And in that moment, the monster finally takes its true shape. Not the boys they were. Not even the men they’ve become, now hanging and bound in this room. But the father who built a system where his own son was expendable.
“Daniel was furious,” Delaney adds softly. “Disgusted.”
The word hangs there, almost delicate.
“So you killed him,” I say.
Scott-Evans spits at my feet. The saliva is streaked with blood, the gesture sharp with defiance. With something like pride twisted into survival.
“I may be a lot of things,” he snarls, voice rough and ruined, “and I’ve done more than my share of deplorable shit. But hurting Daniel Stockton wasn’t one of them.”
The room goes still.
Then Delaney speaks again, casual as if he’s commenting on the weather.
“Let me guess,” he says. “The dean fed you that whole story about his son going missing, didn’t he?”
No one answers.
Delaney’s smile comes slowly. Dark. Knowing.
“He killed his own son,” Delaney says. “Because Daniel was going to the police.”
The words don’t explode. They implode. And everything snaps into place with sickening clarity.
The lies. The alias that never existed. The hospital recordsthat led nowhere. The frantic insistence. The desperation in the dean’s eyes.
And Rowan.
My blood turns to ice.
I don’t think—I move.
I pull my phone free and dial Silas.
“Justin,” he answers.
“I’m sending you the code to my apartment,” I snap. “Go there. Now. Check on the girls. Do not delay.”
A pause. Then, sharp and alert—“Why?”
“Because the dean isn’t covering for his son,” I say. “He’s his own son’s killer.”
Silence stretches.
“I’m on my way,” Silas says.
The call cuts off.
I turn back toward the room.
Back to Scott-Evans, suspended from the ceiling like a carcass unto the slaughter. Back to Delaney, shoulders slumped, eyes glued to the floor as if distance alone might absolve him.
I don’t raise my voice.
“If she’s hurt,” I promise them, every word measured, deliberate, final, “I will make sure this room becomes the last thing either of you ever see.”
Scott-Evans closes his eyes. And for the first time since we began, something cracks through the numbness. It’s not pain or defiance. But Fear. Raw. Unmistakable. And for once—I don’t blame him.
