Instead, I add a new message to the home page, just under the image of her letter.
To the Dragon it Concerns:
No matter what you’re telling yourself right now, this isn’t just noise. It’s evidence. You’re afraid, and you should be. You don’t get to erase the women you stole from. You don’t get to make us disappear. Despite your best efforts, we are still here, and no matter what you throw at us, we aren’t going anywhere. Not until every scrap of truth has been revealed.
Sleep tight.
I hit the button to publish the post with a ball of fire in my chest. Then, I close my eyes and force myself to sleep.
Tomorrow, I’ll deal with the flames. Tonight, I let it burn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The email comes when I’m getting ready the next morning. I expect it to be the reporter, but instead, I see Hayden’s name on my screen.
Returning my email.
Except, she doesn’t respond to what I said at all. There’s simply a link.
I hesitate and double-check the email address it came from—wary of scams—then click through and wait.
My heart stalls when I see the headline.
Althea Ralston’s Fall from Grace?
I can’t read the brief article fast enough.
We have confirmed that famed scholar, author, and activist Althea Ralston’s 2014 paper “Always On,” which examined the cost of burnout culture, was quietly retracted from Havenport University’s online archives after a media storm accused her of plagiarism. There has been no official comment fromthe university spokesperson. We will continue to follow this story closely.
My body turns to ice.
It’s from a local, online magazine. Small and insignificant, but it’s there. It exists. It happened. One of her papers has been removed.
The article that’s been removed wasn’t one of mine, but there’s a chance it was flagged in a story on the HEAR US ROAR website. Either way, it’s gone.
I refresh the page, hardly able to believe it. Then I refresh it again, hoping for an update.
I email Hayden back immediately.
Holy shit. Did you have something to do with this?
Then I share the link on the website. I want to shout it from the rooftops, but this is close enough.
By mid-morning, the news is everywhere. Screenshots of the error message you get from trying to read her article in the archives, whispers in the hallways about what it means. A hushed panic has set in across campus.
When the university does eventually issue a statement, it’s vague, stating only that the retraction was due to technical inconsistencies. I have no idea what that means or if anyone believes them.
I can only wonder why that article in particular was the one to go first. The initial crack in the dam of secrets being contained.
Whatever it is, it’s not enough to stop Ralston Week from barreling on. Today’s event is the International Female VoicesSymposium, a lineup of virtual panels from scholars across the world.
I’m not going to attend, but I can’t resist peeking inside anyway. My trip across campus is met with stares and whispers, the kind you can feel crawling under your skin, but no one speaks to me. There are looks of concern, judgment, and shock, but as much as I hope to see support looking back in their eyes, I don’t.
Still, no one screams or attacks me, and the event seems to be the least-attended event so far, so I’ll take whatever micro-doses of joy I can find.
On my way back to the dorm, the walk is lined with neon yellow flyers I haven’t seen before, all taped to light posts and benches.
One has come loose and skates across the sidewalk on the wind. I stop it with my foot, bending over to pick it up.
