A lie didn't need to sound believable forever. It only needed to arrive before the truth. My academic standing isn't gone yet, Maya said. Then why pack? Because Richard Grant has lawyers talking to the university.
The footage is missing. Jason won't answer anyone. And every time I walk across campus, people look at me like they're waiting for somebody. Monica stepped inside. I gave Susan my statement.
I know Linda did too. Ethan did. I know David is still digging. Maya's hands stopped. And while everybody digs, I get to be the story.
Her voice cracked on the final word. It was the first time Monica had heard that happen. Maya immediately looked away for days she had been calm for everyone else. For Linda. So Linda wouldn't blame herself.
For Earl. So he wouldn't worry for Monica. So Monica's courage wouldn't collapse beneath guilt for Walter. Because Maya could hear the concern he tried to hide whenever they spoke. There was nowhere left to put her own fear.
Monica sat on the opposite bed. You don't have to be strong every minute. Maya gave a tired laugh. Apparently I do. Being strong is the reason they say I'm guilty.
That silenced them both. The absurdity of it was almost too much. Seven years of discipline had kept Tyler safe. Now those same seven years were being used to argue Maya was dangerous. She picked up the brass token from her nightstand.
She had removed the chain before showering and hadn't put it back on. The old metal rested in her palm. Worn smooth along one edge. Home. That was the word stamped faintly across its face.
Maya stared at it. What if home isn't here? Monica had no answer. An hour later, Maya carried the token in her pocket as she walked toward the city bus stop outside campus. The rain had turned colder.
Cars hissed over black pavement. Neon from a pharmacy across the intersection bled red and blue across the wet sidewalk. Maya sat beneath the shelter. For the first time since arriving at Hawthorne, she let herself imagine leaving. Back to Baltimore.
Back to second table on weekends. Back to buses she understood. And streets where nobody cared how many donor plaques hung inside a university building. The thought brought relief. That frightened her more than the idea of staying.
A bus approached in the distance. Then a figure came through the rain from the opposite side of the street. Older black man, worn brown jacket, canvas duffel over one shoulder. Maya stood before she fully recognized him. Grandpa Walter Brooks smiled.
That's usually what you call me. She stared at him. What are you doing here? Three hour bus ride. One bad cup of coffee.
Man beside me snored the whole way. Walter. His smile disappeared. You sounded like somebody packing. Maya looked down.