Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Grady
The front door opens, and Leif steps inside, snow melting off his shoulders and his face ashen except for the bruising.
I push myself up from the couch, closing my laptop as Emily and Jared turn toward the sound.
Leif slides his phone from his pocket and extends it toward me, his hand shaking. “I got it.”
I take the phone, our fingers brushing, and his skin is icy cold. “How are you doing?”
“It was fine.” Leif’s eyes drop to the floor, but rise again with visible effort. “He didn’t suspect anything. Just…talked.”
Emily crosses the room in three long strides, stopping short of touching him. “Are you okay?”
Leif’s throat works as he swallows. “I will be. But I need...” His hands rise, fingers rubbing his palms as if trying to scrub something away. “Would it be all right if I used your shower?”
“Of course,” Emily says, concern deepening the furrow in her brow. “You don’t need to ask.”
Jared steps forward. “I’ll grab you some clean clothes. Mine might be a bit long in the sleeves, but they’ll do.”
“Thanks,” Leif murmurs, already moving toward the hallway, his steps too measured to be natural.
When the bathroom door shuts and the water starts running, Emily turns to me, dropping to a whisper. “Do you think Carson hurt him again?”
I look down at Leif’s phone in my hand. “I don’t know. But he’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
Emily’s jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath her skin. “If that bastard laid a hand on him again...”
“Leif is strong,” I remind her, though my own stomach twists with concern. “Stronger than any of us realized, I think.”
Jared comes back with a folded stack of clothes in his arms. He pauses, catching the tension in the air. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing confirmed, but I’ll find out once I listen to this.” I lift the phone, then hesitate. “I think someone needs to reach out to Blake before this article goes live. The Wrights deserve to at least know the storm that’s about to hit.”
Emily nods. “I’ll speak to Leif when he comes back out. They made a big donation to the school, so they’ll want their lawyers to be on standby for any backlash this might bring.”
“Thank you. I’m going to start processing the recording.” My hand tightens around the phone. “Thanks for letting me use the office.”
“Anything you need.” Emily turns toward the kitchen. “I’ll make tea.”
I retreat to the small office at the back of the cottage, closing the door behind me. Emily had cleared a spot at her desk, pushing aside stacks of material invoices, contractor estimates, and blueprint revisions so I could work undisturbed. The gesture touches me as I settle into the chair.
I plug Leif’s phone into my laptop and start the file transfer, grateful not to be at the dining table where their anxious pacing would interrupt my focus.
While the audio copies, I open my existing documentation on Carson. The folder has grown thick over the past weeks, organized by school district and date, with cross-references to witness statements and official complaints.
What started as sending out my feelers based on a hunch has become a prosecutorial brief, each document a brick in the wall I’m building around Carson Whitaker.
The audio file completes its transfer, and I disconnect Leif’s phone, setting it aside. My cursor hovers over the play button, bracing for what comes next before I click.
Carson’s voice fills the small office, smooth and controlled at first. I listen as he circles Leif, each statement calculated to establish dominance without overt threats. My fingers tighten on the desk edge as the conversation unfolds, Carson’s tone shifting from professional to possessive.
Then his words turn explicit, the threat to Quinn’s accommodations laid bare without pretense. My stomach clenches as Carson describes how he’ll use his position to isolate Leif professionally if he doesn’t submit personally.
Leif: “So my relationship with you affects Quinn’s accommodations?”
Carson: “Your position provides the advocacy, and my recommendation ensures you keep the position.”
I pause the recording, bile rising in my throat. Carson’s casual cruelty cuts deeper than shouting ever could. I force myself to breathe through my nose, counting to four before resuming playback.
The conversation only gets more disgusting until…
Carson: “You were always meant to end up under me, Leif. You simply took a longer route than was necessary to understanding it.”
I slam the laptop shut so hard that the desk shakes. Heat rushes up my neck as I push back from the desk. My right leg protests as I stand too quickly, sending a familiar bolt of pain up to my hip.
I grab my cane from where it leans on the desk and make a halting circuit of the small office, my free hand clenching and unclenching at my side, knuckles white around the cane’s handle.
