Ethan's dorm was on the third floor of Langford, two hallways over from mine. I knocked harder than I meant to.
He opened the door in a hoodie and sweatpants, laptop balanced on one arm, earbuds hanging around his neck. Mid-edit on something—the timeline of his documentary visible on the screen.
"You look terrible," he said.
"Can I come in?"
He stepped back. I walked in and sat on the edge of his bed. He closed the laptop and set it aside the turned his desk chair around to face me. The last time I'd been in his dorm, I was drunk. I was worried he'd feel uncomfortable with me being in his space but he seemed okay.
"Talk," he said.
"Someone's been texting me. Anonymous number. They have—they know things. About me and Liam."
Ethan's expression didn't change. "What kind of things?"
"They sent a photo. From the mixer when we kissed."
"What the fuck? When did this start?"
"Last night. After the team dinner. Then another one this morning." I pulled out my phone. Showed him the texts. "The second one mentions my father."
Ethan read them. His face was still. Processing. Then he handed the phone back. "Who have you told?"
"Liam. We're going to talk to Noah, Liam's roommate—see if he can trace the number."
"That's smart." He was quiet for a moment. "Alex, can I ask you something?"
"Yeah."
"Who benefits from you being scared?"
The question landed strangely.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—whoever this is, they're not outing you. They could. They have a photo. But they're not. They're sending it toyou. Privately. With messages designed to rattle you." He leaned forward. "That's not someone trying to expose you. That's someone trying to control you."
"Braden," I said.
"Maybe. He's got motive. The Lockwood thing. If you're scared and distracted, you row worse. Maybe his boat moves up."
"Exactly."
"But—" Ethan held up a hand. "That's the obvious answer. And the obvious answer isn't always the right one."
He picked up his coffee from the desk and took a sip.
I turned the question over. Braden gained a competitive advantage. My father gained—no. My father didn't know. Unless Eldridge had told him. Unless the phone call last night—
"You're spiraling," Ethan said. He could see it on my face.
"I know."
"You need to eat something. And sleep. And row tomorrow like nothing happened." He looked at me. "Can you do that?"
"I don't know."
"Then fake it. You're good at faking it." He said it without malice. A fact. "Get through the Charles. Then deal with this."
