Without his office and his desk and the careful architectureof authority he usually hides behind, Dean Stockton looks smaller.
“Rowan,” he breathes, relief spilling out of him like he’s been holding it in for miles. “Thank God.”
“What are you doing here?” Bethany snaps from behind me.
He doesn’t even glance at her.
His eyes lock onto mine as if I’m the only fixed point left in a world that’s started to tilt. “We need to talk,” he says urgently. “Privately.”
Lily steps closer, her presence firm at my side. “You should leave.”
“I can’t,” his voice cracks just slightly. “Not until I tell you everything about that night, Rowan. You deserve the truth.”
Bethany’s brows knit together. “Maybe you should come back tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be gone by morning,” he speaks into the intercom.
His gaze never leaves me. It’s pleading now—raw, almost desperate—like this is his last chance to be heard. To rewrite something before it hardens into fact.
“Just a moment.” I switch off the camera.
Bethany lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Tell me you’re not about to let him up.”
I turn to her, helpless. “There’s so much missing from that night,” I whisper. “I just want… closure, Bethany. I deserve to know.” My throat tightens. “His son was there. This might be the closest I ever get to the truth.”
“I don’t like this,” Lily argues immediately, and the distress on her face makes my chest ache.
“Please?” I ask softly.
Lily hesitates, then exhales. “There’s one of him and three of us,” she reminds us. “I guess it won’t hurt if he comes up for a few minutes.” Then, sharper—“But outside. Don’t let him into the apartment.”
We all nod at once, as if the decision clicks into place between us.
I buzz him up.
We wait by the door, tension tightening with every passing second. When the lift finally opens, Dean Stockton steps out quickly, purposefully—straight toward us, like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly where he’s going.
And the question hits me, cold and sudden—how did he even know where to find me?
He approaches the door too quickly. One hand stays tucked close to his side, unnatural, guarded. His shoulders are locked tight, rigid with a tension that doesn’t belong in a man who claims he’s here to talk. His eyes flick once—just once—past me, toward the hallway behind my shoulder, like he’s checking if anyone else is here.
“What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until morning?” Bethany asks him.
He flinches.
Then he turns fully toward me, shutting the rest of the doorway out as if the other women don’t exist. As if I’m the only variable that matters.
“I did everything to protect him.” His words table out, falling over each other. “You have to understand?—”
“Why are you here?” I interrupt, folding my arms across my chest.
His mouth keeps moving for half a second before he realizes I’ve cut him off.
“It was all William and Marcus,” he insists. “I tried to protect my son from them, but—” He gestures vaguely, helplessly, like the truth slipped somewhere he can’t quite reach.
“Again,” I say calmly, “why are you here? You said you wanted to tell me what really happened that day.”
He goes quiet. Something cold slides neatly into place inside my chest.
