"I have never had enough to do anything about it. Because having a belief and having a record are two different things."
"What would you need?" Reagan asked.
"A clear, documented pattern," Dr. Gale said. "Ideally, something current. Something where the influence can be demonstrated in real time, not reconstructed from old files."
Reagan thought about Shane's father. A state senator with a long reach into local things.
"What if the influence was being exerted right now?" Reagan said. "Against a current student. With a timeline that can be documented."
Dr. Gale looked at her steadily.
"Then," she said, "the old records would have context. And context is what turns a set of facts into a story."
She put her papers into her bag.
"Miss Holloway," she said. "What do you need from me?"
"I need you to be available," Reagan said. "Specifically, at a meeting with Dean Crawford. When the time comes."
"When will that be?"
"I don't know exactly. Soon."
Dr. Gale nodded once. The decisive nod of someone who has been waiting a long time to be asked.
"I have 19 years of board minutes, organized by academic year," she said. "I will have them ready."
She walked to the door.
"Thursday, Miss Holloway," she said. And for the first time, there was something warm in it. The phrase had become something between them. A small shared language.
"Thursday," Reagan said.
* * *
It happened on Friday morning.
Reagan had known it would be Friday. The week was running out, and the window was closing. If Shane needed a result before the regional competition, he was running out of days to produce one.
Reagan had been on the main walkway at her normal time, 8:55, between the end of her training and the beginning of her 9:00 class.
She'd been on this path at this time every day for three weeks. Reliable. Predictable. The thing you needed to be when you were setting up a situation rather than waiting for one.
Walter Briggs was on his bench. Newspaper, travel mug, canvas jacket.
He didn't look at her as she passed. She didn't look at him. But she'd confirmed he was there.
She was 30 meters past his bench when Trent appeared.
This time, he wasn't alone. He had two others with him. People she recognized from Shane's wider circle. Not the inner group, but the outer layer. The ones who participated when the situation was structured enough to feel safe.
This was the escalation she'd been expecting.
Trent stepped into her path. The two others flanked wide. Not aggressively, but deliberately. The geometry of pressure without overt threat. A technique she recognized, probably instinctive rather than trained. The human architecture of intimidation.
"We need to talk," Trent said.
His voice was different today. Less performance. More something else. Something that had been wound tighter and was looking for release.