CHAPTER 8 — The Dean Who Sold My Future
Campus police found Dean Grant’s car near the interstate.
The driver’s door was unlocked.
His phone was inside.
He wasn’t.
By evening, the graduation scandal had gone viral.
Videos of my father slapping me appeared everywhere.
Some headlines called me a cheating student.
Others called me a victim.
Strangers argued about my life as though it were entertainment.
The university placed my diploma under temporary review.
Despite Professor Hughes defending me, the board said they had to investigate.
My father had succeeded in planting doubt.
That night, I stayed in Sarah’s small motel room.
Neither of us knew what to say.
She offered me tea.
I took it even though I didn’t want any.
“You don’t have to call me Mom,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
Her face flinched.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry.”
Silence filled the room.
Everything between us felt awkward and painful.
Real.
That made it better than anything my parents had ever given me.
A knock sounded at the door.
Sarah stiffened.
I looked through the peephole.
Professor Hughes stood outside with Daniel.
They entered quickly.
Daniel carried a sealed evidence bag.
“We found this in Grant’s car.”
Inside was a flash drive.
“What’s on it?” I asked.
“We don’t know yet. It’s encrypted.”
Professor Hughes looked sick.
“There’s something else.”
She handed me a printed photograph taken from the dean’s phone.
It showed my father, Dean Grant, and a third man seated at a restaurant.
The third man was Dr. Nathan Cole, director of the fellowship program.
On the table between them was an envelope.
Professor Hughes lowered her voice.
“Nathan voted yesterday to award the fellowship to Ethan.”
“But Ethan isn’t eligible.”
“He was going to become eligible after your project was disqualified.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A man whispered, “Emily, don’t trust Daniel Reed.”
Then the line disconnected.
Daniel stared at me.
“What did they say?”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
May you like
“Nothing.”
For the first time, I wondered if the corruption reached further than my father.
