4. Rowan
ROWAN
Istare at the ceiling like it can absolve me.
It doesn’t. Nothing ever will.
It’s not enough to maim him temporarily, make him feel what it means to be helpless. It could never be enough. A clean death is mercy, if you ask me, and William Scott-Evans has already been given enough mercy to corrupt a whole cathedral.
Ten years.
Ten years of air in his lungs. Ten years of sunlight. Ten years of laughter in rooms he didn’t deserve to enter. Ten years of a life that kept moving like nothing happened. Like the past was a story other people tell for attention.
While some of us learned how to survive in fragments. And some of us didn’t.
I came to St Augustine’s University for one reason and one reason only.
Revenge.
Not closure or healing. Because that can only come after my revenge.
I didn’t come for answers to questions no-one wanted to ask.
I came here because this is the alma mater of the men who took something from me that I won’t ever get back.
It’s the kind of theft that doesn’t leave bruises you can point to, only a hollow you learn to carry like an extension of one of your vital organs.
And I’m here to bury the past.
My revenge won’t be a moment. It will be an undoing.
The campus is awake now, and students are buzzing with the scandal of last night.
I hear their movements in the hallways—doors opening carefully, voices pitched too high, shoes squeaking against the linoleum flooring.
I imagine students moving in clumps, their eyes glued to their phones as they trade their version of what happened.
I hear their voices as they carry through the door. The rumor mill is well and truly alive.
He died.
They’re saying it was a drug overdose.
He was foaming at the mouth.
They’re saying the CIA poisoned him.
I don’t react. I don’t even blink when the word poison hits the air. I sit with my hands on my knees and breathe carefully. For me, it’s just another day.
There’s no way anyone can prove I had anything to do with what ended up in his system.
No way on this earth. Because I researched the hell out of chemicals until I found one that couldn’t be detected in the bloodstream once ingested.
My only regret is that I should’ve doubled the dose and ended it. Ended him.
Sound hums at the back of my skull, a low, satisfied purr that isn’t a voice so much as an urge. A vibration. A hunger.
See? it seems to say. They noticed. Someone finally paid attention.
I ignore the sound. I’ve learned to live with ghosts, enough that I don’t let them steer me.
My phone lights up again.
LOCKDOWN LIFTED. CLASSES RESUME AT 1PM. COUNSELING SERVICES AVAILABLE FOR THOSE AFFECTED.
Counseling. Huh.
I roll off the bed and cross to the sink. Wash my hands. Once. Twice. A third time. Not because they’re dirty. Because I need to feel like I’m in control of something.
When I’m done, I open my bag and take out the envelope.
It’s not fancy or dramatic. Just paper and ink that spells three names.
Two names. And a mystery.
I’ve already crossed one off with a slow, deliberate line.
William Scott-Evans felt my wrath. His body betrayed him in front of strangers.
He lost the one thing men like him believe they’re entitled to forever—composure.
He went down in a room full of witnesses and didn’t get to decide how it looked.
It’s a beginning.
I don’t want him beneath the earth. I want him above it, watching his world turn on him. Because a grave is too quiet. Too kind. Too final. I want the long version.
The version where he wakes up and checks his phone and sees his name crawling across screens. The version where his mother stops answering his calls. That same version where he walks into a room and feels the air change, where every door that used to swing open now sticks, then locks.
I want him alive for that. And not just him.
That’s the part people always misunderstand about revenge. They picture violence like it’s the whole meal. Like blood is the point. It isn’t. Blood is quick. Blood is easy, and it washes off. Legacy doesn’t.
St Augustine’s isn’t just a campus. It’s a breeding ground.
A greenhouse for the kind of men who inherit power like it’s a birthright and treat consequences like an optional elective.
They come here to get away with murder. They join the right clubs, shake the right hands, learn how to smile while they do damage. Then get away with it.
They build lives. They build bloodlines. And that’s what I’m here to poison. Not with a vial or chemicals. Not in a way that makes me sloppy.
I’m going to taint them the only way that lasts. I’m going to make sure their names curdle in people’s mouths.
I’ve spent two years gathering what I need. Two years of plotting and planning my revenge. Quietly. Alone. Because no-one could ever understand my need to expose the truth.
