I told you in class, My father taught me. Ah, yes, your father, the dead mathematician. Hartwell's lips curled. Convenient, isn't it? A witness who can never be questioned.
It's the truth. Here's what I think is the truth, Mr. Parker. Hartwell pulled a document from the stack. I think you found that solution somewhere.
Online, in an old journal, somewhere. You memorized it, waited for your moment, and played the hero in front of my class. He slid the document across the desk. This is a formal academic integrity complaint. I'm filing it with the Dean's office today.
Isaiah looked at the paper, his name at the top, words like fraud and misconduct scattered throughout. You have 2 weeks to prove you didn't cheat. Hartwell smiled. If you can't, and let's be honest, you can't, you'll be expelled, permanently. Your transcript marked forever.
Your future, well, let's just say you might want to keep that warehouse job. Isaiah's hands clenched, but his voice stayed calm. I learned that method from my father's notebooks. He was a mathematician. He worked on that exact problem.
Something flickered in Hartwell's eyes, just for a moment. Your father's notebooks? Yes. And what was your father's name again? James.
James Parker. D The flicker became a crack. Hartwell's mask slipping for just a second. Say that I've never heard of him. Hartwell's voice was too quick, too defensive.
He studied mathematics. He was brilliant. Everyone said I said I've never heard of him. Hartwell stood abruptly. This meeting is over.
You'll receive formal notice of the hearing within 48 hours. He walked to the door, opened it. I suggest you withdraw now. Save yourself the humiliation of a public expulsion, because that's what's coming, Mr. Parker.
I guarantee it. Isaiah stood. His legs felt weak, but he held Hartwell's gaze. I didn't cheat, and I'm not withdrawing. Then you're a fool, just like Hartwell stopped himself, but not fast enough.
Just like who? Isaiah asked. Get out of my office. Isaiah left. But as he walked down the hallway, one thought consumed him.
Just like who? Hartwell knew something about his father, about the past, something he was desperate to keep buried. That night, Isaiah made a phone call that unlocked everything. Sham. Mom, I need to ask you something about Dad.
Silence. Long, heavy. Why are you bringing this up now, Isaiah? Because a professor at Whitmore is trying to expel me. He's accusing me of cheating, and when I said Dad's name Isaiah paused.
He looked terrified, like he'd seen a ghost. More silence. Then a sound Isaiah hadn't heard in years. His mother crying. What's the professor's name?
Hartwell. Richard Hartwell. A sharp intake of breath. A muffled sob. Mom?
What is it? What happened? Come home this weekend, Isaiah. Her voice was shaking. There are things I should have told you a long time ago, things about your father, things about that man.