Chapter 47
Callum
Ipushed a thumb drive across my desk. Bill stared at it, scratching his beard before picking it up.
“That’s all my course content: syllabi, slide decks, lecture notes, exams. Everything.”
“You’re really leaving, Cal?” He tucked the thumb drive into his shirt pocket.
“It’s for the best.” I stacked another three volumes—Griffiths, Feynman, and a battered copy of The Road to Reality—into a white banker’s box. They thudded against the corrugated cardboard like bricks mortared into a wall.
“But the board cleared you.”
“Technically, yes. But you and I both know that the damage is done.” I dropped a stack of research notebooks into the box. “If I stayed, I’d be looking over my shoulder, second-guessing every interaction. I can’t live like that.”
“I thought for sure you’d stay, even if only out of spite.”
I chuckled darkly as I slid the lid over the banker’s box with a tight, satisfying seal.
“Where will you go?”
“I’ve got a few feelers out. A visiting professorship in Switzerland. A private research post in Austin. Possibly consulting for an aerospace startup. Or I might take a sabbatical. Get some real writing done for once. I haven’t decided.”
He nodded, eyes drifting over the stripped shelves. “You’ll hate Switzerland.”
I busied my hands with a tangle of power cords, winding them into neat, choking loops. “Probably.”
Bill hovered in silence, hands shoved deep in his pockets, knuckles straining the fabric. The question gathered like a storm front over a flat horizon.
He shut the door.
“Cal, since you’re leaving anyway, I have to ask.” He squinted, as if bracing for the answer. “Was there any truth to the rumors?”
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I looked up, surprised less by the question than the timing. Bill stared at the far wall, where sunlight leaked through a narrow slit in the blinds.
“I’m flattered you think my life is that interesting.
” I shifted the box lid, buying a second before I went on.
“But do you really believe I’d risk my career—never mind my dignity—just to coax a student into bed?
I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of finding someone of age and above board.
” I punctuated my words with a tight smile. “Should I ever be so inclined.”
The smile held, but a muscle ticked in my jaw.
Bill dropped his gaze, letting the silence grow roots. He picked at the frayed hem of his shirt. Then, as offhandedly as he could manage, he said, “So, I heard Gabrielle Clark has withdrawn from Page.”
The statement caught me off guard, a sharp flick to the solar plexus. I let the shock settle, leaning on old habits of detachment. “Did she?” I kept my voice as casual as possible. “That’s unfortunate. She was one of the best I’ve taught.”
“Same here. I was hoping we could lure her out of engineering and into a physics major.” He grunted, belly straining his shirt buttons. “I haven’t heard where she’s going—only that she’s not coming back.” He paused, fingering the hem again. “Any idea why?”
I shook my head. “Not a clue. But she’s brilliant and quite capable. She’ll do well—wherever she lands.”
He nodded, but the twinkle was gone.
My phone skittered across the desk. Gabrielle.
SOS. All hell just broke loose online. Can you talk?
I glanced up at Bill, careful not to betray urgency. “Would you mind giving me a minute? I need to make a call.”
He nodded, stood, and made for the door. “Sure, no problem. I’ll be in my office.” The latch caught with a soft click.
I waited for the echo of Bill’s heavy tread to fade, then thumbed Gabrielle’s name and hit Call.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hey.” Her voice was brisk, all business.
“Hey,” I echoed, voice softening instinctively. “What’s going on?” I kept my tone and words neutral, conscious that the walls were paper thin.
“Yeah, so—social media just exploded. About you. I don’t even know where to start. It’s a bloodbath.”
“Same old, or something new?”
“Sloane Cartwright has been on a posting spree since eight a.m. She’s got, like, three different threads saying the school ‘let you off’ because you’re a ‘fancy British physicist with connections.’ Somehow, she got the board’s official finding—probably from her dad—and posted it online.”
“So much for confidentiality.”
“Now she’s telling everyone to come forward if they’ve got stories about you. Doesn’t matter if they’re true—the more scandalous, the better. It’s her personal mission to take you down. This is going to blow up.”
My skin prickled. I pinched the bridge of my nose, the headache already settling behind my eyes. “I fucking knew she’d be trouble.” The expletive slipped out before I could stop it. “Sorry.”
“No need. I think you’ve earned an arsenal of F-bombs.”
“Are you named?”
“No,” she said. “Which is honestly a perk of not making too many friends this year.”
The line beeped with an incoming call. Dr. Amrita Singh. Shit.
