This step feels quieter than the first, lacking the roar and fever of uploading my story for the first time, but it’s the logical next step. Ralston was right. The site isn’t proof enough. I need evidence.
The recording is a start, plus my documents, but there has to be more.
An hour later, I have five pieces of evidence in my email.
By noon, there are twenty.
By two, nearly thirty.
They come in every form imaginable—scans of conference and event posters, screenshots of emails, Word docs dated five and ten years ago, some a decade older, annotated PDFs with margin notes in Ralston’s handwriting. All with attached matching speeches, paragraphs, articles, and excerpts from books published under Ralston’s name.
The evidence—the truth—is everywhere. In books. In lectures. Interviews. Speeches that once brought me to tears.
She quotes us verbatim—lines once scratched in the margins of a student’s thesis or a paper submitted in her class showing upin a speech she gave six months later, a book she published three years later.
We trusted her, and she took our words, our thoughts and ideas, then stood beneath the spotlight and on stages and claimed to be the sun, demanding all eyes on her. All without any fear of repercussions.
I don’t remember what events are going on the rest of the day, but they’ve officially been canceled for me.
I’m not going anywhere.
As the sun passes across the sky, moving the light and shadows around my room, I examine her publications—digital copies of essays, articles, excerpts from her books, and archived keynote transcriptions—next to the drafts I’ve been sent.
One after another, the match is unmistakable. Too close and too often to be explained away. These aren’t just similar phrases or thoughts—they’re exact. The structure, arguments, metaphors.
In many instances, there’s no revision evident at all, just curation. She listened and read for the parts of us she wanted and then she took them without permission, without regard for any of us. That’s what stings the most, I guess. That we were good enough to be copied, stolen from, and people will never know our names. Even if we come forward now—evenwhenwe did, she made sure no one believed us, because why would they?
Her name is a shadow that lingers. She remains, and we disappear into the darkness.
I write those words at the top of a page, saving it for something, though I’m not sure what. They stay with me as I build my case document by document, highlighting matches in red. I catalog each theft like evidence in a trial, my hope growing as it becomes undeniable.
I work into the night, paying no attention as the time passes. It’s worth it. This is sacred work that requires precision, silence.I’ve been entrusted with these stories, and it feels important. Perhaps the most important thing I’ll ever do.
Something to tell my parents about, my kids someday.
Something to be proud of.
Each of us was a wick, and she was the flame. And when she was done with us, she blew us out.
But now…as the case builds, I feel the light returning. For the first time in years, I feel the hope I’ve longed for. It’s not the raw, desperate kind, but something measured, rooted, and real.
I’m deep in my work, contacts dry, no idea what time it is when I hear the knock on my door. I look up, snapped back to reality at once. The room is eerily silent as I stare at the door, my heart pounding as if I’ve been caught red-handed.
It wasn’t a friendly knock, but deliberate. Official. My mind races to Dean Carlyle, but when I tap my phone screen, I see it’s after ten. I can’t imagine he’d come to my room so late, no matter what Ralston has told him.
I stand from the bed and close my laptop, brushing my hands across my pants to dry the sweat. Slowly, I cross the room and open the door a few inches, my foot propped behind it.
It’s not Dean Carlyle, nor is it Ralston. Instead, I stare at a man dressed in a gray suit in the hallway. He’s squat, round, and has a bald head and graying facial hair.
“Lila Parks?” His expression is dull and disinterested, but it still terrifies me.
“Um. Yes.”
He uncrosses his arms, and I realize he’s holding an envelope as he holds it out to me. I take it without thinking and immediately regret it. “You’ve been served.”
My vision goes fuzzy, and heat floods my cheeks as I grip the envelope, wanting to drop it as if it’s on fire. The man turns and walks off before I can ask a single question, forge a single thought.
I step back and close the door, turning the envelope over in my hand. My name is the only thing written on the outside. I tear it open.
