“And I think I know exactly what that something is.”
A slow, knowing grin spreads across Silas’s face, sharp and deliberate.
“Dean Stockton has a son the same age as Scott-Evans.”
“A cousin?”
“I think it’s safe to say the cousin was the third man in the car that day that Missy Hale went missing,” Silas tells us. “They were apparently close at one point in university.”
“And what happened?” Titan interrupts. “You saidthey were?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” Silas whispers quietly into the room. “But Daniel Stockton disappeared about nine years ago.”
I try to make sense of it, but nothing lines up. There are too many moving parts. Too many gaps that refuse to close.
“What do you mean, he disappeared?” I ask quietly.
“His father filed a missing person report in September of 2016,” Silas says. His voice is steady, clinical. “According to the report, he never made it home from university. He vanished sometime between his last class and his residence. No confirmed sightings since.”
“Vanished?” I repeat quietly.
Silas nods once. “No bank activity. No phone pings after that week. No social media use. It’s as if he stepped off the map.”
I drag a hand down my face, the pieces clicking together in ways I don’t like. “And you don’t think that’s just a kid deciding to disappear?” I ask, forcing the question out.
“It’s possible,” Silas allows. “But unlikely. He’s a university kid and he hasn’t touched his bank accounts. ”
“Foul play?” Titan muses.
Silas agrees. “That’s what I’m thinking. If he were still alive, I would have found him.”
The room goes quiet again, and the silence settles over us like a dark cloak.
Titan shifts beside me, his presence grounding, immovable.
“I think it’s time we speak to the dean,” he tells me.
I don’t disagree with him, but I think there’s one more very crucial step in this story before we meet with the dean.
And as the weight of what I have to do settles in the pit of my stomach, I know one thing with absolute certainty: whatever was buried back in 2016 is no longer content to stay buried. We’re standing at the edge of it now.
40
ROWAN
Justin closes the door to his office behind us, but he doesn’t lean into it or claim the space. He leaves it untouched, stays a careful distance away, his hands loose at his sides. Like he’s offering me room to move while making it clear there’s nowhere safe to step.
“Whatever you tell me,” he whispers quietly, “won’t change anything between us.”
I study his face, waiting for the crack—for the flicker of doubt or judgement that always comes sooner or later. It doesn’t. Whatever he and Silas discussed was serious enough to pull me in here, serious enough to sharpen his focus, but not enough to alter the way he looks at me.
That almost makes it worse.
“I need to know,” he continues. “All of it. I need to know what we’re walking into.”
My chest tightens. I’ve been carrying this for so long my body has learned to live around it, learned to exist with the pressure instead of imagining relief.
“Even with all your assurances, Justin,” I say carefully, “I don’t know that you’ll be able to handle what happened that day.”
