“Isn’t that what he’s best at doing?” She’s sharp, bitter.
“And in doing so,” I confirm, “he’d put unwanted eyes on Scott-Evans.”
Rowan finally looks back at me.
There’s no satisfaction in her expression. No sense of victory. Just fatigue pulled tight across her face, like she’s been holding this line alone for far too long.
“They protected him. For years.” Her voice roughens. “Everyone knew. Not the details—no one ever wants the details—but enough. Enough to keep their mouths shut.”
She swallows, hard.
“They let him keep his reputation. His committees. His fucking office hours.” Her hands curl beneath the blanket now, fists at last. “They let him keep his perfect life.”
I don’t interrupt. I don’t soften it.
“I did want revenge,” she admits, voice rising despite herself. “I wanted clarity. I wanted it impossible for them to keep pretending he was harmless.”
Her eyes burn when they meet mine again.
“I wanted the institution to choke on what it enabled. I wanted them scrambling. Afraid. Forced to look at the thing they spent years protecting.”
She exhales, shaky and angry.
“I didn’t break anything that wasn’t already broken,” Rowan says. “I just… wanted to remove the illusion that he’s a saint.”
I sit back. This is the part where I should be angry. This is the part where I should remind her she crossed a line, acted unethically, broke a dozen or so laws.
This is the part where the vigilante in me should condemn the amateur. Instead, all I can think is that she did exactly what I would have done.
Just without the infrastructure I have access to. She did it without backup and without permission, and she doesn’t appear to be apologetic about her actions in any way.
“That wasn’t justice,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t argue. “No.”
“And you were prepared for it to blow back on you.”
Her mouth curves, humorless. “Blow back is nothing compared to what they’ve done to me.”
That’s what finally cracks something in me.
Not what she did. Not the consequences circling it. But the certainty that she expected to pay for it anyway—even believing she was innocent of wrongdoing. That she carried the weight alone, fully prepared to accept whatever came, as if punishment were inevitable.
She never would have been here. Never would have crossed that line. None of it would have happened if Scott-Evans hadn’t already destroyed her.
I stand and cross the room, closing the distance I’ve been keeping between us. I take her hand, steadying her, and draw her up from the bed until she’s standing in front of me.
I study her then—really look at her. The composure she wears like armor. The control she never loosens. And beneath it all, the grief she’s been carrying for so long she’s stopped recognizing its weight.
She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t look down.
She lets me see everything.
I’m a vigilante. I justify what I do by calling it necessary. By telling myself I’m the last line between predators and justice.
Rowan didn’t wait for a line to form. She drew one herself. And I don’t know whether that terrifies me, or makes me want to protect her from what comes next.
PART 3
