiliation settle in my chest.
I spend the rest of the afternoon drifting through classes I don’t absorb. My mind circles the same thoughts. Someonecomplained. Someone powerful enough to make the university nervous. Someone watching what I do.
Night creeps in early. Clouds swallow what little sunlight is left. I leave campus with a knot in my stomach and take the side street I always use to save time.
The streetlights flicker in short bursts. The pavement is uneven. It smells faintly of cold rain, even though the sky is dry. I walk faster, clutching my bag against my ribs.
Halfway down the block, I hear footsteps behind me. They match my pace before slowing. My pulse jumps. I tell myself not to look back. It makes me feel hunted, and I don’t want to give that feeling any more power than it already has.
Then two figures step out from behind a parked van.
I stop short. My breath leaves me in a sharp rush.
“Hey,” one of them says. “You’re Whitmore, right?”
The sound of my name makes my chest tighten. I take a step back.
“I need to get home,” I say, voice thin.
One blocks my path. The other closes in behind me.
“Don’t run,” he warns.
I run anyway.
I barely get three steps before a hand clamps around my arm. Another hand covers my mouth. Panic floods me so fast my vision blurs. I kick, twist, claw at the fingers crushing my face, but he’s stronger than I am.
“Quiet,” he hisses.
My scream stays trapped behind his palm.
