Usually when she positioned herself where she could see a whole room. Usually when something fell and she caught it before anyone else moved. Nia had learned not to ask too many questions about those years. Especially about Daniel Reeves. His name had come up only a few times.
Master Sergeant Daniel Reeves. 46 when he died. Naomi's mentor. The man whose photograph had once sat inside Naomi's apartment beside a worn black and silver coin. Nia remembered asking about him after the funeral.
Naomi had said only. He taught me restraint before life gave me reasons to need it. Then she had put the photograph away. Nia looked at her now. You were thinking about him.
Naomi's eyes lifted. Who? Reeves. A long pause. Why would you say that?
Because you get the same look every time you're trying not to do something. Naomi almost laughed. Instead, she turned her coffee cup slowly between her hands. He used to say strength is cheap if everybody can see it. Nia waited.
Naomi's eyes drifted toward the diner window. He believed the hardest kind of control was the kind nobody applauded. For a moment, the exhaustion fell away from her face. Something older replaced it. Memory.
Grief. Then Naomi closed the door again. You don't need my history tonight. Maybe I want it. Another time.
Nia knew not to push. The waitress brought fresh coffee. Neither sister had ordered it. She simply set the pot down and said, you two look like you need more than one cup. Naomi smiled.
Thank you. When the waitress walked away, Nia reopened the Wellington folder. I'm going to report this officially tomorrow. Naomi nodded. Screenshots?
Yes. Original files? Yes. Dates? Yes.
Witnesses? Nia's expression changed. That part may be harder. Naomi understood. Silence protected people too.
Just not the people who needed protecting. Nia added Trevor's latest message to the folder, then another and another. When she finished, the screen reflected faintly in the dark diner window. Two sisters. One tired.
One bruised. Both trying to stay calm in a world that often mistook calmness for permission. Naomi reached across the table. Whatever happens tomorrow, don't let them tell you what this did or didn't feel like. Nia nodded.
I won't. Outside, the rain kept falling and on Nia's phone, Trevor's message remained open like a warning. My family paid for half that building. Nobody there is choosing. By morning, Nia would walk into Wellington believing evidence mattered more than money.
She was about to find out whether Wellington believed the same thing. The next morning, Wellington looked untouched. That was the first thing Nia noticed. The limestone still gleamed pale beneath a washed out sky. The glass doors still reflected expensive cars sliding into reserved spaces.
The brass donor plaques still caught the light in the lobby. Nothing about the building suggested that one of its students had spent the night documenting weeks of harassment. Nothing suggested that someone had followed her through East Baltimore. Nothing suggested that she had gone to sleep with a bruise around her wrist. Nia stepped off the bus and adjusted the strap of her repaired canvas bag.
She had printed everything. Screenshots, dates, messages, photos, a written timeline. Trevor's latest message sat on top. My family paid for half that building. Nobody there is choosing you over me.
For the first time since the harassment began, Nia felt something close to hope. Not because she trusted Trevor. Because she trusted evidence. She trusted the idea that once the right person saw everything in one place, the truth would become too obvious to ignore. Dean Richard Sloan's office sat on the third floor of Wellington's administrative wing.