“Darling, my boss is calling. I have to take it. Can you screenshot those posts? Just in case they vanish. I’ve got a feeling I’ll need every scrap of evidence I can get.”
“Yeah, no problem. Good luck. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I clicked over.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Hawthorne, are you on campus?”
Despite our current adversarial situation, I appreciated that Dr. Singh always skipped the small talk. “I am—just packing up my office.”
“Please come see me.”
I switched the phone to my other ear. “May I ask what this is about?” Though, of course, Gabrielle had already given me a good idea.
“I’d prefer to discuss it in person.”
“Right. I’ll walk over.”
“Thank you.” She hung up.
The walk across the quad was a trek through an oven. Late June sun bounced white off the concrete, searing my eyes. I kept my head down, unwilling to risk eye contact with students or colleagues. Campus was mostly empty during the summer, but I preferred to avoid recognition just the same.
Outside Administration Suite 300, the secretary’s desk sat vacant. I tapped lightly on the glass door.
“Come in,” Dr. Singh called from the other side.
I opened the door and stepped into her office. Dr. Lemke sat on the couch, leaning back, one leg crossed in a relaxed figure-four.
No HR rep this time.
“Dr. Hawthorne,” she said, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
I sat, sweat slicking my shirt to my back.
Dr. Singh wasted no time. “We’ve received additional complaints,” she said, hands folded in that careful lattice I’d come to recognize as her prelude to unpleasantness. “Fourteen, to be precise. All in the last twenty-four hours.”
I stared at her, stunned by the number. “That’s—” I caught myself. “What are the allegations?”
She slid a folder across the desk with two fingers.
“You’re welcome to review the sanitized reports.
The themes are consistent: abuse of authority, inappropriate conduct, sexual harassment, and, in three instances, explicit claims of quid pro quo.
” Her voice was perfectly measured—neither accusatory nor sympathetic.
“Some are new. Others reference incidents from previous semesters.”
Dr. Lemke chimed in, his tone serious but good-natured. “Cal, I won’t lie—the timing is…suspicious. But the volume—well, you understand how it looks.”
I thumbed open the folder. Page after page of neatly typed accusations—scrubbed of identifiers but detailing, in jagged terms, an escalating set of improprieties: lewd comments, inappropriate contact, mandatory ‘remediation’ after hours, and—most egregious—demanding sexual favors for passing grades.
I pushed the folder back across the desk. “A complete joke—that’s how it looks.”
Dr. Singh didn’t blink. “We don’t decide how it looks. We’re obligated to review complaints brought forward in good faith. The policy is clear.”
Dr. Lemke put on an expression of empathy, but his words rang hollow. “Fourteen students don’t come forward out of thin air, Cal.”
“They do if they’re prompted by someone with an agenda.
” I drummed my fingers on the table, a tic I couldn’t suppress.
“Look closely. Half of these are carbon copies. You know why? Because someone is disgruntled and orchestrating this circus.” I swallowed, heat rising in my ears. “And you both know it.”
Dr. Singh set her jaw. “Do you have proof?”
“Not yet. But a search through social media should give you all the proof you need.”
She folded her arms—her tell that the conversation was closed. “Given the volume and nature of the claims, we have no choice but to reopen disciplinary proceedings.”
“This nonsense again, really? I’ve already resigned. What more do you want from me?”
Dr. Lemke cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Your resignation doesn’t take effect until the end of summer.”
“Then accelerate it,” I said. “I’m already packed. I’ll be out by the end of the day. If it makes anyone’s life easier, I’ll walk out now and never look back.”
Dr. Singh’s gaze held steady, but her voice edged defensive. “We’re under significant pressure from the Board of Trustees,” she said. “They’ve taken a direct interest in this case.”
I let the words hang, a sour bloom of disbelief rising behind my ribs. “What the hell do they have to do with this?”
She bristled—just a flicker, a tightening around her eyes.
Dr. Lemke leaned in, palms up in a placating gesture. “Easy, Cal. We’re all just trying to do what’s right.”
I exhaled, slow and controlled, and steepled my fingers. “Forgive me. But what, precisely, does the Board of Trustees have to do with a faculty conduct matter?”
Dr. Lemke shifted, glancing at Dr. Singh like he hoped she’d take it. She obliged.
“The Board sets institutional priorities. In the wake of recent cases—nationally—they’re hyperaware of anything that could damage Page’s reputation. They want this handled by the book. More than that, they want the appearance of being above reproach.”
I folded my arms and leveled a stare at Dr. Singh. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Trustee Cartwright, would it?”