He told me he would kill me.
That’s why I’m writing this. So that if anything happens to me, there is a record. A truth that can’t be buried with money or threats.
William Scott-Evans is a monster. And he has admitted to me—more than once—that he is responsible for the deaths of the following people:
Lili Beth Mondo
Missy Hale
Sheriff Reginald Morris
Tatum Newsom
This is my true and honest confession. And I am done being silent.
Signed this 19th day of September, 2016.
Daniel Stockton
“One day,Daniel called me from the hospital,” the dean starts again.
His voice falters on his son’s name. He shifts in his chair, fingers tightening where they’re laced together on the desk, knuckles blanching before he forces them to relax.
“Things had finally reached a breaking point with his cousin,” he continues. “William assaulted him. Beat him badly.” He swallows, throat working as though the words are sticking. “He drove Daniel out into the forest and dumped him there, leaving him for dead.”
The room feels smaller as he speaks.
“But Daniel wasn’t,” the dean’s voice cracks despite his effort to keep it steady. “Despite his massive injuries, he crawled toward the main road. A hiker found him—by chance—and got him to a hospital before he bled out.”
He exhales heavily then, a long, ragged breath, and tips his head back to stare at the ceiling. For a moment, he looks like a man holding himself together by sheer force of will. Guilt sits on him openly now—layered with regret, with hindsight, with the knowledge that every choice he made afterward came too late.
“I knew then,” he mutters quietly. “I knew William wouldn’t stop. Not ever.”
He lowers his gaze again, and when he speaks, his voice is resigned. Like someone recounting a plan that once felt necessary and now feels unforgivable.
“So I made arrangements. I bought Daniel a new identity. I sent him to Australia—far enough away that William couldn’t reach him.” His mouth twists. “The next day, I filed a missing person report. Played my part. Sold the illusion that Daniel was missing.”
His hands tremble slightly now. He presses them flat against the desk, grounding himself.
“It’s been difficult. For years. Every day. To stop myself from wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing.”
His fingers come together as he speaks, palms closing on empty air—an unconscious reenactment of the violence he’d imagined too many times. For a moment, it’s easy to picture William there instead, helpless beneath his grip.
“William never outright admitted what he’d done to Daniel, but he hinted it. He told me, in his own way, that if I ever told anyone what happened that Summer in 2016… the same thing would happen to Delilah.”
He finally looks at me then, his eyes sharp, defensive. “That is why I stayed silent. Not for money. Not for protection,” his voice rises just a fraction. “It wasn’t some payoff, like you think.” Then he looks away again, shoulders slumping. “It was to protect my daughter.”
His voice drops to almost nothing. “You have no idea what he’s capable of. None. When William collapsed that night—when he was poisoned—I wasn’t afraidforhim.”
His lips press together, jaw tightening.
“I was afraid he’d survive,” he admits. “Afraid he’d come looking for me. For Delilah.” He shakes his head once, hollow and defeated. “I wasn’t thinking rationally. I wasn’t thinking about justice. I was only thinking about keeping my child alive.”
He falls silent after that. And in the quiet that follows, it’s impossible to ignore the truth hanging in the air: fear didn’t just silence him. It ruled him.
I give a short nod.
Titan turns first. I follow. The scrape of the chairs is loud in the quiet that’s settled over the office, a reminder that the conversation is finished whether anyone is ready for that or not. The room feels contained now, boxed in by what’s been said.
