I’m ushered into a conference room to meet with the dean, who’s already there. So is the university’s legal team. And a man I don’t recognize who doesn’t speak and takes too many notes.
They want reassurance. I give them none.
“What you have here,” I tell them, “is a targeted incident.”
The dean stiffens. “Targeted how?”
“Someone specifically targeted Evans. That’s important to note.”
“That’s supposed to make us feel better?”
“No,” I say. “It’s supposed to reassure you that this probably won’t happen again.”
“But how do we shut this down?” The dean argues, moving forward in his seat. Anxiety could very well be his middle name.
“You don’t. Something awful happened here last night; you have dozens - if not hundreds - of witnesses. You can’t afford to sweep this under the rug.”
“We could reframe this as an unfortunate accident,” one of the lawyers says. I ignore him and turn to the dean.
“Why did you ask me here?” I ask him, confused. If he’s going to let his legal team guide him, then there’s nothing for me to do here.
“I need this situation under control,” he blathers.
“You wouldn’t have been this concerned if this had happened to a female student,” I remark. I know this for a fact. Dean Stockton’s horror to this far outweighs other unsavory incidents he’s dealt with in recent times.
“The Scott-Evans Foundation is a massive donor of the university,” he informs me.
Aha. There it is. It’s always about the money.
“And that makes a difference, how? He’s somehow more important, more connected than others so he gets better treatment? Leave no stone unturned and all that shit?”
The dean recoils at my tone. The thing he doesn’t understand is that Goliath stands against injustices to all, and in most cases, it’s the very same elitist snobs he’s championing now that are the justice thieves.
“I suggest you let the police do their job,” I advise him. “Let them do the press releases. Chances are, whoever’s responsible is connected to Scott-Evans through a channel other than the university. They’ll find the perpetrator and attention will be diverted from the university. So there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“I’d still feel a lot better if you conducted your own investigation. I need to know that I don’t have a maniacal student on the loose on my campus. You could do things much quicker than the police.”
“We fix thingsbeforethey become a problem,” I remind him. “What I see here is so much more than a problem.”
I ask for a log of the event, names of all who attended, andfootage if there is any. The dean’s face falls. I watch as his gaze flicks to his feet.
“There was no security protocol in place. It was an open house event.”
And this problem just got a lot harder.
4
ROWAN
Istare at the ceiling like it can absolve me.
It doesn’t. Nothing ever will.
It’s not enough to maim him temporarily, make himfeelwhat it means to be helpless. It could never be enough. A clean death is mercy, if you ask me, and William Scott-Evans has already been given enough mercy to corrupt a whole cathedral.
Ten years.
Ten years of air in his lungs. Ten years of sunlight. Ten years of laughter in rooms he didn’t deserve to enter. Ten years of a life that kept moving like nothing happened. Like the past was a story other people tell for attention.
