We reach the door.
Titan’s hand is on the handle when he stops.
He turns back, slow and deliberate, his attention fixing on the dean.
“One more thing,” he asks. “Your son.”
I see the reaction immediately. The dean stiffens—not enough to draw attention if you aren’t looking for it, but enough to register.
“The name on his new identity,” Titan continues. “What is it?”
The pause stretches. The dean doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts, unfocused, like he’s weighing the consequences in real time. When he looks back, there’s something different in his eyes. Calculation. Concern.
“Why do you ask?”
Titan doesn’t shift. “Curiosity,” he replies.
The dean exhales sharply. He straightens, then falters, his fingers tightening against the desk.
“You have no right?—”
I don’t interrupt. This isn’t my question to manage.
The dean swallows. Once. Then again.
“Thomas Harding.”
I register the name and nothing else. Titan nods once, as if it confirms something he already suspected. He opens the door and steps out. I follow without speaking.
42
JUSTIN
The university falls behind us in the side mirror, all stone buildings and trimmed hedges, like appearance can keep corruption from spreading.
Titan drives. One hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, relaxed in a way that doesn’t fool me. His attention is sharp. His eyes track every car that merges behind us, every pedestrian near the crossing, every security vehicle parked near the gates. He’s always been security conscious, and never more than when I’d met him and he was head of Goliath and he wore a mask to conceal his identity. These days, he carries his scars like a talisman, facial burns and all.
My jaw is tight from holding my temper in check. The dean’s office still sits in the back of my mind like an open file I can’t close. Rowan’s voice too. The way she looked when she said parts of her were missing.
I keep my tone even. “What was that about?” I ask. “When you asked about his son?”
Titan’s grip shifts slightly. He doesn’t answer straight away. He glances at me, then back to the road, like he’s decidingwhether I’m ready for the blunt version or the one that lets me arrive at it myself.
He takes too long.
“You’re going to make me say it,” I add.
He exhales. “How many school officials do you know,” he comments, “who could get a fake ID that quickly, then put their son on a plane out of the country under that name, and not get caught?”
The question is a valid one, filled with logic.
I stare at him. “You think he’s lying.”
“He’s not being truthful,” Titan confirms. “That’s the safest scenario.”
I let the silence sit for a moment. My mind goes back to the dean’s pauses. The way his eyes shifted when Titan asked for the name. The way he didn’t deny he’d done it—he just didn’t want to say it out loud.
“You noticed something,” I say.
