On the fourth day, a quiet Sunday evening when the security office was mostly empty, Dileia let her sit at the terminal for exactly 6 minutes, just long enough to pull up the relevant clip and save a copy to a small personal drive Norah had brought specifically for that purpose.
The footage was grainy, distant, shot from an angle that showed the locker room door, but not the interior. It showed a figure entering during the empty window, staying just under 4 minutes, then leaving. The face was not clearly visible, not at this resolution, not without better equipment than Norah currently had access to. But it was something. It was proof that someone had been in that locker room during the exact window Joe's bag had been tampered with. Someone who was very clearly not scheduled to be there. Someone whose build, even in the grainy footage, did not match anyone on the volleyball or cheer roster.
Nora did not show it to Joe right away. She did not want to raise hope over something incomplete, something that might not hold up to real scrutiny yet. She saved the file in three separate places. The personal drive, a folder on her laptop, and for good measure, a backup loaded quietly to her university email account, the way her mother had taught her to always protect a source before you ever thought about using it. She had a feeling, sitting there in the empty security office with the small drive warm in her palm, that she was holding something that would matter a great deal. Very soon, she was right.
By the following Monday, Joe's suspension had escalated. What began as a routine review by Coach Marsh's department had through channels neither Joe nor Coach Marsh fully understood, been pushed upward to the dean of students office. Preston Sterling had made two phone calls that weekend. Calls he would later describe, if ever asked, as simply checking in on his son's well-being during a stressful week. Both calls happened to land on the desk of Dean Harold Ingram, a careful, cautious administrator who had learned over many years at Asheford that certain names on the phone required a certain kind of attention.
Dean Ingram called Joe into his office on Tuesday afternoon. He was not unkind exactly, but he was formal, careful with his words in the particular way of a man protecting more than one interest at once. "Miss Callaway," he said, gesturing for her to sit. "I want to be clear that nothing has been decided yet, but given the seriousness of the allegation and given some additional concerns that have been raised about your conduct this semester, the university feels it's necessary to move this to a formal hearing."
"What additional concerns?" Joe asked evenly.
Dean Ingram glanced briefly at a folder on his desk before answering, and Joe noticed, though she said nothing, that the folder looked thin, thinner than a semester's worth of real concerns should look. "There have been some questions raised about the accuracy of information on your financial aid application," he said. "I want to stress that this is simply part of a routine review process."
Joe felt something cold settle in her stomach, recognizing immediately the rumor she had refused to dignify with a response earlier, apparently now dressed up in official language and given a seat at the table. "That information is accurate," she said. "My father's death benefits and my survivor's pension are public record. You're welcome to verify them."
"We intend to," Dean Ingram said, "as I said. Routine."
"When is the hearing?" Joe asked.
Dean Ingram checked a calendar on his desk. "Friday, 6:00 in the evening. The boardroom in the administration building." He paused, studying her for a moment, something almost apologetic crossing his face, though he did not let it linger. "I'd encourage you to bring anything you feel is relevant to your case. Character references, documentation, anything that might help clarify the situation."
Joe nodded once, the same careful, controlled nod she had given Coach Marsh weeks earlier. The nod that revealed nothing of the storm settling underneath it. "I'll be there," she said.
She rose to leave, and had nearly reached the door when Dean Ingram spoke again, quieter this time, almost as though the words had escaped him before he could decide whether to say them. "For what it's worth, Miss Callaway," he said. "I've read your file, your grades, your record from before you arrived here. None of it looks like someone who needs to cut corners." He hesitated, glancing briefly toward his own desk phone, the one that had carried two calls that weekend from a name he did not particularly enjoy hearing. "I hope Friday clears things up. I truly do."
It was not much. It was not an apology and it was not protection, but it was honest in a building where honesty had grown thin over the past 2 weeks. And Joe carried it with her out into the hallway, filing it away alongside everything else she was learning to notice.
She walked out of that office with 4 days standing between her and a hearing that could end her time at Asheford before it had really begun. A hearing built on a lie planted by someone who had never once had to face real consequences for anything in his life. She did not go back to her dorm right away. She walked instead toward the football field where afternoon practice was already underway. Players running drills under Coach Reyes's watchful eye. Whistles cutting through the September air.
She found Grant near the sideline, toweling sweat from his neck, laughing at something Wade had said. He noticed her approaching before Wade did, and something in his posture shifted. A flicker of surprise quickly smoothed over into his usual easy smile.
"Ohio," he said. "Didn't expect to see you here."
Joe stopped a few feet away, close enough to be heard clearly, far enough to make clear she had not come to shout. "Paige has bruises on her arm," she said. "From your friend."
Grant's smile faltered just slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do," Joe said, her voice level unhurried. "I don't have proof yet, but I will."
"Is that a threat?" Wade said, stepping closer, some of his earlier smugness curdling into something harder.