Then a text appeared:
Tell your father to stop asking questions, or next time you won’t wake up.
The dean saw it too. His face went white.
I held up the phone. “Still want an internal review?”
By sunrise, two detectives were in Lily’s room. They asked questions she could not answer. Her jaw was wired, and her hand trembled as she tried to write.
At first, the letters came out broken. Then she managed one word: Wade.
The younger detective frowned. “Wade who?”
The dean’s eyes dropped to the floor. I saw it. So did the detectives.
I turned slowly. “You know that name.”
He swallowed. “Wade Carlisle is a senior. His father is chairman of the university board.”
The room went silent. Lily began crying without sound.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered. A man’s voice spoke calmly.
“Mr. Mercer, your daughter made a mistake accusing my son.”
I looked at Lily. Then at the detectives. Then at the dean.
“No,” I said. “Your son made a mistake leaving her alive.”
Part 3
Wade Carlisle’s father hung up before I could reply. The silence that followed in the small hospital room felt louder than a gunshot. The dean wouldn’t meet my eyes. The detectives exchanged a look of pure fatigue.
I knew that look. It was the look of men deciding how much paperwork it was worth to fight a battle against the rich and powerful.
I put my phone back in my pocket and sat beside Lily again. I took her hand. It was cold.
“Mr. Mercer,” the older detective said, his voice hesitant. “We need to be smart about this. The Carlisles… they have resources.”
“I have resources, too,” I said, not looking at him. “I have time. And I have nothing left to lose.”
Lily’s eyes, dull with pain and medication, locked onto mine. She tried to say something, her lips barely moving behind the wires.
“No, Dad.”
It was a whisper that shattered me. She wasn’t afraid of them. She was afraid for me.
The dean cleared his throat. “We can offer her protected status, Mr. Mercer. Online classes. A private room when she returns.”
I looked at him until he squirmed. He didn’t want justice. He wanted to maintain the university’s image.
“Get out,” I said softly.
He didn’t move.
“NOW,” I whispered, and the edge in my voice, the echo of another life I thought I’d buried, sent him scurrying from the room.
Lily didn’t sleep that night. I saw the flash of the nurses’ flashlights every few hours. I spent the time researching.
By 3:00 a.m., I found it. It wasn’t surveillance footage. It was better. A social media post from another student, taken at the edge of the science building that rainy Thursday night. A short video, intended to capture the rain, but in the background, a shadow. A tall man. And another figure, smaller, wearing a blue hoodie.
I didn’t recognize the man, but I didn’t need to. I saw the timestamp. It was exactly four minutes before Lily was found.
I also saw who had liked the post before it was removed minutes later. Wade Carlisle.
Two days later, Lily was released. The journey back to our small, quiet life in Illinois felt surreal. She slept in her own bed, her favorite Christmas hoodie washed and waiting. The house was too quiet.
The local police wouldn’t take the case, citing a lack of jurisdiction. The university police claimed the social media post was circumstantial. The Carlisles had locked down everything.
Lily spent her days staring at the television, her face slowly beginning to heal, but her eyes empty. It was worse than seeing her broken. It was seeing her spirit broken.
