The hall outside it was quieter than the rest of campus. Thick carpet, framed photographs, awards behind glass, a wall of donor names. Nia checked in with the receptionist and waited beneath a photograph of students shaking hands with business leaders. Ten minutes later, Sloan opened his door. Nia Brooks?
He was 51, silver at the temples, navy suit, polished shoes. His voice was warm, professional, exactly what she had hoped for. Come in. His office overlooked the athletic center. From the window, Nia could see the edge of the same courtyard where Trevor's group liked to gather between classes.
Sloan motioned toward a chair. Tell me what's going on. Nia placed the folder on his desk. She spoke carefully. Not dramatically.
She told him about the nickname, the bus photos, the comments about her clothes, the food, the community kitchen, the bruising, the private photographs of Harbour Street and Arthur's building. She showed him Trevor's message. Sloan listened without interrupting. At first, then he picked up one of the pages. His eyes moved across the name.
Trevor Hale. Something changed. Small. But Nia saw it. His shoulders shifted.
His tone changed from concern to caution. How long have you known Trevor? New of him? Yes, a few months. Have the two of you had personal disagreements?
Nia stared at him. This is the disagreement. Sloan folded his hands. I just want to understand the context. The context is in the folder.
Of course, he turned another page. Some of these messages could be interpreted as immature joking. Nia felt the hope begin to thin. He followed me. We don't know that.
Those pictures weren't public. That doesn't necessarily prove Trevor took them. I didn't say Trevor took them. Sloan paused. Nia continued.
I said someone connected to this has information they shouldn't have. Sloan leaned back. Nia. Wellington takes student conflict seriously. Conflict?
Yes. This isn't conflict. What term would you prefer? Harassment. The word settled between them.
Sloan looked toward the window, then down at the folder. Have you responded to Trevor or any of the others in a way that could have escalated the situation? Nia almost laughed. Not because anything was funny, because she suddenly understood exactly where the conversation was going. I told him to stop.
Anything else? I asked him not to touch me. Have you raised your voice? Does that change what he did? I didn't say that.
You asked. Sloan opened another page. Were there witnesses to the wrist incident? Yes. Names?
Nia pointed to the list. He read them. Several students, two staff members. Sloan nodded slowly. Have any of them submitted statements?
Not yet. That's a problem. No. That's silence. Sloan's eyes lifted. Nia held his gaze.
If twelve people watch something happen and none of them wants to get involved, that doesn't mean it didn't happen. I understand your frustration. I don't think you do. His expression tightened. Barely.
Then he softened it again. Nia. My job is to separate feelings from facts. My bruised wrist is a fact. Sloan glanced toward it.