46. Justin
JUSTIN
Scott-Evans is still hanging from the rafters.
Wrists bound above his head, shoulders trembling now—not from pain anymore, but from something closer to panic. The kind that settles in when the body realizes the lies have run out and the truth has nowhere left to hide.
A few feet away, Delaney slumps in a chair, zip-ties biting into his wrists.
Sweat darkens the fabric beneath his arms, soaks through the collar of his shirt.
His eyes keep flicking around the room, never landing anywhere for long, like a trapped animal still searching for a door that no longer exists.
We’ve already burned through the lies. Stripped them bare. Shattered them. What’s left is truth—and it’s ugly. Reluctant. Dragged out of them inch by inch, claw mark by claw mark.
Then Scott-Evans speaks. And the words come out wrong. They’re too fast and too sharp, and too tragic.
This one detail—this single fracture—splits open everything we thought we knew about the night Missy Hale died. We knew there was a third man. We were told who it was. His own father placed Daniel Stockton behind the wheel.
“It wasn’t Daniel,” Scott-Evans says again, hoarse, like repeating it might make it less real.
I stop moving. So does Titan.
“What?” I ask, the word barely audible.
Scott-Evans lifts his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his mouth twisting into something bitter and broken, like even now he can’t quite believe he’s saying it. “Daniel Stockton wasn’t even there that day.”
Delaney exhales—a thin, shaking breath. He doesn’t argue or try to deny it. He too, now looks somewhat relieved.
Something cold slides down my spine.
“Then who was?” Titan asks.
Scott-Evans laughs. It’s a harsh, fractured sound, scraped raw from his throat.
“His fucking father.”
The room tilts. And suddenly, nothing about that night feels settled anymore.
“The dean,” Scott-Evans continues.
His voice steadies now—stronger, clearer—because he’s crossed the point of no return. There’s a strange relief in it. Confession as surrender. As release.
“My uncle,” he says. “He was always there. Watching. Managing. Too much of a coward to get his hands dirty—but never too far away to pull the strings.”
I step closer, boots echoing softly against concrete. “You’re lying.”
Scott-Evans lifts his head and meets my stare without flinching. “I’ve hated that man every second of my miserable life. Long before this.”
Titan doesn’t raise his voice. “Explain.”
Scott-Evans swallows. His throat works like the words hurt on the way up. “He saw a weakness in me. In all of us. He knew exactly what we were. Thought he could use it.” His mouth tightens. “And he did.”
Delaney lets out a soft, humorless scoff. “He tried to hand us his kid like a sacrificial lamb.”
Scott-Evans nods. “Daniel was an academic. Smart. Clean. Better than us.” His lips curl in something like shame—or maybe resentment. “Too good for what we were doing.”
Titan’s jaw locks. “You beat the kid,” he says flatly. “Left him for dead.”
Scott-Evans barks a laugh—sharp, ugly. “Is that what his fucking father told you?”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“He’ll tell you anything,” Scott-Evans sneers, “if it means he gets to sleep at night. If it absolves him. If it lets him rewrite history so his hands stay clean.”
My fists curl at my sides.
“He kept pushing Daniel on us,” Scott-Evans continues. “Wanted him included. Wanted him dirtied. But I wouldn’t let it happen.” His voice drops. “I pushed the kid away every time.”
Delaney shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Daniel Stockton was the only redeeming thing Scott-Evans ever did,” he mutters. “Tried to keep him out of it.”
I stare at Scott-Evans. “Why would the dean push his own son toward men like you?”
Delaney answers before Scott-Evans can. He spits the words like they burn his tongue.
“For purely selfish reasons. The animal wanted to corrupt his own son.”
Scott-Evans nods grimly. “So when we didn’t comply… he could use Daniel instead.”
Titan’s eyes narrow, something dangerous sharpening behind them. “In what way?”
Delaney laughs—a hollow, broken sound. “Girls are more likely to get into a car with a young jock than a leery old man,” he says. “Father and son?” His shoulders sag. “Even safer.”
The words knock the air from my lungs.
“And that,” Scott-Evans whispers in a voice stripped bare, “is what brought everything to a head.”
He lifts his gaze, eyes burning now.
“Because Daniel figured it out. All of it. The girls. The cover-ups.” His voice cracks just slightly. “The dean’s involvement.”
And in that moment, the monster finally takes its true shape. Not the boys they were. Not even the men they’ve become, now hanging and bound in this room. But the father who built a system where his own son was expendable.
“Daniel was furious,” Delaney adds softly. “Disgusted.”
The word hangs there, almost delicate.
“So you killed him,” I say.
Scott-Evans spits at my feet. The saliva is streaked with blood, the gesture sharp with defiance. With something like pride twisted into survival.
“I may be a lot of things,” he snarls, voice rough and ruined, “and I’ve done more than my share of deplorable shit. But hurting Daniel Stockton wasn’t one of them.”
The room goes still.
Then Delaney speaks again, casual as if he’s commenting on the weather.
“Let me guess,” he says. “The dean fed you that whole story about his son going missing, didn’t he?”
No one answers.
Delaney’s smile comes slowly. Dark. Knowing.
“He killed his own son,” Delaney says. “Because Daniel was going to the police.”
The words don’t explode. They implode. And everything snaps into place with sickening clarity.
The lies. The alias that never existed. The hospital records that led nowhere. The frantic insistence. The desperation in the dean’s eyes.
And Rowan.
My blood turns to ice.
I don’t think—I move.
I pull my phone free and dial Silas.
“Justin,” he answers.
“I’m sending you the code to my apartment,” I snap. “Go there. Now. Check on the girls. Do not delay.”
A pause. Then, sharp and alert—“Why?”
“Because the dean isn’t covering for his son,” I say. “He’s his own son’s killer.”
Silence stretches.
“I’m on my way,” Silas says.
The call cuts off.
I turn back toward the room.
Back to Scott-Evans, suspended from the ceiling like a carcass unto the slaughter. Back to Delaney, shoulders slumped, eyes glued to the floor as if distance alone might absolve him.
I don’t raise my voice.
“If she’s hurt,” I promise them, every word measured, deliberate, final, “I will make sure this room becomes the last thing either of you ever see.”
Scott-Evans closes his eyes. And for the first time since we began, something cracks through the numbness. It’s not pain or defiance. But Fear. Raw. Unmistakable. And for once—I don’t blame him.