After a minute of controlled breathing, I sit back at the desk and reopen the laptop. The recording continues where I left off, Carson’s parting threats about Quinn’s review registering through the roaring in my ears.
When the file ends, silence fills the room. I start the transcription software, watching as Carson’s words appear on the screen in neat black text that belies their poison.
While the program works, I open the article I’ve been drafting.
The pieces slot together now, the recording providing the keystone, which transforms suspicion into evidence.
This isn’t only about Leif anymore. It’s about every teacher Carson has manipulated, every system that protected him, and every institution that moved him along rather than addressing his behavior.
My fingers move across the keyboard with increasing urgency, embedding links to supporting documents, cross-referencing statements from former colleagues at Westbrook, where Carson had used similar language.
The story takes shape not as an accusation but as a pattern, each incident reinforcing the next until denial becomes impossible.
For years, Carson controlled the narrative, dictating who was credible, who was unstable, and who deserved protection.
That story is gone now.
While writing the article, I deliberated over where to publish it, weighing options against consequences. Internal channels could bury the story, and law enforcement might delay action while investigating.
Instead, I choose a public education platform with reach and credibility, one where administrative pressure can’t silence it.
The finished piece sits on my screen, awaiting only the audio file to make it undeniable. I embed the recording with a timestamp index for readers to jump to key moments of coercion. Carson becomes his own prosecutor, his carefully constructed reputation dismantled by his own words.
A knock at the office door pulls me from the screen. Leif stands in the doorway, hair damp from his shower, Jared’s borrowed clothes hanging loosely on his frame. Cleaned of the makeup, the bruising is more visible now.
“How are you holding up?” I ask, gesturing to the sofa beside the desk.
Leif sits, his movements careful. “Better. Did you listen to it?”
“Yes,” I say, turning the screen so he can see the article. “I’ve prepared everything. It’s ready to publish, but only if you’re certain.”
He scans the screen, taking in the headline and the opening paragraph. I expect hesitation or fear from him, but find only resolve.
“Do you want to read it first?” I ask.
“No, I trust you. And I want this over with.” His spine straightens. “Publish it.”
My hand hovers over the trackpad, not from doubt but from understanding what comes next.
With a deep breath, I click, and the piece goes live, a digital pebble dropped into waters that will soon ripple outward.
“It’s done,” I say, closing the laptop.
Leif exhales, shoulders dropping. “Now what?”
I push myself up from the chair, leaning on my cane as my right leg throbs in protest. “Now we wait.” I gesture toward the door with my free hand. “And try to think about something else for a while.”
In the living room, Emily and Jared have laid out a simple lunch of sandwiches. Their heads lift when we enter, questions written across the faces.
“It’s published,” I tell them, settling onto the couch.
“Eat.” Emily passes me a plate. “Everything else can wait.”
As I accept it, my phone chimes from my pocket, the first notification already arriving. I silence it without checking who it’s from. It will only be the first of many.
Over the next few hours, my phone keeps going off with alerts. Emily confiscated Leif’s cell when reporters started tracking down his number.
As my phone goes off again, Leif flinches from his spot on the couch, his fingers tightening around the mug of tea Emily pressed into his hands an hour ago.
I pull it out and tap the side button to activate silent mode. “Sorry.” I slide it back into my pocket. “It’s getting a bit much.”
“It’s okay,” Leif says without looking up.
He barely touched his sandwich, but he kept sipping the tea, and Emily kept refilling his cup with a worried frown she tried to hide. Mixie curls next to him, purring almost nonstop.
“Any word from the board yet?” Emily asks from where she now perches in the window seat.
I shake my head. “No, but they’ve seen it. The superintendent’s assistant called to confirm receipt of my email.”
Jared comes out of the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea, having taken over the duty once Emily settled down. “That’s a start, at least.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket again, but doesn’t stop this time, indicating a call rather than a message. I check the screen and excuse myself to the hallway.
“Grady Finch,” I answer.
“Mr. Finch, this is Amanda Reeves from the Chronicle.” The woman’s voice is brisk. “We’re running a follow-up piece on your article about Dean Whitaker. Would you be available for comment?”
I lean against the wall, watching as Jared sits beside Leif, their shoulders almost touching. “I stand by everything in the piece. The audio speaks for itself.”