Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Twice last night, I seriously contemplated going home. Packing up and returning to my life. My mom. My apartment. My work. The novel I’m writing is still there, waiting for me to finish it, but my brain can’t focus on anything else.
For years I have tried to drown it out with everything I could think of.
Working my way up a corporate ladder just to leap off when I realized it made me feel nothing, writing story after story just to get rejection after rejection, one failed relationship after the next, food, Netflix, obsessive exercise, excessive wine.
You name it, I’ve tried it. And not until I stepped back onto this campus have I felt so alive. Like I have purpose again.
And that purpose is to make Althea Ralston pay, no matter the cost.
Day by day, I’m being erased from the mind of one of two people who love me in the world. One of two people who are supposed to care if something happens to me.
When Dad is fully gone, Mom will be all that’s left to remember me. And someday, she’ll be gone too. The woman I used to be wanted to leave a legacy, wanted people to remember her. Ralston almost let me forget that, almost took it away.
I won’t let her erase me for everyone else—or for myself.
That’s what I keep telling myself as I walk past the pop-up bookstore selling signed copies of Ralston’s books and the usually empty hallway wall that’s been made into a Ralston Memory Wall and covered in photographs and written notes.
The alumni luncheon is held in the faculty library.
I’ve never been here before, but it’s no shock it’s as beautiful as it is old—set apart from the student library by the old, leather-bound books, arched ceilings, and oil paintings.
The scent of dust overpowers even the smell of the food being kept warm in silver basins.
Mimosas and glasses of wine are being distributed as I walk in alone, the soft hum of voices filling the quiet space.
My name tag—Lila Parks, Class of 2010—feels like a costume, as if I’ve borrowed some version of myself that no longer fits. I both love and hate the girl I was, pity and regret her.
I scan the room for a familiar face, though I don’t know if even familiar faces would want to talk to me at this point. Either way, it’s all strangers in tailored purple outfits and glittering jewelry, laughing as they reminisce and show off their new lives.
I wonder if even one of them feels as out of place as I do.
I hover near the buffet, placing a few random cheeses I can’t name on my plate with a handful of grapes.
My mind is racing—doing that weird thing where my inner thoughts become rushed and loud, like I’m panicking and yelling, though I conceal it well.
I never remember how to turn that off when it happens.
“She’s still magnetic, isn’t she?” one woman says near the fireplace.
“Oh, completely,” another says with a hushed tone, like they’re sharing sacred secrets. “I saw her speak in Berlin. She got a standing ovation just for sitting down.”
The women laugh.
Slowly, I inch closer.
A man approaches them, making brief eye contact with me, and I pretend to be examining a grape on my plate before I pop it into my mouth.
“She taught me everything I know about the patriarchy,” he says.
“Without her I’d still be writing poetry about how my ex hurt my feelings rather than trying to change minds. Fix things.”
The women nod their approval.
I clear my throat, taking a sip of my wine. “Sorry to eavesdrop. You all studied under Ralston?”
They turn to face me at once, all polished and attractive. They glance at my name tag.
“Class of ’04, for me. Life-changing stuff,” the man says. His name tag tells me he’s Paul Denver. “Her class was kind of a goof-off one for me at first, one that I took just to fill a space in my schedule. It led to me changing my entire major, though.”
“She changed everything for me, too,” one of the women says, her eyes bright. Her name tag introduces her as Kennedy Martin, Class of 2001. “The way she merged her lessons with real-world applications? None of the other professors were doing that. I still use her strategies in my curriculum.”
“You teach?”
“Not at Havenport,” Kennedy says, her smile faltering. “A community college back home.”
“She’s excellent,” the second woman—Erica Slater, Class of 2001—says, patting her arm. “Also a real world-changer. Like Professor Ralston.”
“What about you? Did she change your life, too?” Paul asks me.
“Oh. She’s definitely…influential,” is all I can muster.
There’s a pause while they wait for me to praise her. To sing the cult song.
“The truth is, we didn’t really get along back then,” I admit, watching their faces for any sort of understanding. Of relief that I’m speaking their truth.
But their faces don’t change. Instead, something in the air shifts. Just slightly. Unnoticeable unless you’re looking.
“Didn’t get along?” Paul repeats, as if he might’ve misheard me.
“She was my mentor for a while.” I pick at a piece of cheese, dropping it into my mouth and chewing slowly to give myself time to think.
“But it wasn’t a good fit.” I can’t look at them as I say the next part.
“Powerful figures—people like Ralston—sometimes they get…insulated, you know? Students don’t always feel safe speaking out about what they experience. ”
The first woman, Kennedy, sets down her mimosa glass a little too hard. “What exactly are you trying to say? She, what, assaulted you or something? Please. People are always crying wolf about that stuff.”
The blood drains from my face. “Of course not. I just mean I saw parts of her I didn’t like. Parts that weren’t so honest.”
Now the silence in the room is very real. Even people who aren’t part of our conversation have paused theirs to listen.
Kennedy takes a step toward me. She’s tall, probably five foot nine or five foot ten, and towers over me. “Professor Ralston pushed us because she believed in us. All of us. That’s what great professors do. They don’t coddle. They don’t care about your feelings.”
I swallow, my heart racing in my chest. “I…I’m not talking about coddling. I never—”
Erica moves in closer too, her fingers running across the string of pearls on her neck. “Are you the student who tried to file a complaint against her?” She eyes my name tag. “Hmm, 2010…that was around that time, wasn’t it?”
