Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 27095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
The other man drinks his drink while shaking his head with clear admiration. “And the point of this is…?”
“Holt gets his ass fired!” Gerald snaps. “Tenure won’t save him when they find out he’s been fucking a student in his office. His position should have been mine from the beginning. But he’s this bigtime surgeon who all the girls love—his jaw, his arms, that brooding arrogance…”
His voice trails off, and I just stare at him. Is this really happening? Even his friend is giving him an odd look.
As I stand there in the hallway, Gerald’s words ringing in my ears, something happens inside me. The sadness that’s been twisting inside me for three days rises and turns into something else completely.
Rage.
If I was a guy, I might storm over there and punch him square in the nose. God that would feel good. But I’m not a guy. In fact, I’m pretty good at controlling my anger.
No. I’ll get him. But it will be another way.
I turn around and stride back to the table just as Becca’s sitting down with two fresh drinks. “We’re leaving.”
“What? I just got us—”
“Becca,” I say firmly. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Something in my face stops her from protesting. She knows me well enough to see when I’m determined, so she simply grabs her jacket and follows me out.
Dean Clemens’ office has Saturday hours. I only know this because I checked before I even came to school here, back when I was going through my methodical process that I apply to everything: study schedules, grocery lists, anatomy diagrams…
I step into the office with my notebook.
The dean is a woman in her early fifties with reading glasses and the look of a person who has survived many years of academia and is jaded but still knows how to get the job done. She gestures to a chair in front of her desk.
“Miss…Monroe?” she asks. I nod anxiously. “What is it I can do for you?”
“I am here to file a complaint against Professor Gerald Belcher,” I say, clearing my throat. My heart is racing, but I am determined.
“A complaint?”
“Yes. Fabricating accusations, harassment, and conduct unbecoming of a member of the faculty.”
Her eyebrows raise, and she leans in, elbows on her desk, almost like she’s been waiting for someone to bring this to her for a long time.
“Go on.”
I’m on the edge of bursting as I lay it all out for her. From Gerald approaching me on the quad and his insinuations to the harmless photograph that he reframed as evidence of August’s ‘pattern.’ I tell her about the conversation at the bar where he admitted it all—all because he wants August’s position.
I do not tell her about our private tutoring sessions.
“Interesting,” she replies, leaning back in her chair. “And do you have documentation?”
I open my notebook and show her the entries documenting my encounters with Belcher. The things he said, the way he looked at me. I’ve got it all, dated and underlined.
She reads it for a long time. I’m practically jumping out of my seat. Do something! Let’s go get this bastard!
But will it be enough? I should have recorded his conversation. I should have taken a picture of him at least. But I was too shocked by what I’d heard. I could barely even walk.
Finally, she looks up and hands me back my notebook. “Miss Monroe, this is not enough evidence on its own for me to take action against Professor Belcher.” My heart sinks. I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a finger. “However, you are not the first girl at this school to raise similar…concerns.”
My heart leaps. Yes! This is it!
“Therefore, I will be opening an investigation into Professor Belcher’s behavior.”
I let out a deep sigh. It’s like a massive weight has been lifted off my back. “Thank you, Dean. I—I can’t thank you enough.”
Her eyes twinkle as she nods back at me. Does she know about me and August?
I have no proof. But there’s something about the way she’s looking at me that makes me certain she does.
“Is there anything else?”
“No,” I say, closing my notebook and holding it to my chest. “That’s all. Thank you so much.”
I get up and walk out of her office and into the Saturday sunlight that seems brighter than ever before. I stand on the steps and breathe in the warm, crisp air.
It tastes different than it did three days ago. Everything feels suddenly sweeter. More intense. More alive.
I am more alive.
I take out my phone and stare at the unread texts from August. Why did I doubt him? Why did I ignore him?
“You’re such an idiot, Jessie.”
I hover my thumb over his name to call but catch myself. Then I type two words back:
I’m coming, Daddy. I’m coming.
EPILOGUE
AUGUST
Five years later…
There are eleven notebooks lining the shelf above my desk in our home office now. They’re arranged chronologically, each one filled cover to cover with green ink.