41. Justin
JUSTIN
Dean Stockton sits behind his desk, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles have drained of color. He looks smaller than he did before, like the room has finally outgrown him.
Shame hangs off him in a way that’s impossible to miss—but it isn’t remorse. It’s exposure. The kind that comes when a lifetime of carefully managed half-truths collapses all at once, leaving nothing left to hide behind.
He’s promised transparency now. Cooperation. Accountability. It’s too little, too late, but at least it will put things to rest.
Scott-Evans is his nephew. Family. And now that the truth is out in the open, I understand what’s really written across the dean’s face.
It isn’t grief or fear, but resignation and relief.
Relief that the most dangerous secret he carried is no longer alive to unravel him. Relief that he no longer has to make the same choice over and over again—between protecting blood and doing what was right.
The burden didn’t lift because justice was served. It lifted because the threat was brought out into the open.
“You’ve been circling this long enough,” I tell him, pointed. “It’s time you tell your truth.”
The dean recoils, because it was him. It’s always been him. He didn’t commit the crimes himself. But his silence made them possible.
He harbored monsters long after he knew exactly what they were.
Protected them. Enabled them. And as I watch him now—small behind that desk, stripped of authority and illusions—I understand something with brutal clarity.
Evil doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it sits comfortably in an office, convinces itself it’s maintaining order, and calls silence a kindness.
And that, just like everything Scott-Evans ever did, is unforgivable.
“Start at the beginning.”
When Titan speaks, there’s no room for debate.
He doesn’t need to raise his voice. There is no authority within Goliath more unsettling than him, and the dean knows it.
I can see it in the way his eyes lift to meet Titan’s, then falter.
His gaze flicks between us, searching for an entry point, a version of the truth that might still protect him. And realising there isn’t one.
He finally begins with a restless shift in his chair, his body jerking upright, steeling himself to deliver the confession he can no longer avoid.
“He was always wrong,” the dean murmurs in a low voice. “From a very young age. He would do things—things no child should do.” He swallows. “He strangled the family cat. Boiled their exotic bird.”
The words sit heavy in the air.
“I begged my sister to get him help,” he continues.
“Proper help. But she was convinced he’d grow out of it.
If I’m honest, I think his father had more influence over that decision.
He refused to accept the possibility that his son was…
damaged. He didn’t want the stigma of a sociopathic child.
Everything was dismissed as boys being boys. ”
The dean shifts in his chair, uncomfortable but committed.
“It escalated as he got older. He got into fights. There were incidents where the allegations never quite stuck. Every single one of those incidents, lawyers were involved, and hefty settlements. Anything to maintain the illusion of the perfect family, the perfect son.” His mouth twists.
“The generous contributions to the institutions he attended were not out of goodwill, but an insurance policy.”
He exhales slowly.
“They weren’t protecting him from consequences. They were teaching him there wouldn’t be any.”
“No one tried to intervene?” I ask.
The dean exhales slowly, like stale air has been sitting in his lungs for years. “Anyone who tried was shut down. Myself included.”
He hesitates, then continues. “My son, Daniel, was the same age. They were similar in some ways—intelligent, observant—but that’s where the resemblance ended.
One of them was light. The other…” He trails off, then shakes his head.
“It was decided—by his parents—that Daniel might have a stabilizing influence on William. That if they spent time together, some of it might rub off.”
“And you agreed to that?” I ask.
“I didn’t,” he admits. “But my wife felt sorry for William. She thought isolation would only make things worse. She guilted me into allowing it, on occasion.”
My jaw tightens. “They were together in the summer of 2016.”
The dean’s mouth presses into a thin line. He squeezes his eyes shut, the motion sharp, almost pained, as if the memory itself is physical.
“That was the day everything changed.” He’s quiet, thoughtful as he speaks. “For all of us.”
Titan doesn’t let the silence linger. “Go on,” he urges, voice calm, unyielding.
And the dean opens his eyes, staring straight ahead, as though steadying himself for what comes next.
WRITTEN CONFESSION - “UNKNOWN” (DANIEL STOCKTON)
We were driving down a dirt road toward the festival grounds. There were miles of nothing. One house every hundred feet, if that.
There were two girls walking along the side of the road.
Marcus started yelling at them. Laughing, cajoling. Calling out things that made my body tremble with fear. William leaned forward and told me to slow down. Then to stop.
I told him no. I said they were kids and we should just keep driving. I reminded him the festival was ahead and this was a bad idea; we should just leave them alone.
William slammed his fist into the back of my seat and screamed at me to stop the car.
Marcus was already reaching for the door.
I pulled over, heart pounding, and told them I’d leave them there. I told them I’d drive off and strand them in the middle of nowhere if they got out, hoping they wouldn’t.
I thought it would scare them, that it would be enough to make them rethink their choices.
It wasn’t.
They threw the doors open and got out anyway. Didn’t even bother closing them.
I stayed behind the wheel, frozen, watching through the rearview mirror as they approached the girls.
One of the girls ran straight into the fields before they could get to her..
I hit the gas.
I peeled away, gravel flying, engine screaming. I wanted them to see me leaving. I wanted them to chase the car instead. I wanted it to be enough to stop them.
It wasn’t.
I saw Marcus sprint after the girl who ran.
I saw William grab the other one and drag her off the road and into the field like she weighed nothing.
I drove home shaking so badly I nearly crashed. I told my father everything the moment I walked through the door. He was furious—at me, at them, at my mother. He said he never wanted me with them in the first place.
My mother told him it would be handled.
Swept away.
That made him angrier than I’ve ever seen him.
