Chapter 50
Gabrielle
“Dr. Lemke?” I voiced as I tapped on his door. The dean of students was hunched over his keyboard, staring at the computer screen like he could force its contents to change by sheer willpower.
He looked up, startled, then pushed away from his desk as recognition set in. “Come on in,” he invited warmly, motioning to a cozy conversational set in the corner. “Have a seat. Gabrielle Clark, right?”
I nodded as I sat in a minimalist, burgundy leather armchair. “I’m flattered you remember.”
He took the chair across from me. “Of course I do. Engineering major. Legacy student. Commuter. You’re hard to forget.”
“Thanks…?” I fidgeted with the hem of my blouse.
“So, what brings you to campus in the middle of summer?”
I looked down. Maybe this was a mistake.
Dr. Lemke dropped his voice to a hush. “Would this have anything to do with Dr. Hawthorne?”
His candor startled me. I bit my bottom lip until it stung. “Why would you think that?”
He gave a small, not unkind smile and crossed one leg over the other. The creases down his khakis were crisp and even. “Dr. Hawthorne has been a popular topic around here lately.”
Heat flared at the base of my neck. My words jammed somewhere between my heart and my teeth. I popped to my feet. “I shouldn’t have come—”
He held up both palms. “I only want to help you, Gabrielle.” He looked up at me, his expression open and earnest. “I know you’re not currently enrolled,” he continued, “which is a loss for us, by the way. But I’m Dean of Students for all students, even those in transition.
My job is to make sure you’re safe, heard, and have options.
” He motioned to my vacated chair. “So…how can I help?”
Reluctantly, I sat back down.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, equal parts confidential and fatherly. “Clearly, you came to my office for a reason today. You’re not in any trouble here—let’s lead with that.”
I picked at a hangnail until the skin burned. “I know Dr. Hawthorne is under disciplinary review.”
He nodded, a small gesture, but his posture sharpened. “I can’t go into the details, but yes.”
I swallowed hard, the motion thick and uncooperative. “I have information for the college, but I don’t know who to talk to.”
“Normally, these matters are handled strictly between faculty and the review board. But if you’ve got information relevant to the case, you could submit a written statement. That’s the usual channel.”
“That’s not good enough.” I heard the edge in my voice and tried to soften it.
“I don’t want to submit a statement. I want to talk to someone.
In person. So nothing gets…misinterpreted.
I’ll answer questions. I just want to make sure the truth actually gets heard. That nothing gets lost in translation.”
He studied me, letting the silence bloom, then drummed his fingers on his knee. “Dr. Monroe is the review board chair. She’s the one you want.”
“I know her. I took her psych class in the spring.”
Dr. Lemke stood and crossed to his desk. “She’s great—and very fair.” He reached for his desk phone. “I’m pretty sure she’s on campus today. Want me to see if she’ll drop by?”
I chewed my lip while he flipped through a laminated directory. I sucked in a quick breath and answered before I could back out. “Yes.”
The next ten minutes crawled by in awkward small talk—weather, summer travel, reading recommendations. Anything but the elephant in the room.
Dr. Monroe clicked her nails on the metal doorframe as she entered the office. She wore dark denim capris paired with a breezy white blouse, and her chocolate-brown hair was pulled into a ponytail that was the right mix of styled and messy.
“Gabrielle, it’s good to see you.” She said my name with a softness that I hadn’t expected, and for a split second, I glimpsed the woman beneath the formidable shell. She nudged the door shut with her wedge sandal and claimed the last seat in the conversational nook.
“I understand you’d like to talk about Dr. Hawthorne,” she started, setting a notebook on her lap and folding her hands atop it. Her gaze was direct but patient—a psychologist’s gaze, practiced at waiting out discomfort.
I nodded, heat crawling up my neck again. “I want to make a statement. On the record. In person.”
She nodded as she uncapped a slim black pen and opened her notebook. “Do you mind if I take notes while we talk?”
“No, go ahead.”
She nodded once, pen poised. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I stared at the striped rug between us, its bright, uneven weave suddenly fascinating. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“That’s all right,” she said gently. “Start wherever feels right.”
I hesitated. “It’s not just one thing. And I’m not here to—” I paused, struggling for the right phrase. “I’m not here to make excuses. I just want the board to have the full picture. The honest picture.”