I go still. How would they know about that? They were long gone by then.
Kennedy nods. “She mentioned it in one of her books. I remember. Said one of her students misinterpreted mentorship for manipulation. Said it was sad, because it made her second-guess working so closely with students in the future. One bad apple ruined it for everyone.”
Erica agrees. “She called it nonsense, called you nonsense. Said you were petty and childish. And here you are, proving her right.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “It’s not nonsense. I’m not lying. You don’t even know what happened back—”
Kennedy shakes her head, cutting me off. “You’re young. You don’t understand legacy yet. Or gratitude. You don’t know what a gift she gave you, what some of us would’ve done to get the same.” She sneers at me. “You’re ungrateful.”
Paul is quick to agree. “Honestly, it’s pathetic. What did you think was going to happen? She works so hard to get no thanks and then you come here and try to ruin the one week where she’s getting properly honored. The week she earned.”
I can’t get a word in before Erica adds, “Your generation is all the same. She made you, fought for you, let you stand on her shoulders, and now you’re too busy biting the hand to take a minute and realize what you owe her. What we all owe her.”
I open my mouth to argue, but no words come. What would I even say?
“People like Professor Ralston don’t come around twice. To even be breathing the same air as she does—consider yourself lucky,” Kennedy says.
I set down my plate, then my drink. Without another word, I leave before I cry in front of them or embarrass myself further. I shove past the buffet, hearing their soft laughter echoing through the corridor as I disappear down it.
The door slams behind me.
Outside, my heels click too loudly against the brick path as I walk back to my dorm. The air is cold and still, too quiet.
They were never going to listen. I don’t know why I thought any differently. I don’t know why I keep expecting—hoping for—a different outcome.
It was always going to be Ralston versus me.
Everyone else here came to drink, reminisce, and bask in Ralston’s glow. I’m a virus on the campus, unwelcome and barely tolerated. At least, for now.
Soon, I will be cut out completely.
She said it was sad. That’s what they said. That’s what Ralston said about me, among other things. She tried to use me as a reason she might not work closely with students in the future. She tried to turn the world against me without even giving them my name.
The anger sits in my throat, hot and sharp as bile.
When I reach Addison Hall, I climb the stairs two at a time.
It’s quiet now. Most people are out at some event or another.
I think, aside from the alumni luncheon, there was a guided walking tour around the city of some of Ralston’s favorite spots, places that have been mentioned in her books and on her podcast. The café where she arranged a sit-in to support breastfeeding mothers.
The building where she drew a crowd to prevent the city from painting over a mural that has been here for years.
The bookstore she saved from ruin with a book signing and a donation.
The door to my dorm creaks as I push it open and flip on the light.
Something’s off.
The feeling is strong, impossible to ignore. I stand, frozen in place, scanning the room. My bed’s untouched, notebook still resting on my desk. Nothing looks broken. My small pile of makeup is still on the nightstand, though the handheld mirror has fallen to the floor.
I do a double-take, my heart stopping when my gaze washes over the nightstand again.
No.
No. No. No. No. No.
My laptop’s gone.
My chest tightens. The charger’s there, curled on the floor like a snake, but the laptop is missing. It was on the nightstand this morning, next to my makeup. I’m sure of it.
I dart across the room, checking under my pillow and blanket, in the laptop sleeve. Under the mattress even. It’s not on the desk. Not on the floor. There’s nowhere else.
It’s just…gone.
My heart pounds so hard I feel as if I’m going to be sick.
Cool sweat gathers at the nape of my neck.
My head spins. The room spins. The fan clicks rhythmically above me, grinding my nerves.
I check under the blanket again, then under the bed.
I lift the mattress again because logic is unraveling, and the impossible is the only solution.
I check the hall, the pillowcase. I check outside the window, like it might’ve opened the glass pane and leaped out.
It’s just…gone.
The room spins, my breathing loud in my ears. Everything was on there. My stories. The document drafts.
My cloud has some things backed up, but not everything because I’m always avoiding buying more storage.
It’s all gone.
The novel I’m working on.
The poetry I’ve written over the years.
And—no. The folder marked AR—TRUTH. The one I’d just started constructing. The screenshots and drafts comparing Ralston’s work to mine. The beginnings of my written statement.
Some stupid part of me really believed I was going to win this, that I was going to get some big reveal eventually.
I sink down on the bed, my hands shaking.
The truth is right there, undeniable. Someone was in my room.
Someone stole everything I had. Months ago, it wouldn’t have mattered so much.
It was password protected until Dad started forgetting.
I couldn’t stand to watch another time while he struggled to open my laptop, to show me something funny he’d seen—something he’d probably already shown me—during a visit.
Removing the password felt like the kindest thing to do, so I took away the reminder that he’s slipping away.
I force myself to think, to breathe. React with power and strategy, not emotion.
There were no signs of forced entry. My purse is still in the drawer, wallet too. My headphones are still here.
Nothing is missing except for the laptop. But, of course, nothing else matters except for the laptop either.
Stay calm.
Calm. It feels like the word belongs to another language. It feels impossible.
Who would do this? Dani? She seems like the most logical answer. She knew I had proof on my laptop. She would’ve had a lot to gain from shutting me up, especially in Ralston’s eyes.
Regardless of who physically stole my laptop, I know Ralston’s behind it.
I put my head in my hands, the silence and the loss weighing on me.
The message is clear, and I misread it at the art show. She’s done arguing with me. She’s going to erase me, just like she did before.