9. Rowan #2
She walks directly to our table. "I need an answer about the spirit program."
"I don't control the review." I keep my place in the ledger.
"You have access to Dean Danilov."
Harper looks up, and I close the ledger before Vanessa can read the page. "I have access to information related to my father's case. Erik recused himself from spirit and Callie's scholarship."
Vanessa's mouth pulls down. "You call him Erik now."
"Most people use first names after meeting more than once." I keep one hand on the closed ledger.
Her phone lights in her hand. She checks the screen, turns it facedown against her thigh, and steps back from the table before I can catch more than the first two words of the preview.
Got another.
Vanessa slips the phone into her bag. "Coach says nobody will tell us whether we're practicing this weekend."
"Compliance will answer Coach."
"You could ask him." Vanessa looks toward Evelyn's office before returning her attention to me.
"I could also ask the weather to reconsider Connecticut. Neither one makes it my decision." I reopen the ledger.
Vanessa doesn't leave. "You're getting special treatment whether you admit it or not."
"If I were getting special treatment, my sister wouldn't still be waiting on scholarship review." I turn another page, making it clear the conversation is over.
That ends the useful part of the exchange. Vanessa leaves with her phone still inside the bag, and Harper waits until she's out of hearing range before leaning toward me.
"Got another what?"
"I don't know." I look toward the doorway Vanessa just disappeared through.
"You saw it too."
"Two words aren't evidence." I return my attention to the ledger.
Harper gives me a pointed look. "I hate when you use my own arguments."
"It saves time." I push Aaron's notebook back toward her.
We work another hour before I leave for class. Richard Caldwell catches me in the corridor outside Fenwick just before noon, but instead of blocking the hallway, he falls into step beside me.
"Ms. Bennett, could I have a minute?"
"You've already taken one." I keep walking.
Richard gives me the patient expression administrators use when they want students to feel unreasonable. "I know you're angry about how your father's name entered the investigation."
"I'm past anger."
"I'm not sure the cameras would agree." He keeps pace beside me.
I stop near the stairwell. "You didn't come over here to critique my television performance."
"No." Richard lowers his voice as students pass us. "I came because you're building a legal career, and public accusations follow people long after the controversy that created them is forgotten."
"Is that concern for me or for Blackthorne?"
"For both." He doesn't pretend otherwise. "Your father deserves a fair review. You deserve to finish law school without becoming identified solely with a scandal."
I adjust the strap of my bag. "Then the fastest solution is clearing him."
Richard looks toward the clinic doors. "Or accepting that a full investigation takes time."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive." I wait for whatever warning he actually came to deliver.
He lets another group of students pass before continuing. "You're bright. Professor Grant speaks highly of you. I would hate to see you damage that future because grief makes restraint feel like betrayal."
There's enough kindness in the sentence to make the warning worse. I tell him I'll keep it in mind, which is apparently all he wanted, because he gives me a slight nod and continues toward administration.
I remain near the stairwell for another moment before heading to class. Dad spent years inside an institution where men could threaten a career while sounding concerned about it. I understand more about his silence every day.
By seven that evening, Callie is sitting on one of Erik's kitchen stools inspecting the underside of the island with the concentration she usually reserves for cheer mats and questionable wiring.
I set two takeout containers between us. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for cameras." She straightens and checks the ceiling next.
"There aren't cameras inside the living spaces."
Callie looks at me. "How do you know?"
"Because I asked." I open my takeout container and pass her a fork.
She gives the kitchen another look. The penthouse occupies the top floors of a building close enough to Manhattan that the skyline appears beyond the windows, but far enough outside the city to keep Erik within driving distance of Blackthorne.
Nothing in the room looks temporary except my backpack on the sofa.
Callie opens her food. "I expected more guns."
"They're in the safe."
Her fork stops halfway to her mouth. "You know where the safe is?"
"I have the code."
Callie lowers the fork. "He gave you the code to his safe?"
"Part of it. It uses biometrics too." I know where she's going and don't help her.
