Story code: ST-001765
Part 3: The Bounty
The mahogany desk in Dean Albright’s office smelled sharply of lemon polish, a scent that made Clara’s stomach churn just as violently as the bleach had in the dorm bathroom. She sat rigidly in the oversized leather wingback chair, her damp jeans now stiff and cold against her skin. Sitting directly beside her, her father was visibly shrinking. He had driven three hours the moment the university called, still wearing his grease-stained work boots and the faded canvas jacket he wore to the auto shop. He sat on the very edge of the expensive leather cushion, his rough hands clasped together in a posture of desperate supplication.
Directly in the center of the Dean’s spotless desk, sealed inside a heavy plastic evidence bag, sat the crushed foil blister pack.
Across the room, Chloe sat with perfect, relaxed posture. She had changed into a pristine, cream-colored cardigan. She looked entirely at ease, her legs crossed at the ankles, watching Clara’s father with an expression of mild, detached amusement.
“Dean Albright, sir, I understand this is a serious violation,” her father said, his voice trembling as he leaned forward. He ducked his head, refusing to make eye contact with the man behind the desk. “Clara is a good girl. She’s on the Dean’s List. If this is about contraband, or… or whatever she took, we’ll handle it. We’ll get her into a program. We’ll pay whatever disciplinary fines the university requires. Just please, I’m begging you, don’t take away her enrollment.”
Clara stared at her knees, humiliated tears burning the corners of her eyes. Her father didn’t understand. The university hadn’t called him because Clara was caught with recreational drugs. They hadn’t called him because of a simple dorm violation. He was bowing and scraping, offering to empty his meager savings to pay a fine, completely unaware of the true nightmare resting inside that plastic bag.
Dean Albright adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses. He did not look sympathetic. He looked deeply inconvenienced. He tapped a manicured finger against a thick stack of printed paperwork. “Mr. Vance, you seem to misunderstand the nature of this meeting. This is not a disciplinary hearing regarding university bylaws. The university’s hands are tied by state jurisdiction.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” her father pleaded, his voice cracking. He reached out, his grease-stained fingers hovering inches from the polished mahogany. “If she broke a law, let me take her home. Put her on probation. Please.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Chloe sighed, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet office.
Clara flinched. Her father finally turned his head, looking at the nineteen-year-old girl sitting across from them.
Chloe rolled her eyes and uncrossed her legs, leaning forward to address Clara’s father directly. “There is no probation, Mr. Vance. And you aren’t paying a fine to the school. That’s not why we’re here.”
“Miss Miller, please let me handle this,” Dean Albright warned, though his tone was remarkably mild.
Chloe ignored him. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the plastic bag on the desk. “Do you even know what that is? It’s not Molly. It’s not Adderall. It’s mifepristone and misoprostol. Your daughter performed an illegal, unauthorized chemical termination in our shared bathroom over the weekend.”
Clara squeezed her eyes shut. Hearing the words spoken aloud in the sterile, academic office felt like a physical blow. Beside her, she felt her father go perfectly still. His frantic, nervous energy evaporated in a fraction of a second.
“State Senate Bill 89 went into effect in September,” Chloe continued, her voice dripping with condescension. She spoke like she was reciting a syllabus. “It mandates strict compliance for any state-funded institution. But more importantly, it includes a private right of action. Any private citizen who discovers and reports the administration of these specific medications within state lines is entitled to file a civil claim against the offending party.”
Chloe turned her gaze to Clara, her predatory smile returning. “I didn’t need your financial aid refund, Clara. That was just a test to see how desperate you were, to see if you would actually try to cover it up. Once you gave me the PIN, I knew for sure what was in the foil.”
Clara’s father slowly turned his head back to the desk. “A civil claim?” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave, the tremor completely gone.
“A bounty, Mr. Vance,” Chloe corrected, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “Ten thousand dollars, minimum. Paid directly to the informant. The university is legally required to verify the evidence and process the initial reporting forms for the state. That’s why we’re in the Dean’s office.”
Chloe reached across the mahogany desk and tapped the stack of paperwork the Dean was holding. “So, if you could just sign the verification of evidence, Dean Albright, I can get my claim filed before the weekend.”
Clara opened her eyes. The Dean didn’t argue. He didn’t defend Clara. He simply let out a heavy, bureaucratic sigh, picked up a gold fountain pen, and pulled the top form toward him. He was actually going to sign it. He was going to facilitate the bounty.
“Wait,” Clara’s father said.
It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a request. The single word cracked like a whip through the heavy air of the office.
Dean Albright paused, his gold pen hovering over the dotted line. “Mr. Vance, as I said, our hands are-”
“You’re hunting her for cash,” her father said. He wasn’t looking at the Dean. He was staring dead at Chloe. The subservient, terrified mechanic who had walked into the room was entirely gone. His face had flushed a dark, dangerous crimson. He looked at the smug teenager, then at the Dean who was quietly enabling her, realizing that neither of them cared about morality, or rules, or Clara’s future. They cared about the money and the compliance.
“Mr. Vance, I strongly suggest you remain seated,” Dean Albright warned, his voice finally losing its calm veneer as he sensed the sudden, violent shift in the room’s atmosphere.
Clara’s father stood up. He didn’t just rise; he surged to his feet, his heavy work boots planting firmly on the expensive Persian rug.
“Dad-” Clara whispered, terrified by the dark, unfamiliar look in his eyes.
He ignored her. He stepped directly up to the edge of the mahogany desk. Dean Albright shrank back into his high-backed leather chair, his eyes widening in alarm. Chloe’s smug smile instantly vanished, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair as the large, grease-stained man towered over the workspace.
Lined up perfectly along the front edge of the Dean’s desk was a row of heavy, crystalline awards-pillars of etched glass and heavy geometric shapes recognizing decades of administrative excellence.
Clara’s father didn’t say another word. He raised his right arm and swung it backward in a brutal, sweeping arc. His thick forearm slammed into the row of awards.
The sound of the impact was deafening. Heavy crystal and glass launched off the mahogany surface, hurtling through the air. They slammed into the polished hardwood floor and the wood-paneled walls, shattering into thousands of jagged, glittering pieces.
Dean Albright threw his arms over his face, shouting in terror. Chloe shrieked, pulling her legs up into her chair as shards of broken glass sprayed across the Persian rug, biting into the leather of her expensive shoes.
When the chaotic noise of the shattering glass finally stopped, the office fell into a suffocating, terrified silence.
Clara’s father stood over the ruined desk, his chest heaving, his grease-stained hands curled into tight, trembling fists. He stared down at the Dean, waiting for the man to utter a single word.