She nodded. “That’s fair. Why don’t we go one piece at a time? What do you think the board might not understand?”
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my phone, scrolling with shaky fingers until I found the screenshots.
“There’s been a lot of talk online—about Dr. Hawthorne.
Angry posts about the original board findings.
Students encouraged to file false reports to get him fired and ‘do the board’s job for them.
’ Their words, not mine.” I handed her my phone.
“Most of the posts have been taken down, but I saved screenshots.” I pressed my lips together as she swiped through the images.
“I hate to be that person and point the finger, but the ringleader is Sloane Cartwright. And…”
Dr. Monroe jotted a few notes, then handed my phone back. “And?”
“I overheard a few exchanges between her and Dr. Hawthorne that—well, let’s just say she didn’t get her way. And she made it very clear she wasn’t happy about it.”
She nodded. “Go on.”
“Sloane came to Dr. Hawthorne’s office hours the day before the midterm and asked him to reschedule her exam so she could leave early for spring break. He said no, and she was furious. She threatened to involve her father on the Board of Trustees, but he didn’t budge. She stormed out.”
Dr. Monroe said nothing while she wrote.
“And another time, early in the semester, she asked if she could make up a pop quiz she missed because she didn’t come to class. He told her no then too. She was extremely vocal about it.”
She looked up. “And…how exactly are you privy to this information?”
It felt like a lead, but I sidestepped. “Sloane and I were both in Physics 112 with Dr. Hawthorne last semester. I personally witnessed both interactions. She sat behind me and wasn’t exactly discreet about her contempt for him.”
Dr. Monroe capped her pen and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Would you mind emailing me those screenshots?” she asked, gesturing to my phone. “I want to be sure they’re included in the record.”
“Of course,” I said, fumbling to slide my phone back into my pocket.
She smiled—measured, but not unfriendly. “Thank you.”
A long silence yawned open, too wide for comfort.
Dr. Monroe broke the hush first. “Is there anything else you’d like to share, Gabrielle? Anything at all?”
I almost lied. Almost said no—that this was enough, that I’d already crossed a line just by showing up. But something in her tone—patient, certain, like she’d seen this scene a hundred times—made it impossible to hold the words in. I pressed my lips together, blood surging behind my eyes.
“Yes.” My skin tingled. My heart slammed against my ribs. My breakfast threatened to come up.
She let the seconds stretch, like pressure might force something loose. It worked.
“There are a lot of rumors flying around about a relationship between me and Dr. Hawthorne. I’d like to set the record straight.”
Dr. Monroe glanced at Dr. Lemke.
He leaned forward. “Would you like me to step out? Give you two some privacy.”
I shook my head. “No. I’d rather you hear it from me. That’s why I’m here.”
I took a breath.
I flashed my engagement ring.
And then I told them everything.
Cal didn’t call to me when I came in. The hush was total—no music, no TV, just the faint asthmatic exhale of the air conditioner.
I found him in his study, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, dry-erase marker in hand.
He was working the whiteboard like it owed him money—dense equations snaked across its surface, all punctuated by angry arrows and half-erased dead ends.
He’d written so hard, the marker tip was jammed up the barrel.
I hovered in the doorway, then crossed to the low bookshelf and leaned against it.
“I’m back,” I offered, voice soft as a mouse.
“I noticed.” The marker squeaked, punctuating the syllables. He didn’t turn.
I stared at the board until the symbols blurred into a language I barely remembered. “What are you working on?”
He capped the marker without turning. His shoulders sagged.
“Path integrals for a massless scalar field.” He recited as if reading from a teleprompter.
“I’m attempting to model a scenario where the system’s symmetry spontaneously breaks under nontrivial boundary conditions, but the maths keep collapsing. ”
He’d lost me at “scalar.” I sat on the low-slung sofa. “Sounds intense.”
“Not really,” he said, tossing the marker.
It rolled off the desk and hit the floor with a light thud.
“It’s busywork. Theoretical escapism.” He turned, finally, and I saw the stress of the day etched in the circles under his eyes.
He looked at me, gaze sharp but unfocused, as if he were searching for the right point of entry.
I supplied it for him. “Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?”
He smiled, but it was bitter. “Since you’ve apparently decided my fate for me, I figured you’d tell me. If you’re so inclined, of course.”