She takes another bite while considering me. "You yell at him."
"Frequently."
"He listens." Callie points her fork toward the hallway where Erik disappeared earlier.
"Eventually." I reach for my drink.
"No. He actually listens while you're yelling." She puts the fork down. "He hates what you're saying, then he changes things."
I glance toward the hallway. Erik is in his office with Makari. "You met him for twenty minutes."
"I've had nineteen years with you. I know what it looks like when you hit a wall." Callie nudges her carton away. "Dad never argued with anybody. He'd come home furious about something, then tell Mom it was handled. He didn't fight with people. He worked around them."
"He fought when it mattered."
Callie watches me. "Did he? Maybe he should have fought more." I don't answer, and her expression softens before she continues. "I'm not blaming him. I just think maybe listening when somebody tells you you're wrong matters."
"Erik isn't Dad." I close my carton even though I've barely touched half of it.
"I know." Callie reaches for her drink. "Dad was less annoying."
The laugh gets out before I can stop it, and Callie grins across the island.
"There. You needed that." She pulls her food back toward her and starts eating again.
After dinner, Makari takes her home with an operator she approved herself. I stand by the private elevator while Callie enters the code I gave her for guest access.
Before the doors close, she looks back at me. "I'm not saying date the scary dean."
"Excellent." I lean one shoulder against the wall.
"I'm saying you should notice when somebody changes something because you asked." Callie presses the lobby button, and the doors close before I can answer.
At ten-thirty, Erik comes out of his office carrying two folders and sets them on the kitchen island. "You're still working."
"So are you." I turn my laptop slightly away from the glare above the island.
"I didn't object."
"You thought about it." I know him well enough now to recognize the difference.
Erik takes the stool beside mine. "That isn't actionable."
I turn the laptop toward him. "Harper matched two of Aaron's notes to reversals made before Dad died. Aaron knew about the route while Dad was alive."
Erik opens the first folder. "Makari found another connection. Three vendor payments cluster around football recruitment weekends."
I take the page from him. "Which vendors?"
"Different ones." He pulls the second folder closer while I read.
That gets my attention. We spread the entries across the island and find equipment, donor-collective consulting, and facilities catering payments. They clear different departments and return through different accounts, but the dates refuse to scatter with everything else.
I pull up the three-year football schedule and set it beside the transfers. "September twenty-third, November eleventh, and January twentieth."
Erik checks the corresponding weekends. "Official visits."
I open the next year. "October seventh and December second."
"Both recruitment weekends." He slides the schedule closer and starts comparing the next set himself.
We work without speaking for several minutes. Every time a major football recruitment weekend appears on the calendar, money moves through at least one of the laundering channels within forty-eight hours.
I reach for the same page Erik does, and our fingers touch near the corner. Neither of us moves immediately.
The contact shouldn't matter after two nights in bed together, yet this is different. We're bent over paperwork at nearly two in the morning, sharing cold coffee and finding the same answer without either of us trying to control what happens next.
Erik looks at me.
I leave my hand where it is another second before sliding the page toward both of us. "You're blocking the date."
"You could move your hand." He doesn't move his either.
"You could move yours." I look pointedly at his fingers.
Erik finally shifts them, and I hate the small disappointment that follows.
I check the next scheduled recruitment weekend. "Saturday."
He moves closer to read the calendar over my shoulder. "There's a donor reception attached to it."
I open the university event page. The reception starts at seven in the Danilov Foundation hall, with boosters, recruits, athletics staff, and selected student representatives. A guest list is attached.
I scroll through the names until one stops me.
Tyler Garcia.
Erik reads over my shoulder, and I turn enough to catch his reaction. "You aren't allowed to throw him out because he asked me to dinner."
"I know." His expression suggests knowing and liking it are unrelated.
"You answered too quickly."
"I'm being civilized." Erik pulls the donor list closer instead of arguing about Tyler.
I return to the names. Saturday is four days away, and every laundering route we've found has moved money around football recruitment weekends for three years.
This time, we'll be in the room when it happens.