He launches straight into it.
William Scott-Evans. The incident. The near tragedy. The unfortunate sequence of events that everyone is very eager to labelisolated.
I let him talk. People reveal more when they think they’re filling silence instead of being interrogated.
When he finally winds down, I fold my hands loosely in front of me and say, calmly, “There’s nothing to investigate.”
He blinks. Swallows. Nods too quickly.
“Yes, well—of course. I just thought—given your position—that perhaps a closer look?—”
“It doesn’t warrant one,” I repeat. “From what I’ve seen, it’s contained.”
That’s when I see it.
Not relief or agreement.Fear.
It flashes across his face before he can stop it. A tightening around the eyes. A stiffness in his jaw. Like I’ve just confirmed something he was hoping—desperately—wouldn’t be true.
I tilt my head slightly. “You seem unusually invested in the wellbeing of Scott-Evans.”
He stiffens.
“Are you sure,” I continue evenly, “that there’s nothing more to this than what you’ve already indicated?”
For a fraction of a second, he looks like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to jump or step back.
Then he backpedals. Laughs too loudly. Waves a hand as if embarrassed by his own concern. Tells me he’s probably overreacting. That stress gets to him. That the responsibility of the institution weighs heavily these days.
All of which confirms exactly one thing. He’s hiding something. Whatever it is, it’s not small. And it’s not about Scott-Evans alone. But it’s also not my priority today.
So I stand. Smooth my jacket. Close myself off piece by careful piece and tell him the matter is settled.
The relief hits him instantly. It loosens his shoulders, softens his expression, seeps into the space between us like a breath he’s been holding too long. He doesn’t try to hide it—and he doesn’t have to. It’s unmistakable.
He gives me three thank you before I even reach the door. By the third time, I don’t look back.
The second reason I’m here is Rowan Hale.
I hadn’t planned on sitting in on a class. It wasn’t operationally necessary. But timing is a strange thing, and curiosity has a way of making decisions for you when you’re not paying attention.
The lecture hall is already full when I slip in through the back, unnoticed. I take a seat near the door, where I can leave quickly if needed.
The room has been converted into a makeshift courtroom.
And Rowan is on the stand.
She looks different up there. Not smaller—sharper. Focused. Contained. Her posture is steady, hands braced on the edge of the table, as though preparing for an imminent attack.
The premise becomes clear quickly enough.
She’s the defendant. Charged with killing her husband. Her defence? She didn’t mean to do it.
The professor is openly hostile. Incensed, even. He challenges her, raises his voice, tries to rattle her into retreat.
But she doesn’t retreat. She argues intent with precision. She draws lines most people don’t know exist. She doesn’t appeal to emotion—she dismantles assumptions. When the student prosecutor pushes too hard, she doesn’t flinch. She waits. Then answers in a way that reframes the entire question.
It’s controlled. Intelligent. Dangerous.
