The Hartwell family had given Harrove $2.4 million over the last decade. A new wing of the science building. A scholarship fund. The updated athletic facility, which included, among other things, Studio B.
Mia learned this not by investigating, but by paying attention. You picked it up. The way people said his name. The way certain complaints moved just far enough to evaporate.
Three students she spoke to in the first week, casually, without revealing why she was asking, had variations of the same story. Someone had reported something. It had gone nowhere. There was a general understanding that certain things went nowhere.
She was thinking about this on Monday morning, 7 days in, walking across the quad toward her sociology class, when she heard it. Raised voices, from the direction of the humanities building.
She didn't go looking for trouble. She genuinely didn't. She had told herself clearly, since Wednesday in the dining hall, that her job right now was to keep her head down and think, and not do anything until she understood what she was dealing with.
But the path to her class went past the humanities building. And the voices were in the corridor just inside the entrance. And the door was open. And she heard the words as she walked by.
She heard Reese's voice first. That easy, unhurried confidence. And then another voice. Older, more careful, trying to hold its ground.
She stopped just outside the door.
She should have kept walking. She knew that.
She stayed.
Through the doorway, in the corridor, she could see the back of Reese. And past him, facing her direction, was a man she didn't recognize. Mid-50s, gray at the temples, a jacket with a Harrove faculty pin on the lapel. He was holding a folder of papers against his chest like a shield. He was trying to look calm and not quite managing it.
"That grade stands," the man was saying. His voice was steady, but she could hear the effort it cost. "I grade on the work. That's how it works in my class."
"I'm just saying," Reese said, "that a D minus on that paper doesn't reflect the effort I put in."
"The paper was four pages when the minimum was eight. Two of those pages were repeated material."
"I've been busy with the competition prep. My father understands the pressures I'm under."
"Your father," the man said carefully, "doesn't set grades in my classroom."
A pause.