Your doctor sounds smart. Nia reached the other side of the case. Together, Naomi and Nia lifted it back onto the cart. Walter leaned against the handle, breathing harder than he wanted them to notice. You two didn't have to do that.
Naomi crouched. You heard it. Old knee. Old knee can still be hurt. He tested his weight carefully.
I'm all right. Nia looked at the cart. Where are you taking this? Down to storage. We'll help.
Walter shook his head. You've got classes. We have 6 minutes. That's not enough. It is if you stop arguing.
Walter laughed despite himself. They walked the cart to the elevator. At the storage room, he reached for his wallet. Coffee is on me. Naomi frowned.
For what? For helping. You don't pay people for being decent. Sometimes I do. Not us.
Walter looked at both young women. Something about the answer caught him. Not the words. The way Naomi said them, like it had been taught, like it belonged to an older voice. His eyes shifted to the gym bag on her shoulder.
The bronze heron pin rested near the zipper. He noticed the shape, not enough to understand. Not yet. Naomi turned before he could look closer. Take it easy on the knee.
Yes, ma'am. Nia grinned. She likes telling people what to do, I noticed. They left. Walter watched them disappear around the corner.
Back upstairs, Ryan stood near the lounge window. He had seen Naomi and Nia cross the plaza, seen Naomi help Walter, seen her leave without looking back toward the building. Jake came beside him. You're still bothered. Ryan smiled.
Not bothered. He watched Naomi and Nia disappear beneath the trees. Curious about what? Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets. They act like they're above it.
Above what? Everything. Jake shrugged. Maybe they just don't care. Ryan shook his head.
No. He remembered Naomi's expression in the lounge. Calm, controlled, like his opinion had landed somewhere far away from anything that mattered. He hated that look. Because Ryan Whitmore was used to being noticed. His last name was on donor lists.
His father's money opened offices. Professors remembered him. Administrators answered his calls. People adjusted around him. Naomi Carter had not.
He looked toward the hallway where she had disappeared. A small smile returned. That kind always cracks eventually. Jake raised an eyebrow. Ryan turned away from the glass.
Those two will be easy. Neither man noticed Walter Hayes at the far end of the corridor, or the fact that Walter was still thinking about a scratched bronze bird he had almost recognized. By Wednesday morning, Ryan had stopped treating Naomi and Nia like an annoyance. He had started treating them like a project. The first shoulder check happened outside the student center.
Ryan passed Naomi near the vending machines, clipped her hard enough to knock her notebook against the wall, then kept walking without apology. Naomi bent, picked it up, and said nothing. The second happened after lunch. Jake brushed past Nia on a narrow stair landing, then turned with his phone already raised. You got a problem?
Nia stared at him. You walked into me. Jake smiled. Sounded aggressive. Naomi touched Nia's elbow.
Keep moving. They did. That afternoon, a volunteer schedule disappeared from a bulletin board 20 minutes after Naomi had signed her name beside a Friday night shift at the Riverton donor reception. The next morning, the replacement sheet showed the same time slot. Her name was gone.
Nia stood in front of the board with both hands on her hips. That's three things in two days. Naomi studied the paper. Four. What's four?
She pointed toward the lobby. Jake was sitting on a bench with his phone aimed loosely in their direction. Nia followed her gaze, her face tightened. He's filming us again. I know.
You want to keep pretending this is random? No. That answer stopped her. Naomi took out her phone and photographed the schedule. Then she photographed the date posted above it. Nia watched.
What are you doing, remembering? There was something in Naomi's voice. Nia recognized immediately. Not fear, preparation. Marcus used to say that panic belonged to people who waited too long to pay attention.
So Naomi started paying attention to everything. Dates, times, names, who was standing nearby, which doors had cameras above them, who smiled when Ryan spoke, and who looked away. By Thursday, Ryan adjusted his method. He stopped touching them when no one was watching. Instead, he waited for witnesses.
Near the cafeteria entrance. He blocked Nia's path while Jake stood 10 feet away. Still mad about the lounge, Nia tried to go around him. Ryan moved with her. "Move!"
Jake lifted the phone. Ryan smiled. "There it is." Naomi saw the trap from across the hall. "Nia."
Nia closed her eyes for one second, then stepped back. Ryan laughed. You two practice that? Naomi reached them. No, we practice leaving people alone when they asked.
Jake's camera shifted toward her. Ryan's expression brightened. Say that again. Naomi looked at the phone, then at Ryan. No. She took Nia's arm and they walked away.
By lunchtime, a 14-second video had already begun circulating through a campus group chat. It showed only Nia saying, "Move." Then Naomi saying, "We practice leaving people alone when they ask." Ryan's earlier blocking was missing. So was his laughter.
So was the moment Nia tried to walk away. The caption read, "Naomi Carter and Nia Bennett threatened student outside cafeteria." Nia stared at the screen. This is insane. Naomi felt something cold settle behind her ribs.
Not because the video was convincing, because it did not need to be. It only needed to be useful to the right person. Professor Ellen Brooks found Naomi after class. At 46, Ellen taught introductory anatomy and had a habit of carrying too many books at once. Today, she carried none.
Naomi. Naomi stopped. Yes, Professor Brooks. Can we talk? They stepped into the empty lecture hall.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Ellen closed the door but did not sit. I saw the video. Naomi's face gave nothing away. There's more before that.