Chapter 43
Callum
“They’ll be ready for you in a few minutes.”
“Lovely,” I said and sat, hands folded, as careful as a bomb technician.
The clock ticked forward in increments too small to trust.
At 8:30 precisely, the interior door sighed open, and Dr. Amrita Singh appeared. She wore a navy linen pantsuit and a smile so geometrically thin it could have been etched with a diamond stylus.
“We’re ready for you, Dr. Hawthorne.”
The worst they can do is fire you, I told myself. With a controlled exhale, I rose to my feet, adjusted my cuff links, and followed her in.
Dr. Michael Lemke, Dean of Students, and Maryanne Jennings from Human Resources were seated on one side of a large circular conference table.
A third chair—Dr. Singh’s, presumably—sat between them.
Opposite them, a lone chair awaited—clearly mine.
So much for the egalitarian promise of the round table.
“Please have a seat,” said Dr. Singh, closing the door behind her and taking her place between Dr. Lemke and Ms. Jennings.
In no particular hurry, I crossed to my assigned chair and eased into it.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Hawthorne,” she began, clipped and formal, like reading from a script. “I’ve asked Ms. Jennings to be present as this matter may affect your employment status at Page College. Dr. Lemke is here because the issue involves a member of the student body.”
“Alleged,” I corrected.
“Pardon?”
“Alleged issue.” I matched her tone, syllable for syllable. My time at Branleigh Park had served its purpose after all—my armor was intact. “I don’t even know what I’ve been accused of.”
“Very well,” she said, amending herself with faint distaste. “Alleged issue.”
Beside her, Dr. Lemke loomed—broad shoulders filling out a royal blue button-down, his bright orange tie geometrically knotted, his face arranged in professionally moderated concern.
Dr. Singh steepled her fingers, the motion as elegant and precise as the rest of her.
“Dr. Hawthorne, I’ve called you here today to address a serious allegation that has recently come to my attention.
” She glanced at the HR rep, then back to me, offering a brief, icy smile.
“This is not a formal disciplinary hearing. Consider it an opportunity to clarify the situation before such measures prove necessary.”
Ms. Jennings nodded with bureaucratic solemnity, pen already poised above her notepad.
“We know you’re just back from vacation,” Dr. Lemke said, voice smooth as worn leather, shaded with the easy cadence of a Texas drawl. “So we really appreciate your coming in first thing on a Monday.”
Ah. So he was to be the good cop.
Dr. Singh opened a slim folder and slid a printout across the table.
“We received an email last week. The sender alleges that you, while employed as a member of the faculty, engaged in an unduly personal and physically intimate relationship with a student currently enrolled at Page College. The relationship is described as ‘ongoing.’ The message cites several specific incidents and claims the involvement began during the spring semester.”
She waited for me to pick up the paper, but I let it sit.
It was clearly an email, but the sender’s name, address, and every line that didn’t directly reference me had been reduced to a series of thick black bars.
Even the subject line was redacted, as if the very premise of my existence had been deemed classified.
I scanned the visible lines.
“…a student under the direct instructional supervision of Dr. Hawthorne…”
“…unduly familiar relationship with multiple encounters outside the classroom…”
“…overnight travel during spring break.”
The final lines, most damning, read:
“…traveled with Dr. Hawthorne to England after the end of the spring semester, where they stayed for an extended period at an estate owned by Dr. Hawthorne’s family.”
The sender’s name was blacked out entirely, along with any detail that might point to the original observer. I recognized the cadence—fastidious and self-important—almost certainly written by an elite or an academic. Not a student.
My thoughts landed, however briefly, on James. This knife-in-the-back maneuver was certainly his style. But I doubted he cared enough to bother.
“Is there a name attached to the complaint?” I asked, not looking up.
Dr. Singh shook her head. “The sender requested complete anonymity.”
“And the identity of the alleged student?”
“I can’t disclose that either. I have a responsibility to protect their confidentiality.”
“How very convenient for them,” I said. “And for you.”
