Page 35 of I’ll Find You

That gets everyone’s attention. “Ezra sent it to me,” I say, looking at Rose. She nods. Recollection of that day comes flying back, and it makes me angry all over again for her. “Here, you can watch it.” The dean looks to Maxwell and his father, Dr. Somersworth. The father’s eyes narrow, but Maxwell’s are wide, and he looks a little paler.

The video plays. Maxwell’s voice fills the room. His words are sharp, ugly, and nothing like the version of him sitting there so smugly, playing the victim now. By the time it ends, the change in the room is obvious. Maxwell exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, but there's strain in the movement now.

“That was taken out of context,” he says. No one buys it. He changes tactics. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he adds, looking at Rose. “I was frustrated.”

Frustrated. As if that makes it any better. “And there’s more to this,” his father cuts in, leaning forward. “My son has been receiving messages from this woman.” He says it with disdain.

I look over at Rose, not believing this for a second, and the look on her face tells me that she is just as confused.

The focus turns back to Maxwell.

“Notes,” he says quietly. “Left for me. They told me where to go... where to find Rose.”

Rose straightens beside me. “What?” she chokes out.

“I thought it was a coincidence at first,” he continues, his eyes fixed on her. “But it kept happening. Every note led me somewhere you'd be, and after a while...” He swallows hard. “I thought you were doing it on purpose. Punishing me for cheating on you.” Shame flickers across his face before he forces himself to continue. “The way you found Lucinda and me... I thought this was your way of getting back at me.”

Only then does Dr. Somersworth lean forward.

“They led him all over campus,” he says. “Public places. Off-campus. The last time was at Margaritas.”

My gaze drifts to Rose. She hasn't moved, but I can feel the realization settling between us. The word carved into her car rises unbidden.

SLUT.

The same poison Maxwell hurled at her outside the library. The same restaurant. The same night. It isn't coincidence anymore. Piece by piece, they're handing us the truth without even realizing it.

“I was told to meet her there,” Maxwell says. “And when I got there...” His voice trails off.

“You were there,” his father finishes. “With two men.” The implication hits hard, and Rose flinches at the verbal punch.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say, sharper now.

“It establishes a pattern,” he says smoothly.

“No,” I counter, my voice lower now. “It establishes coincidence.”

The dean leans back slightly in his leather chair. “And given the nature of these messages,” he says, “we do have to consider the possibility that this was intentional.”

Intentional. As if she's orchestrating it.

“I didn’t write or send anything,” Rose says, her voice stronger now. “I don’t even know what he’s talking about.” Maxwell watches her a little too closely for my liking.

“I’m not saying you did.” His eyes find mine, narrowing in accusation. “I’m just saying that it keeps leading back to you.”

“That doesn’t make it true,” I snap. “I didn’t send anything either.”

His father cuts in. “My son’s grades have suffered,” his father says. “He’s distracted. Not himself.”

“And you think that’s her fault?” I ask. Shaking my head at the gall of this guy. His arrogance is stifling, and it’s no wonder his son has a sense of entitlement because of him.

“I think someone has been playing games,” he replies. His eyes settle on her again. The blame is obvious. “And whether intentional or not, she’s at the center of it.”

The dean nods slowly. “If this situation is impacting another student’s well-being and academic performance, we have to take that seriously.”

The tension in the room thickens. Rose doesn't say anything, but the accusation hangs over her, becoming something she can't prove she didn't do. That's the problem. Someone orchestrated this. Someone has been manipulating people, pulling invisible strings. It isn't Rose, but they're determined to make her carry the blame. I force myself to exhale slowly and think for a second. Then it hits me.

“And while we’re talking about patterns,” I say, calmer now, but my words still carrying a punch, “maybe we should talk about something else that happened.”