Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I don’t take the site down. I post the letter instead.
A scanned copy of Ralston’s threat.
I make it the home page—pinned to the top, front and center, with a note above it in bold, red font.
I wanted you all to see what I’m up against.
Legal threats. A letter demanding silence. A beloved scholar with power and a platform telling her former students, mentees, and victims that their stories don’t deserve to be told.
That her success means more than our pain.
Rest assured, I will not take this site down. I will fight for your stories—and mine—to be heard. I will face the consequences for all of us.
If you’ve been told your story could ruin someone’s career, ask yourself why they built that career on a foundation that required silence. Ask yourself what your silence gives them, what it costs you.
I’m in this fight until the end. I hope you’ll join me.
After that, I open a new email and attach all the evidence I’ve collected so far. It’s an insurance policy, and possibly a foolish one, but it’s all I have.
I send every piece of evidence I’ve collected so far, including my recording from earlier, to Professor Bell with a short message.
Someone else should have this. Just in case.
With that done, I leave my dorm and head to the showers, needing to clear my head. I know what’s coming, and despite my brave face, I don’t know if I’m ready.
By the time I return to the dorm, it’s already happening.
Ready or not, my latest message lit a match, and the internet is on fire. Notifications come in not only from the website, but from TikTok. Instagram. Threads. An academic meme account shared it with the caption:
Damn. Let the war of feminist icons begin, I guess.
The flames spread before my eyes. Hashtags. Screenshots. Reaction videos. Comments from people I’ve never met with a wide range of reactions.
Some are on my side.
Plagiarism is still plagiarism, no matter how powerful and well-loved the woman.
Wow. Imagine stealing a student’s work and then suing her for calling it out.
LISTEN LINDA. Lila Parks is brave AF. For real.
See, this is why I never liked Althea Ralston. Sketchy vibes, for sure.
If she has the proof, I say let her cook. We’re listening, Lila. We’ve got your back.
Damn, we need some attorneys to back our girl up. Where you at???
Other commenters make it feel like the ground is thrashing beneath me, even as I cling to it with bleeding fingers.
If she’s that smart, let her steal. Obviously, she made it better.
Sounds like jealousy to me. Dr. Ralston’s a genius. Deal with it.
All great thinkers borrow. There are whole books about it. You’re just mad because she did it well enough to get famous.
Honestly? Not my business. I still love her work.
Who is this girl anyway? How do we know any of this is true? Even if it is, I’m Team Ralston. Lady’s an icon who taught me to go after what I want. Love her.
Then there are the jokes. Memes. Side-by-side photos someone already managed to find of me crying during a speech I gave next to photos of Ralston holding a medallion from some award ceremony.
I’d let her steal my thesis and my man tbh.
Dude, I wrote this exact same thing on a Burger King napkin in 1997. Coincidence? I think not. Pay up, Parks.
Totally. Someone once told me Dr. Ralston orders the same Frappuccino as me. I always knew she stole the idea. COME ON.
Finally, someone said it. Check out Ralston’s newest book. Page 42. The word ‘the’? Yeah, I totally wrote that first. I’ll take my check now, thanks.
Your honor, we demand justice. And a Netflix documentary. Someone’s out for money. Haven’t you heard it’s 2025? We don’t tear women down here, babes.
Oooh, Lila P ’bout to release a diss track. “You stole my Story (sort of)” featuring DJ Defamation.
I bat back tears as I spot the next one. I should stop reading, put the phone down, but I can’t.
This is disgusting. She’s not even alleging abuse. There are women out here literally getting raped, and you’re complaining because someone took your quote? Give me a fucking break. She’s just mad she didn’t get famous from it all.
And there it is. The familiar ache. The sting of not being believed—not because you aren’t telling the truth, but because your truth isn’t something they value. And that’s what this world has always been, isn’t it? A war of values.
One side believes in money and names, legacy and power. The other side believes in truth and accountability, in rebuilding from the ash heap even if it’s painful. Especially when it’s painful.
And then there’s everyone in the middle. Scrolling.
I sit on my bed, watching it all unfold, new posts popping up every second. I almost feel sick over how badly this stings.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Visibility. Light. A magnifying glass hot enough to burn.
But nothing can prepare you for the moment it happens, even if it’s everything you’ve wished for. I wanted to bring her down, but I didn’t expect the noise it would take to do so. The likes and shares and vitriol. I didn’t realize I’d become carnage in the crash.
I never imagined people would say she earned the right to steal.
As if power negates the need for rules, rewrites them so they work in your favor. As if theft simply becomes legacy when it’s done with a recognizable name. When you smile just so and wear expensive heels.
I open my Havenport inbox again, now bombarded with criticism and death threats so loud they nearly drown all the rest of it out.
I scan the list for an email I’ve already read. Anything from this morning, when this inbox was still a safe place.
I just need to breathe. To focus.
I find one:
She took everything from me. And she made me thank her for it.
And another:
I sent her this draft (screenshot with date and time attached).
She never replied, and I was too embarrassed to follow up, thinking she hated it.
Three years later, I heard my words in her commencement speech at Princeton.
People cried. I left work early and threw up in the street. It felt impossible. I felt crazy.
Another:
I have no proof, I just wanted to say thank you anyway. For years now, I’ve just had the gut feeling that she knew what she’d done. That it was too big to be a coincidence. I can’t tell you how good it feels to know I was right. Bring her down. I’ll be cheering you on.
I close my inbox, trying to focus on those words, on the promise that what I’m doing is worth it for those words alone. This has grown into a storm too big for me to control, to shut off even if I wanted to, and I’m in the eye—no longer safe in any direction.
There’s no escape.
I can’t sleep, though I need to, so I scan my DMs. A large number are death threats, and worse.
A few are kind. Mostly, people just want to hear the gossip.
One stands out with its blue checkmark.
Hi there. I’m a reporter with The Chatter. I’ve been following your story, and I’d like to help. Let me know a good time for me to give you a call.
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. I’m not stupid. I know how these things go. The media doesn’t want nuance. They want a narrative. A clean character arc. A scandal, a heroine, and a villain. Or two women tearing each other down for clicks and likes.
Either way, that’s not what I have to give. There’s no hero or scandal. I’m only offering them a pattern, but I’m not sure they’ll care.
Still, I say yes. Because someone has to keep the fire burning, even as the wind from the storm tries to snuff it out. I have to act fast, move faster, if I want to stay ahead of whatever Ralston is planning.
No matter what happens from here, at least no girl in the future can claim she hasn’t been warned. If I accomplish nothing else, at least I have that.
I spend a bit of time researching attorneys and sending initial emails to see if they can help me. I’m no match against Ralston’s legal team, but I want to protect myself if I can. I have to be smart about this, less impulsive. Even if that’s never been my strong suit.
Before I try to sleep, I can’t stop myself from going back to the website. This time I don’t read any of the stories. If I do, I’ll get sucked into them again.
Instead, I add a new message to the home page, just under the image of her letter.
To the Dragon it Concerns:
No matter what you’re telling yourself right now, this isn’t just noise.
It’s evidence. You’re afraid, and you should be.
You don’t get to erase the women you stole from.
You don’t get to make us disappear. Despite your best efforts, we are still here, and no matter what you throw at us, we aren’t going anywhere.
Not until every scrap of truth has been revealed.
Sleep tight.
I hit the button to publish the post with a ball of fire in my chest. Then, I close my eyes and force myself to sleep.
Tomorrow, I’ll deal with the flames. Tonight, I let it burn.