She blinked, unruffled. “We take all allegations seriously, especially those which could bring harm to the institution or its students.”
“Dr. Hawthorne,” said Dr. Lemke, shifting forward, “this isn’t personal in any way. You and I have always gotten along great. But you have to understand, we’re in a tough position here. Priority number one—we have to look out for our students.”
“Of course.”
“So, help us out. Is there any truth to these claims?”
“What claims, exactly?” I asked, keeping my voice even. Dr. Lemke’s eyes darted to Dr. Singh, waiting for her to take the lead.
She gestured to the printout. “The ones enumerated in the email. The ones you just read.”
“A heavily redacted, nameless complaint absent credibility or context?” I tapped the table, the sound louder than I expected. “How am I supposed to respond when I don’t even know what I’ve been accused of—by whom, with whom, or when?”
“You understand the need to protect student confidentiality,” Dr. Singh said, her tone almost chiding.
I matched her tone. “Of course. But surely you see that asking me to respond to a redacted, anonymous tip is not only improper—it’s legally dubious.” I folded my hands in my lap. “You haven’t even told me which student I’m meant to have…ensnared.”
Dr. Lemke leaned in, speaking like a coach addressing a promising but difficult player. “Cal—may I call you Cal? We’re not trying to trip you up. But this is serious. We want to give you a chance to clear the air before it escalates.”
“Michael—may I call you Michael?”
He bristled a bit but didn’t back down.
“Do you have corroborating evidence, or is this strictly an exercise in creative reading?”
He looked to his colleague and then back at me, but didn’t answer.
“No? Then I’d say the air is clear. As is my conscience.”
Dr. Singh turned the full weight of her scorn on me. “Dr. Hawthorne, this is not a negotiation. We’re asking you plainly: have you, at any time, engaged in an inappropriate relationship with a Page College student?”
Silence thickened. The HVAC grumbled as it kicked on, blasting frosty air across the room. The printed email—more thick black ink than white space—fluttered to the floor in the artificial gust. I met her gaze, then Dr. Lemke’s.
“No,” I finally answered. “I have not engaged in an inappropriate relationship with a student.” I chose my words carefully, echoing her exact phrasing.
I should have left it there. But pride or ego or sheer stupidity got the better of me.
“If this is about optics, then what I’ve done—or haven’t done—is already irrelevant.
But I will say this. At no point have I exploited my position, nor have I coerced, endangered, or manipulated anyone. Are we finished?”
Dr. Singh pressed her lips into a pale seam of distaste.
“Dr. Hawthorne, it is the determination of this office that there is sufficient cause to refer this matter to a formal disciplinary review. You will be notified of the date, and your full cooperation is expected.” She glanced at Ms. Jennings, who rustled a folder open without looking up.
“Ms. Jennings will brief you on specifics.”
“You are hereby placed on paid administrative leave, effective immediately,” she began, her voice as flat as a spreadsheet cell.
“You are not permitted on campus except when specifically requested by the review board. You are not to have any contact with students, and you are prohibited from engaging with any faculty or staff regarding this matter, except through approved channels.”
She opened a second folder—copies, no doubt, of the same bureaucratic terms she’d just recited.
“Further,” she continued, “until this inquiry is resolved, you are not to represent the college in any public or professional capacity. Any public statement, including those made to media or on social platforms, will be considered a violation of the terms of your leave.”
She handed me the top sheet—a crisp printout on university letterhead, its paragraphs already numb on the page. “Do you understand?”
I nodded, resisting the urge to laugh. Even the language was a performance.
“Then please sign at the bottom. You’re only acknowledging receipt and understanding. This is not an admission of guilt.”
I signed, the gesture crisp, and slid it back with a flourish I hoped read as final rather than fatalistic.
Dr. Lemke folded his hands like a vicar leading a funeral prayer. “No one wants this to turn ugly, Cal. Least of all me.”
I said nothing.
Dr. Singh stood. “That will be all, Dr. Hawthorne.”
I rose without a word, walked to the door, and didn’t look back. If I had, I might not have kept my mouth shut.