Page 120 of Boiling Point
“Lovely,” I said and sat, hands folded, as careful as a bomb technician.
The clock ticked forward in increments too small to trust.
At 8:30 precisely, the interior door sighed open, and Dr. Amrita Singh appeared. She wore a navy linen pantsuit and a smile so geometrically thin it could have been etched with a diamond stylus.
“We’re ready for you, Dr. Hawthorne.”
The worst they can do is fire you, I told myself. With a controlled exhale, I rose to my feet, adjusted my cuff links, and followed her in.
Dr. Michael Lemke, Dean of Students, and Maryanne Jennings from Human Resources were seated on one side of a large circular conference table. A third chair—Dr. Singh’s, presumably—sat between them. Opposite them, a lone chair awaited—clearly mine. So much for the egalitarian promise of the round table.
“Please have a seat,” said Dr. Singh, closing the door behind her and taking her place between Dr. Lemke and Ms. Jennings.
In no particular hurry, I crossed to my assigned chair and eased into it.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Hawthorne,” she began, clipped and formal, like reading from a script. “I’ve asked Ms. Jennings to be present as this matter may affect your employment status at Page College. Dr. Lemke is here because the issue involves a member of the student body.”
“Alleged,” I corrected.
“Pardon?”
“Alleged issue.” I matched her tone, syllable for syllable. My time at Branleigh Park had served its purpose after all—my armor was intact. “I don’t even know what I’ve been accused of.”
“Very well,” she said, amending herself with faint distaste. “Allegedissue.”
Beside her, Dr. Lemke loomed—broad shoulders filling out a royal blue button-down, his bright orange tie geometrically knotted, his face arranged in professionally moderated concern.
Dr. Singh steepled her fingers, the motion as elegant and precise as the rest of her. “Dr. Hawthorne, I’ve called you here today to address a serious allegation that has recently come to my attention.” She glanced at the HR rep, then back to me, offering a brief, icy smile. “This is not a formal disciplinary hearing. Consider it an opportunity to clarify the situation before such measures prove necessary.”
Ms. Jennings nodded with bureaucratic solemnity, pen already poised above her notepad.
“We know you’re just back from vacation,” Dr. Lemke said, voice smooth as worn leather, shaded with the easy cadence of a Texas drawl. “So we really appreciate your coming in first thing on a Monday.”
Ah. So he was to be the good cop.
Dr. Singh opened a slim folder and slid a printout across the table. “We received an email last week. The sender alleges that you, while employed as a member of the faculty, engaged in an unduly personal and physically intimate relationship with a student currently enrolled at Page College. The relationship is described as ‘ongoing.’ The message cites several specific incidents and claims the involvement began during the spring semester.”
She waited for me to pick up the paper, but I let it sit. It was clearly an email, but the sender’s name, address, and every line that didn’t directly reference me had been reduced to a series of thick black bars. Even the subject line was redacted, as if the very premise of my existence had been deemed classified.
I scanned the visible lines.
“…a student under the direct instructional supervision of Dr. Hawthorne…”
“…unduly familiar relationship with multiple encounters outside the classroom…”
“…overnight travel during spring break.”
The final lines, most damning, read:
“…traveled with Dr. Hawthorne to England after the end of the spring semester, where they stayed for an extended period at an estate owned by Dr. Hawthorne’s family.”
The sender’s name was blacked out entirely, along with any detail that might point to the original observer. I recognized the cadence—fastidious and self-important—almost certainly written by an elite or an academic. Not a student.
My thoughts landed, however briefly, on James. This knife-in-the-back maneuver was certainly his style. But I doubted he cared enough to bother.
“Is there a name attached to the complaint?” I asked, not looking up.
Dr. Singh shook her head. “The sender requested complete anonymity.”
