Story code: ST-000910
Part 3: The Live Feed
The “fraternity house” wasn’t a dilapidated brick colonial with red cups littering the lawn. It was the Zenith, a hyper-modern luxury high-rise where the fraternity’s wealthiest legacy members leased penthouses. My wet boots left dull, gray smudges on the immaculate Carrara marble of the lobby as the concierge directed me to the private elevator. By the time the brushed-steel doors slid open on the thirty-second floor, the bone-deep chill of the parking lot had been entirely replaced by a suffocating, manufactured tropical heat.
Carter was waiting for me at the end of the hallway. He had traded his designer parka for a pair of cashmere sweatpants and a dark t-shirt. He was holding a heavy crystal glass of amber liquid, looking utterly bored.
“Eleven thirty-eight, Professor,” he said, checking a silver watch that cost more than my student loans. “You’re cutting it dangerously close. Come in.”
I stepped into the condo. The entire far wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a sweeping, glittering panorama of the Boston skyline. I walked straight to the massive black-granite kitchen island, unzipping my coat with shaking hands. I pulled out my grading tablet and set it on the stone surface. Then, I pulled my phone from my pocket and placed it face-down right next to the tablet.
“What’s with the phone?” Carter asked, taking a slow sip of his scotch as he leaned against the opposite side of the island.
“The faculty portal requires a dual-factor authentication code via text message to modify transcripts this late in the term,” I lied, my voice trembling naturally. “I need it active to approve the login.”
“Fascinating,” he murmured, waving a hand. “Do whatever you have to do. Just get the ‘A’ on the screen before midnight.”
I opened the tablet, staring at the blank login screen. I didn’t type anything. “Before I do this, Carter, I need absolute assurance that this is the end of it. If I risk my career to change this grade, you destroy the photos of my mother’s forged documents. You give me back her apron.”
Carter sighed, rolling his eyes as if I were a child asking a tedious question. “I’m a man of my word, Elena. You fix my macroeconomics grade, and I forget I ever saw your mother scrubbing pots in the basement.”
“Say it clearly,” I demanded, forcing a desperate, panicked edge into my tone. “I need to hear you state exactly what you are doing. I need to know you won’t report my undocumented mother to federal immigration just because I’m changing your failing score.”
He laughed, a sharp, cruel sound in the cavernous penthouse. “Fine. Yes. I, Carter Van Der Waal, promise not to call ICE on Maria Rossi and have her deported in exchange for my ‘A’. Are you happy? Stop stalling and type.”
I didn’t touch the screen. Instead, I reached into the deep pocket of my wool coat and pulled out the thick stack of documents I had printed in the supply closet. I slid the first packet across the slick granite. It bumped gently against the base of his scotch glass.
Carter frowned, looking down. “What is this?”
“Section four, paragraph two of the university’s code of conduct regarding felony extortion and blackmail,” I read aloud, my trembling completely vanishing. “And right beneath it, the state statutes for breaking and entering. Cutting a padlock in a university employee locker room isn’t an academic violation, Carter. It’s a crime.”
He scoffed, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “You think you can afford a lawyer to prove I cut a lock? You have fifteen minutes left, Professor. You’re wasting your own time.”
“I couldn’t change your grade even if I wanted to,” I said softly. “The system blocked the override. It requires the Department Chair’s dual authorization for a jump from an F to an A. You’re getting the failing grade. But I wouldn’t touch your phone to call the tip line just yet.”
I slid the second printed document across the island.
“Because I found out where you got your plagiarized essay,” I said. “You didn’t buy it online. You lifted it directly from the university’s secure internal servers. The software flagged a ninety-eight percent match with an unpublished document. The author was Julianne Foster.”
For the first time all night, Carter froze. The smug, relaxed slope of his shoulders instantly went rigid.
“Julianne was the graduate TA who vanished from the department last semester,” I continued, keeping my voice dead level. “She left because she filed a massive Title IX harassment grievance against you and your fraternity brothers. A grievance your father, as a trustee, managed to have sealed and buried on a confidential server to protect his legacy.”
I slid the third packet over. The university’s official Title IX retaliation and evidence-tampering policies.
“You were too lazy to write ten pages on market inflation,” I said. “So you went snooping on your father’s home computer, found a folder of locked university files, picked a random economics document, and submitted it as your own. You didn’t realize you were plagiarizing a piece of sealed evidence from a federal Title IX investigation.”
Carter’s face drained of color, leaving his skin a sickly, pale wax. “You… you can’t see those files. They’re heavily restricted.”
“They are restricted to everyone except the university ombudsman,” I agreed. “And the faculty members whose grading software automatically flags direct, unauthorized matches with the ombudsman’s secure vault.”
He swallowed hard, his arrogant posture fully collapsing as the catastrophic gravity of his mistake crashed into him. If the plagiarism exposed the sealed Title IX file, his father’s illegal cover-up would burn down right alongside him.
“You have nothing,” Carter sneered, though his voice shook violently. “It’s your word against mine. You’re a broke adjunct protecting an illegal immigrant. I’m a Van Der Waal. Nobody is going to listen to you.”
“I know,” I said gently.
I reached out and tapped the screen of my phone, which had been lying face-down on the granite the entire time. The screen lit up, revealing the active, ongoing emergency call. The duration counter read *16:42*.
“That’s why I’m not the one listening.”
I tapped the speaker icon.
The quiet, unmistakably furious voice of Dr. Elias Vance, the campus ombudsman, echoed out of the small speaker, filling the dead, heavy silence of the luxury kitchen.
“Professor Rossi,” Dr. Vance said, his tone clipped and metallic over the line. “Please confirm that you and your mother are in a safe location. Campus police are currently en route to your position.”
I looked up at Carter. The heavy crystal glass slipped from his numb fingers, shattering into a hundred glittering pieces across the marble floor.