“So we work outside the system,” Grady offers, a strategist’s fire burning through his composure. “Or we change it. But showing up at his door with a crowbar is not the answer.”
The metal in my hand grows heavier with each passing second.
“Em.” Jared touches the back of my hand over the handle. “You know we’re right.”
My fingers flex, then I lower the crowbar to my side. “What he did cannot stand.”
“It won’t.” Grady’s hand extends toward me, palm up. “But we need to be smarter than he expects.”
The cottage falls silent except for the persistent tap of rain on the windows and the soft crackle of the fireplace. The movie remains paused on the television screen, actors frozen mid-scene, their fictional drama rendered meaningless by the real crisis unfolding in my cottage.
With careful motions, I place the crowbar on the small table by the door. The metal connects with wood, a solid thunk that echoes in the quiet room.
Slowly, we return to where Leif sits, and I stop next to him.
My instincts demand that I mark, guard, and eliminate the threat.
“I won’t claim you to make you safe,” I tell him, steady despite the emotions churning beneath the surface. “If that’s what you came here for, you should know that’s not what I’m offering.”
Leif’s bandaged fingers tighten around the whiskey glass he still hasn’t touched. “I didn’t come for that.”
I pull out the chair across from him once more. “What did you come here for?”
Jared and Grady settle around us, present but allowing this conversation to unfold between Leif and me.
“I realized isolating myself is what he wanted,” he admits, setting down the ice pack to reveal the full extent of the damage. “I didn’t want to be alone anymore, but I don’t expect you to fix it for me.”
“I can’t fix it.” The honesty costs me everything. “No one can erase what he did. But we can ensure he never does it again, to you or anyone else.”
“How?” Leif asks, appearing lost.
“By bringing everything into the open.” My hands spread on the table, palms up. “This isn’t about rescue, Leif. It’s about witnesses. People who stand beside you while you tell your truth, who corroborate what can be corroborated, and who refuse to let your story be buried or twisted.”
His throat works as he swallows, wincing in pain. “You want me to report him.”
“I want you to decide if reporting is the right path,” I say, matter-of-factly. “But if you choose that path, I want you to have an army at your back.”
From the counter, Grady clears his throat. “Carson’s survived institutional reporting before. We need to understand why before we walk that road again.”
“And we need to document everything,” Jared adds, tight with controlled anger. “Starting with photographs of your injuries tonight, before they begin to heal.”
Leif’s eyes close, a tremor running through him, and when they open again, quiet shame and resignation fill them. “Where should I start?”
“At the beginning.” I rest my arms on the table. “Tell us everything.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Leif
The ice pack numbs my swollen cheek, but pain throbs beneath it, keeping time with my heartbeat.
Emily sits across from me, hands folded on the dining table between us. Jared shifts in the chair to my left, his arms crossed. Grady sits on my right, a notepad he pulled from his work bag resting untouched on the wooden surface.
No one speaks. No one needs to. The bruises on my face tell one story. Now it’s time to tell the rest.
“Carson’s pressure didn’t begin when he became the dean at Pinecrest Academy,” I say without preamble, the words slurring around my swollen lip. Outside, rain taps on the roof. “It resumed from Westbrook.”
The copper tang of blood lingers in my mouth despite the antiseptic Emily applied earlier.