I’ve walked into libraries and asked sweet questions.
I’ve flirted with alumni assistants who love feeling important.
I’ve pretended to be dumb so men would explain things to me.
I’ve sat in diners at 2AM with a notebook and hands that never stop shaking, writing down every detail until my wrist cramps.
I have enough dirt to bury them six times over. But dirt is still too gentle. Dirt implies rest. I want destruction. I want an eternal stain. I want history rewritten with a black marker so thick it bleeds through the page.
I want their empires—family companies, political careers, foundations, scholarships with their names stitched onto them—to buckle. I want them to start losing what they take for granted: access. The power. The ability to move through the world without facing one damn consequence.
I want their children—if they have them someday—to carry a last name that makes teachers pause at roll call.
I want them to be remembered for generations as exactly what they are. Evil.
I pull on my hoodie and tuck my hair under it. I don’t need to look pretty. Pretty gets you killed. It gets you chosen. Pretty makes you a target in a room full of men who think the word “no” is foreplay.
I’d rather be invisible. Invisible is freedom.
I leave the dorm room with my bag slung across my shoulder and my posture loose, like I’m just another student going to class, annoyed about the lockdown.
The hallway smells like stale deodorant, causing me to almost gag.
Downstairs, the lobby is crowded with resident advisors and security guards pretending they’re doing something meaningful. A few camera crews linger at the edge of campus, blocked by security.
They want a story. Soon, they’ll get one.
I cut across the grass toward the administration building.
Because I want to watch. I need to know what’s happening at all times.
I stop beneath the oak at the edge of the quad, its branches thick enough to hide me from casual glances. From here, I can see everything without being seen. Students drift past, pretending this is just another afternoon. When we all know this is anything but.
A black car waits at the curb, its engine running. I see the driver through the window; he doesn’t look like campus security, even though his eyes dart back and forth across the quad like he’s guarding more than a vehicle.
The doors of the building open.
A man steps out first, buttoning his suit jacket with one hand. The movement is smooth, practiced. He’s done this a thousand times. He doesn’t look rushed. He doesn’t carry the same brittle panic etched across the dean’s face.
Dean Stockton spills out behind him, talking too fast, words tumbling over each other. His skin has that damp sheen men get when control is slipping through their fingers. He gestures as he speaks, like volume and action might fix whatever broke last night.
Trailing them is a line of men in suits, briefcases gripped tight. Advisory board, maybe. Crisis committee. The titles change, but the species doesn’t. They move as one, drawn by damage, clustering around it instinctively.
After what happened last night, the university is in crisis mode. You can feel it in the way they’ve all been summoned. When something goes wrong here, they multiply.
The man in the suit doesn’t slow. He barely acknowledges the dean at all. His attention drifts instead—to the quad, the walkways, the students crossing in loose clusters. His eyes don’t skim; they catalogue.
I feel it then. That prickle between my shoulders. The sense of being watched, preyed upon.
What are you looking for?
The man is young. Close enough to student age that he could blend in if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. There’s nothing tentative about him. No uncertainty. He wears authority like it was tailored into the fabric of his suit.
The dean keeps talking. Gesturing now. Pleading.
The man nods once, distracted. Hands slide into his pockets. He turns his head and says something—quiet, clipped, emotionless.
The dean stops mid-sentence.
His face darkens. Red climbs his neck. Anger flashes there, sharp and helpless.
Interesting.
The dean starts again, louder this time, words spilling out like he’s trying to regain control of the conversation. The man removes one hand from his pocket and lifts it.
Just that.
The dean falls silent.
The man turns, walks down the steps, and gets into the car without looking back. The door shuts. The engine pulls away from the curb, smooth and fast, gone before I can even blink.
The dean remains on the steps, huddled with the men in suits. They speak in tight circles for a few seconds, heads close, shoulders hunched. Then they scatter and melt back into the crowd, pretending they were never there.
Eventually, the dean straightens his jacket and goes back inside. Like nothing happened.
My grip tightens on my bag strap until my fingers ache. Anger settles low in my chest—hot, patient, familiar. I stay near the quad for a few more moments before I start to move.