What reason did she give? Evelyn read the notation. Communication's research. Does student media usually get access to sealed conduct complaints? No.
Evelyn's voice had gone flat. Marcus pointed farther down. There's another. Emily Collins. A separate request.
This time several complaint numbers were listed together. Maya recognized one surname from the clippings they had been reading earlier. What happened to that student? Evelyn pulled the related file. A 26-year-old former transfer student named Maria Santos had complained about repeated harassment by members of the Founder's Society.
Two weeks later, according to a campus newspaper article, anonymous posts had exposed details about her financial aid appeal and part-time employment. Maria withdrew before the semester ended. Maya looked back at the access ledger. Emily had requested Maria's file 12 days before those details appeared publicly. A cold feeling settled in Maya's stomach.
Maybe she had legitimate access. Evelyn looked at her. You don't believe that. I want to know before I accuse her. Evelyn nodded once.
That answer clearly pleased her. Marcus pulled out his phone. I can check whether those requests match the digital archive system. Not from here, Evelyn said sharply. Marcus stopped.
"Why?" Because if somebody has been watching access records, searching her name could announce exactly what we're looking at. Maya looked toward the shelves. The basement no longer felt merely old. It felt watched.
Evelyn closed the ledger. We document what is already here. Marcus photographed the relevant pages. Maya wrote down every date by hand. No accusations.
No conclusions. Only facts. Emily Collins had repeatedly requested restricted records. Private information from some of those records had later appeared in harassment campaigns and someone had tried to make Maya disappear in almost the same way. Maya slipped the brass key back onto its faded blue cord.
For the first time, it no longer felt like something she had inherited without understanding. It felt like a warning from another generation. Belonging could be challenged. Truth could be buried. But somebody had to keep the record.
Marcus's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then frowned. What is it? Maya asked. He didn't answer immediately.
He opened an audiovisual maintenance app and scrolled. His face changed. The courtyard camera. Maya went still. The one haze said malfunctioned.
Marcus nodded slowly. It didn't. Evelyn looked at him. What do you mean? Marcus turned the screen toward them.
A maintenance entry showed the central courtyard camera had been placed into manual service mode at 9.03 that morning. Maya remembered the confrontation beginning minutes later. Could that happen automatically? No. Could it be a system error?
No. Marcus enlarged the timestamp. The camera was deliberately taken offline. Maya felt her pulse quicken. When?
Marcus looked at her. 11 minutes before Ryan stepped in front of you. No one spoke. Above them, somewhere beyond the thick archive ceiling, Crown Bridge continued with its ordinary evening. Doors closing, students laughing, phones ringing.