Because what was he going to say? She'd done nothing. There was nothing to point to. Eight witnesses had just seen her walk normally down a path while a bigger guy stumbled.
She turned the corner toward the cafeteria.
Her heart was running faster than usual. She felt it, acknowledged it, let it settle.
She got her lunch, found her usual table by the window. She ate, and she thought: That was the test run. He'll be back. Next time, it'll be more direct.
* * *
It was Delia who solved the problem Reagan hadn't known how to solve.
That same afternoon, Delia came back from a study session at the library looking thoughtful.
"That old man," she said, dropping her bag. "The one with the newspaper."
Reagan looked up. "What about him?"
"I asked the librarian who he was. Because I've been curious since week one, and today I actually asked."
Delia sat down.
"His name is Walter Briggs. He's 72. He was the county sheriff for 22 years. Retired in 2018."
Reagan was very still.
"He sits on that bench every morning," Delia continued, "because his wife has a 10:00 pottery class in the arts building right there, and he drives her and then waits. Has done it for two years. The librarian says he's there every single weekday."
Reagan thought about the bench. The angle of it. The sight line to the main path between Whitmore Hall and the cafeteria.
"That bench," she said slowly. "Can he see the main path from there?"
Delia looked at her. "Reagan, what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking," Reagan said, "that a retired county sheriff with 22 years of law enforcement experience, who sits in that spot every single weekday morning, is probably very good at noticing when something on that path doesn't look right."
Delia stared at her.
"Did something happen this morning?" she asked. "On the path?"
"Yeah."
"What happened?"
"Nothing I can prove." Reagan paused. "Yet."
Delia looked at her for a long moment.
Then she said, "Do you want me to go introduce myself to him?"
Reagan thought about it.
"Not yet," she said. "But it's good to know he's there."
She took out her notebook. She wrote down: Walter Briggs. Retired sheriff, 22 years. Bench, east entrance, every weekday morning. Wife, pottery, arts building, 10:00 a.m.
She underlined his name.
Then she wrote: Trent will try again. Public. He needs witnesses. So do I.
* * *
On Wednesday of the third week, Trent tried again.
This time, it was the gymnasium entrance. Late afternoon, when the after-class rush was coming through.
Reagan had physical conditioning, a class requirement for athletic scholarship students, that ended at 4:15. Which put her in the hallway outside the gym with a crowd.
Trent was waiting by the equipment room door.
Ford was there too, which Reagan registered and filed.
The hallway was full. Maybe 30 students moving through.