Then where is she? Rachel's expression darkened. She left Hawthorne before the semester ended. A cold feeling moved through Danny that had nothing to do with the rain. Did you talk to her?
Not yet. Find her. I'm trying. Danny looked again at the fragment. Three years, same family, same university, same silence.
Does Professor Miller know? Rachel nodded. He's searching archived faculty records. As if summoned by the words, Rachel's phone rang. Professor Miller, she answered on speaker.
David, I found it. His voice was low and urgent. Danny leaned closer. The Lisa Grant complaint? Part of it.
There's an old faculty review reference from three years ago. It shows student affairs opened a case involving Tyler Blake. Rachel's eyes widened. Can you download it? I'm trying.
They heard keyboard clicks, then silence. Miller, another click. That's strange. What? My access just changed.
Danny looked at Rachel. Professor Miller spoke again. I can see the index, but the linked file is gone. Gone how? It was there 30 seconds ago.
Rain hammered the metal roof above them. Rachel stood. Take screenshots. I already did. Try the audit history.
More typing. Then Miller went quiet. David? When he answered, his voice had changed. They revoked my archive permissions.
Danny felt the hair rise along her arms. While you were inside the file? Yes. Rachel paced beneath the shelter. Could that happen automatically?
No. Professor Miller's answer came immediately. Someone changed my permissions. The three of them fell silent. A bus approached in the distance, headlights glowing through the rain. Danny looked at Lisa Grant's name on the photocopy.
Yesterday, she had thought Hawthorne was protecting the blakes because Charles Blake gave the university millions of dollars. Now the possibility was darker. Maybe they had done this before. Maybe Danny's suspension was not an exception. Maybe it was a method.
The bus pulled to the curb with a hiss of brakes. Its doors folded open. Danny stood, but did not board immediately. Rachel. Yeah?
If Lisa agrees to talk, don't promise her anything. Rachel frowned. What do you mean? Don't promise justice. Don't promise the university will listen.
Danny folded the photocopies carefully. Just promise we'll listen. She boarded. Rachel remained beneath the shelter as the bus pulled away. Across town, Professor Miller sat alone in his office staring at a screen that now denied him access to records he had been able to view minutes earlier.
Then another notification appeared. His faculty archive access had been suspended entirely. Miller slowly reached for his phone. Before he could call Rachel back, an email arrived from Dean Robert Hayes. Professor Miller, please report to my office tomorrow morning regarding unauthorized review of restricted student records.
Miller read the message twice. Then he looked toward the dark campus outside his window. Danny had been right. The problem was no longer whether Hawthorne believed the brakes. Someone inside the university was actively protecting them.
Someone inside the university was actively protecting them. And if a three-year-old complaint could disappear while Professor Miller was looking at it, there was no telling how many other voices had already been erased. Professor Miller was waiting outside Dean Hayes' office at eight the next morning. The administration building smelled faintly of furniture polish and burnt coffee. Rain streaked the tall windows, turning the campus beyond them into a blur of gray stone and wet leaves.
Hayes opened the door exactly on time. Professor Miller entered. The meeting lasted 12 minutes. When he emerged, his face looked older. Rachel was waiting near the elevator.
What happened? Miller glanced back toward Hayes' closed door. He told me my job is to teach, not investigate donor families. Rachel's jaw tightened. He said that?
Not in those words. Of course not. Miller held up a printed warning. He called it unauthorized access to confidential records. Said, if I continue helping Danny, there could be disciplinary consequences.
Rachel stared at the paper. So they erased a complaint, lock you out while you're looking at it, then punish you for noticing. Miller folded the page. That appears to be the sequence. Rachel pulled out her phone.
I'm going to my editor. Be careful. She looked at him. About what? Miller's eyes moved toward the Blake Pavilion across the rain-soaked quad.
People who can make records disappear usually know how to make reputations disappear too. By 1030, Rachel understood what he meant. Her editor, Paul Bennett, 58, sat behind a cluttered desk in the basement newsroom of Hawthorne's journalism building. A printed letter lay between them. Three pages.
Heavy cream paper. A law firm's name across the top. Rachel read the first paragraph twice. They're threatening the paper? Paul rubbed both hands over his face.
They're threatening me. The university, our faculty advisor, and anyone who republishes what they're calling defamatory allegations, but we have the archived index. We don't have the original complaint. We have Professor Miller's screenshots showing it existed. They're claiming he accessed restricted material improperly.
Rachel stared at him. So the fact that they blocked him becomes evidence against us? Paul's expression was tired. They have lawyers. We have six computers, two broken microphones, and a budget that barely covers printing.
Rachel leaned forward. Paul, if we back off every time wealthy people send a letter, I didn't say back off. He lowered his voice. I said, don't publish before we can prove it. Rachel sat back.
Outside the newsroom, footsteps moved through the hallway. Paul slid the letter toward her. And there's something else. At the bottom was a demand that the paper preserve all communications involving Danielle Carter, Tyler Blake, Madison Blake, Charles Blake, and Professor Miller. Rachel looked up.