“Understood,” I said. Erik probably wouldn’t have agreed to “off the record.” But what choice did I have?

We sat in silence for a minute as Price clicked through various screens on his computer. “Ah, here it is. VW,” he said finally. “Voluntary withdraw. That doesn’t tell you much, I’m afraid; it could be for personal reasons, socioeconomic, almost anything. But it does mean that Ms. Gowan would be welcome back at Ridgedale University anytime. She wasn’t asked to depart for academic or behavioral reasons.”

“And is there any record of her filing any complaints against another student?” I asked.

“Not here,” Price said. “But there wouldn’t be. This is solely her academic record. Complaints like that are handled confidentially. The security office would have those records, not that they should be disclosing them.”

I waited for him to ask why I wanted to know. He didn’t. Instead, he looked down at his watch. “And now, unfortunately, our time is up. I assure you, I’d much rather stay and chat with you, but the president is expecting me.” He held my stare again, long enough that I felt another little twinge. He was . . . well, not quite flirting—noticing me. Price smiled almost bashfully, as though he knew I’d noticed his noticing. “Feel free to send an email with more questions.”

Respectful, too. Not come see me again. Because that would be inappropriate. He knew I was married.

“I definitely will. Thank you,” I said as he showed me out.

“Good,” he said. When he shook my hand, he held it for an extra second. “And send my best to Justin. The three of us should get together. I used to live in the city, too. We could reminisce.”

When I came out, Deckler was waiting for me in the hall.

“The director of Campus Safety will see you now,” he said, as if we’d had a whole conversation about my wanting that very thing. “Ben LaForde. His office is right there.”

“Meet with me about what?”

Deckler was blocking my way, pointing to an office a few doors down from Price’s. I did need to speak to LaForde. Still, I had the distinct impression that I was being sent to the principal’s office.

“You had questions about campus crime reporting. He’s the one who should answer those. He’s waiting for you.”

Indeed, Ben LaForde seemed to be. He jumped right up when I peeked in his open door. A small man in his sixties with a thick head of salt-and-a-little-pepper hair and a trim matching mustache, he made his way over with an outstretched hand. He had a decidedly unfancy way about him.

“You must be Ms. Sanderson,” LaForde said. “Come, have a seat. Deckler said you had some questions for me?”

“I just wanted to confirm the university’s procedure when there’s a crime on campus, particularly how these crimes are reported to the local police.”

I braced myself for a defensive “Why?” or “What are you suggesting?” But LaForde’s face remained relaxed.

“When the victim comes to us?” he asked, as though he wanted to be sure he’d gotten the question right so he could be as helpful as possible. “Because they can go directly to the police if they want. That’s always their right. They’ll come to us if they want the incident reported as a disciplinary violation in addition to or instead of a crime. Students are entitled to confidentiality, however. We report the crime to the police as a courtesy, but we don’t disclose the students involved. In the case of a sexual assault, no such disclosure would be made at all unless a student requested it.”

“‘As a courtesy’ sounds as though it isn’t legally required.”

“It’s not mandated, but we do typically let the Ridgedale Police know about crimes on campus in real time. Can I promise that it happens with every single missing-iPhone report that later turns out not to be a theft? No, and I’m sure the local police wouldn’t want that.” The procedure sounded a lot more vague than he was making it out to be. “There are federal reporting requirements as well. Some things are so serious that we also handle them as a disciplinary violation even if they were only reported to the police. And in some circumstances, the police are going to get involved regardless of what we do—like this situation with the baby. Confidentiality, though, is always critical. Students need to feel protected.”

Especially the guilty ones, I wanted to add, but didn’t.

“There was another death on that same part of campus years ago, is that right?” I asked instead. It was too early to be getting that aggressive no matter how much I would have liked to. “A high school student?”

He shook his head. “It was a real tragedy. An accident, not a murder, just to be clear, but a terrible coincidence nonetheless. A shame for the boy’s parents if that gets dragged back up.”

“Did campus police participate in the investigation?”

He nodded. “Teenagers drinking. It’s always a recipe for disaster.” He paused, then reached behind him and picked up a pamphlet, slid it across the desk toward me. “If you want to know more about our procedures, they’re all set out in the university charter, which is a matter of public record. Not sure you want to comb through all that. This booklet here is what we give to students; it’ll probably tell you everything you need. But the two-minute version is that there is an involved procedure—an investigation, a hearing before a panel, a verdict—we call it a finding. Finding has to be by majority.”

“Who’s on the panel?”

“Five people appointed by the dean of students. Two professors, one administrator—which would be me at the moment—and two students. We’ve all gone through extensive screening and sensitivity training. The students change every year. The professors do five-year stints. Right now that’s Miles Cooper, who’s an English professor, and Maggie Capitol, biology. They’re both at the end of their five-year tenure. The dean of students presides.”

“And who investigates complaints?”

“Campus Safety officers.”

“Like Deckler?”

“Yes.” LaForde’s face tightened at the mention of Deckler. “Among others. There are ten officers on staff, plus supervisors. It’s all in the pamphlet.”

“Did a student named Rose Gowan ever make a complaint of any kind?”

“Does this have something to do with the baby?”

Lie. This time there was no question in my mind. “No,” I said firmly. “It doesn’t.”

“Oh.” He frowned and looked confused, but also concerned. “Regardless, Ms. Sanderson, I can’t comment on a specific student’s complaints. I’d like to be helpful, but my hands are tied. Confidentiality, I’m sure you understand. The only thing I’d be able to respond to would be a subpoena. And you’d know better than me, but I’m not sure they’re in the business of giving those out to reporters.”

When I came out of LaForde’s office, I caught a glimpse of Deckler, some distance down the hall. He was just standing there, staring in my direction, like he was waiting to see me again. I waved when he kept on staring, then darted for the door, hoping I could avoid him. I didn’t slow down until I was walking through the front gates of the university.

On the sidewalk, I pulled out my phone to check how much time I had before I needed to pick up Ella. A small scrap of paper fluttered to the ground—Justin’s note. I’d forgotten to read it after feeling it in my coat pocket when I was in Steve’s office. I knelt to pick it up, and sure enough, there was Justin’s jagged script.

In order that two imperfect souls might touch perfection. E. M. Forster

I smoothed my fingers over the words, feeling the grooves Justin’s pen had left in the paper. He must have slipped it into my pocket that morning before I left the house, or maybe the night before. Did he wonder why I hadn’t mentioned it at the Black Cat? Did he think I’d read it and not cared? I wouldn’t have said that I needed one of Justin’s notes right then, but it suddenly felt like the only reason I was breathing.