Her mouth tightens for half a second as she gets defensive.
“I want to know who would send someone to kill you, Rowan.”
“I already told you - I don’t know.”
I feel my pulse slow, my attention sharpening. I don’t move, but internally I go still. Because I need to know who she thinks might be invested in getting rid of her.
“Rowan…”
Her hands are tucked under the blanket, hidden. Her shoulders are relaxed. She should look nervous, but she’s not.
She isn’t. She’s steady.
And in the quiet, with the timeline in my head and the dean’s fear snapping into place, I finally understand what I’ve been circling without naming.
Not the whole truth, but enough of it. Enough to know I’m about to ask her something that will change what we are. Knowing that whatever answer she gives me, I’m not going to be able to unhear it.
I keep my voice flat. Neutral. Controlled.
“Rowan,” I say.
She lifts her chin slightly, like she already knows what’s coming.
I don’t ask the question yet. But the temperature in the room changes anyway. Because we both know I’m getting close.
I lean back slightly, folding my hands. I maintain a neutral, nonthreatening posture. The kind of stance meant to put her at ease and invite a conversation rather than a confession.
“Tell me something,” I say. “When you write, do you start with the conclusion or work your way toward it?”
Her mouth curves faintly. “Depends on the piece.”
“Humor me.”
She thinks about it. Actually thinks. “I start with what I can prove, and I let the rest follow.”
I nod once. “So, you don’t speculate.”
“I don’t need to.”
Interesting answer. I glance at the wall, then back to her.
“That mock trial you presented in class,” I say evenly. “It was an interesting piece. You wrote the argument yourself, didn’t you?”
She nods. It’s just one small nod, almost nothing, but it’s enough.
The room doesn’t change—but my understanding of it does. The last loose pieces slide into place, not with drama, but with quiet inevitability. This isn’t about whether she’s capable. It’s about whether she’s willing to let me see the truth she’s been carrying.
She didn’t just write an exercise for class. She wrote a rehearsal.
A controlled scenario. A defense mapped out in advance. Every argument placed where it would do the most damage—reasonable doubt, intent, plausibility. She knew exactly how itwould play if it ever mattered. She knew where the law bends. She knew she’d likely walk.
Not because she was reckless, but because she was prepared.
“William Scott-Evans collapsed in a room full of witnesses.”
Her eyes don’t flicker.
“In a public place,” I continue. “A place with high visibility; not exactly subtle.”
