How are things with Julian, by the way? Her face went white. Julian and I aren't. We're not. Not what?
Not sleeping together anymore? Not planning your future together? What happened, Elise? Did the great Dr. Hughes lose interest once you were available?
Shut up. Or maybe his wife found out. That would be awkward. Messy divorce proceedings, custody battles, academic scandal. The kind of thing that might make a man want to distance himself from his former student.
I said, "Shut up. How's Tanya? Still your best friend? Still covering for you when you disappear for those long lunch meetings? " Alisa's hands were shaking now. You don't know what you're talking about.
I know that 3 years ago you had everything you thought you wanted. A PhD, a lover, a bright academic future, and now you're standing in my apartment accusing me of arson because your life fell apart, and you need someone to blame. She gathered up the scattered papers with trembling hands. This isn't over, Nathan. Yes, it is.
It's been over for 3 years. You ended it, remember, at your party. She walked to the door, then turned back. The police will want to talk to you. I'm sure they will.
I'll be happy to cooperate. My lawyer will be there, of course. Your lawyer. I smiled. 3 years is a long time, Elise.
I've learned a few things about protecting myself. After she left, I called Mark. He still taught at the university and could give me the real story about what had happened to Elise's career. Nathan. Mark's voice was warm with genuine pleasure.
How the hell are you? I've been better. Elise just paid me a visit. Elise, what did she want? To accuse me of burning down her house.
Mark was quiet for a moment. Her house burned down two weeks ago. She thinks I did it. That's insane. You're in Iowa.
I know that and you know that, but apparently the police are asking questions about people with grudges against her. Mark sighed. Nathan, there's something you should know about Alisa's career. What about it? It's been a disaster.
The dissertation defense was just the beginning. She got the PhD, but she's never been able to replicate that level of work. Her research proposals are rejected. Her publications are mediocre. And word has gotten around that she's not as brilliant as everyone thought.
And Julian dropped her like a hot potato 6 months after your divorce was finalized. Turns out he was hedging his bets with several graduate students. When his wife found out and filed for divorce, he threw a lease under the bus to save his job. I felt a grim satisfaction. So she's alone.
Worse than alone. She's become a cautionary tale. The golden girl who couldn't deliver on her promise. "Mark," I said slowly. "I need to ask you something and I need you to be completely honest. " "Shoot, how much of her dissertation did I actually write? " Mark was quiet for a long time.
"Nathan, I know I helped with the writing, but thinking back on it, how much was really mine? " "Most of it," Mark said quietly. The research was hers. The ideas were hers. But the actual writing, the structure, the analysis, that was you. Could she prove that?
What do you mean? I mean, if someone were to question the authorship of her dissertation, could she prove she wrote it herself? I don't think so. Why? I stared out my window at the quiet street below.
Because I think Dr. Elise Mercer is about to learn the difference between earning something and taking credit for it. Nathan, what are you planning? Nothing illegal, nothing unethical, just educational. After I hung up, I sat in my chair for a long time, thinking Elise had built her entire identity on that PhD, on the idea that she was brilliant and accomplished.
But what if she had to defend that work again? What if she had to prove in front of her peers that she actually understood what she'd written? It would be like asking someone to perform surgery after watching Grey's Anatomy. I opened my laptop and began typing an email to Mark. It was time for Dr.
Elise Mercer to face her first real academic challenge, and this time she'd have to do it without a ghostriter. The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Mark, as a senior faculty member, would propose a special symposium on recent PhD dissertations in the psychology department, a chance for new doctors to present their work to the broader academic community, defend their methodologies, and engage with critics. It was the kind of event that looked good in university newsletters and gave administrators something to brag about to donors. Dean Wexler approved it immediately.
The university is committed to academic excellence, Wexler proclaimed in his announcement email. This symposium will showcase the caliber of research our graduate programs produce. Elise couldn't refuse to participate without looking like she had something to hide. And if she did participate, well, that's when things would get interesting. I drove back to my old university town for the first time in 3 years.
The campus looked exactly the same. Red brick buildings, manicured lawns, students hurrying between classes with that particular mixture of anxiety and arrogance that marked the academically ambitious. The symposium was held in the main auditorium, a grand space with tiered seating and excellent acoustics, perfect for what I had planned. I arrived early and took a seat in the back, wearing a baseball cap and glasses I didn't need. Not much of a disguise, but enough to avoid immediate recognition.
The auditorium filled slowly with faculty, graduate students, and a few undergraduates looking for extra credit. Mark had done his job well. The event was packed. Elise was the third presenter. She looked nervous as she approached the podium, clutching her notes like a lifeline.
She wore a conservative navy suit and had her hair pulled back in a severe bun, the uniform of someone trying to project authority they didn't feel. Good afternoon, she began, her voice slightly shaky. I'm Dr. Elise Mercer, and I'm here to discuss my dissertation research on cognitive behavioral patterns in academic achievement motivation. She launched into her presentation, reading directly from her notes.