Nia felt something inside her harden. Not anger. Clarity. I'm not implying anything. She tapped the printed message.
He is. Sloan looked at it again. Then he closed the folder. That sound was soft. But to Nia, it felt like a door shutting.
I think the best course is for everyone involved to take some space. Nia stared at him. Everyone involved? Yes. Trevor too?
We'll speak to him. Will he be told to stop contacting me? We can discuss boundaries. Will the photos be investigated? We'll look into the account.
Will the witnesses be interviewed? If necessary. If necessary. Sloan folded his hands again. Nia, you need to understand something.
Wellington cannot discipline students based solely on person's interpretation of events. One person's interpretation? There are procedures. I brought you evidence. You brought me your documentation.
The distinction hit harder than an accusation. My documentation. Not evidence. Nia slowly reached for the folder. Sloan placed a hand on it.
I'd like to keep a copy. Why? To review. Then copy it. He released it.
Nia stood. So this is your answer? This is the beginning of a process? No. Her voice stayed calm. This is the beginning of you deciding whether I am expensive enough to believe.
Sloan's face changed. Nia. She turned toward the door. I hope I'm wrong. Outside his office, the hallway seemed colder.
Students passed in both directions. Some recognized her. Nia could tell. Their eyes lingered, then shifted away. Near the elevators, one of the adults from the cafeteria confrontation stood holding a coffee.
He had seen Trevor mock her. He looked directly at Nia. For half a second, she thought he might speak. Instead, he looked down at his cup. Another student stepped into the elevator beside her.
Someone who had been in the classroom when the anonymous post circulated. She gave Nia a sympathetic smile, then said nothing. The elevator doors closed. Nia stared at her reflection in the brushed metal. That was the part she had not been prepared for.
Not Trevor. Not Madison. Not even Sloan. The silence. The way decent people could see something wrong and still convince themselves that saying nothing was neutral.
By the time she reached the lobby, the hope she'd carried into Wellington had become something heavier. She stepped outside. A cold wind moved across the entrance plaza. Traffic hissed on wet pavement. Nia stood beneath the stone canopy and pulled out her phone.
One new message. No sender name. No number she recognized. Just five words. You're not the first.
Nia stopped breathing for a second. Then another message appeared. Check the disciplinary archive. She looked back through the glass doors toward Wellington's spotless lobby. Students moved beneath donor plaques.
Administrators crossed polished floors. Everything appeared orderly, respected, clean. Nia looked again at the anonymous message. If she wasn't the first, then Trevor's confidence suddenly meant something different. Maybe he'd done this before.