When we learned what had been done to the girls, I told my father I was going to the police. I didn’t care what it cost me. I didn’t care about my future. I said what happened mattered more than anything else.
I confronted William and Marcus myself. Told them they had to turn themselves in. Told them it was the only right thing left to do.
William laughed.
It was high-pitched. It sounded sharp, wrong.
He told me I was already complicit. That no one would believe I wasn’t involved. That I’d driven the car, that I’d been there, that I’d left the scene.
Then he told me he and Marcus would say I did it.
That I was the one who dragged her into the field.
The story disappeared from the news. Quietly. Buried. I could see William’s parents’ fingerprints everywhere—lawyers, donations, pressure. Trying to erase what couldn’t be erased.
I gave the sheriff everything I had. Every detail. Every little bit of information he could use to conduct his investigation. He, like me, was flaming mad at what had happened to the girls. He was the only one who kept pushing, even when the walls closed in around him.
William killed him.
I don’t have proof. But William told me—smiling, calm—that he could do to me what he’d done to the sheriff if I didn’t learn to stay quiet.
I understood exactly what that meant.
Months passed. The guilt became unbearable. It ate at me every day. I told William I was done. That I would turn myself in and name him and Marcus as co-conspirators. That I would accept whatever punishment came.
He told me he would kill me.
That’s why I’m writing this. So that if anything happens to me, there is a record. A truth that can’t be buried with money or threats.
William Scott-Evans is a monster. And he has admitted to me—more than once—that he is responsible for the deaths of the following people:
Lili Beth Mondo
Missy Hale
Sheriff Reginald Morris
Tatum Newsom
This is my true and honest confession. And I am done being silent.
Signed this 19th day of September, 2016.
Daniel Stockton
“One day, Daniel called me from the hospital,” the dean starts again.
His voice falters on his son’s name. He shifts in his chair, fingers tightening where they’re laced together on the desk, knuckles blanching before he forces them to relax.
“Things had finally reached a breaking point with his cousin,” he continues. “William assaulted him. Beat him badly.” He swallows, throat working as though the words are sticking. “He drove Daniel out into the forest and dumped him there, leaving him for dead.”
The room feels smaller as he speaks.
“But Daniel wasn’t,” the dean’s voice cracks despite his effort to keep it steady. “Despite his massive injuries, he crawled toward the main road. A hiker found him—by chance—and got him to a hospital before he bled out.”
He exhales heavily then, a long, ragged breath, and tips his head back to stare at the ceiling.
For a moment, he looks like a man holding himself together by sheer force of will.
Guilt sits on him openly now—layered with regret, with hindsight, with the knowledge that every choice he made afterward came too late.
“I knew then,” he mutters quietly. “I knew William wouldn’t stop. Not ever.”
He lowers his gaze again, and when he speaks, his voice is resigned. Like someone recounting a plan that once felt necessary and now feels unforgivable.
“So I made arrangements. I bought Daniel a new identity. I sent him to Australia—far enough away that William couldn’t reach him.” His mouth twists. “The next day, I filed a missing person report. Played my part. Sold the illusion that Daniel was missing.”
His hands tremble slightly now. He presses them flat against the desk, grounding himself.
“It’s been difficult. For years. Every day. To stop myself from wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing.”
His fingers come together as he speaks, palms closing on empty air—an unconscious reenactment of the violence he’d imagined too many times. For a moment, it’s easy to picture William there instead, helpless beneath his grip.
“William never outright admitted what he’d done to Daniel, but he hinted it. He told me, in his own way, that if I ever told anyone what happened that Summer in 2016… the same thing would happen to Delilah.”
He finally looks at me then, his eyes sharp, defensive. “That is why I stayed silent. Not for money. Not for protection,” his voice rises just a fraction. “It wasn’t some payoff, like you think.” Then he looks away again, shoulders slumping. “It was to protect my daughter.”
His voice drops to almost nothing. “You have no idea what he’s capable of. None. When William collapsed that night—when he was poisoned—I wasn’t afraid for him.”
His lips press together, jaw tightening.
“I was afraid he’d survive,” he admits. “Afraid he’d come looking for me. For Delilah.” He shakes his head once, hollow and defeated. “I wasn’t thinking rationally. I wasn’t thinking about justice. I was only thinking about keeping my child alive.”
He falls silent after that. And in the quiet that follows, it’s impossible to ignore the truth hanging in the air: fear didn’t just silence him. It ruled him.
I give a short nod.
Titan turns first. I follow. The scrape of the chairs is loud in the quiet that’s settled over the office, a reminder that the conversation is finished whether anyone is ready for that or not. The room feels contained now, boxed in by what’s been said.
We reach the door.
Titan’s hand is on the handle when he stops.
He turns back, slow and deliberate, his attention fixing on the dean.
“One more thing,” he asks. “Your son.”
I see the reaction immediately. The dean stiffens—not enough to draw attention if you aren’t looking for it, but enough to register.
“The name on his new identity,” Titan continues. “What is it?”
The pause stretches. The dean doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts, unfocused, like he’s weighing the consequences in real time. When he looks back, there’s something different in his eyes. Calculation. Concern.
“Why do you ask?”
Titan doesn’t shift. “Curiosity,” he replies.
The dean exhales sharply. He straightens, then falters, his fingers tightening against the desk.
“You have no right—”
I don’t interrupt. This isn’t my question to manage.
The dean swallows. Once. Then again.
“Thomas Harding.”
I register the name and nothing else. Titan nods once, as if it confirms something he already suspected. He opens the door and steps out. I follow without speaking.