I groan and scrub my hands down my face. This is more difficult than I thought.
Maybe I could—then I spot her.
Madison Carlile.
A third-year, who knows everyone and everything. She’s basically Havemeyer’s own TMZ, if TMZ had stronger sourcing and an ethical code.
If anyone has the inside scoop on Rowan’s IOU empire, it’s her.
I gather my things and head her way, trying to look casual.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her. “Quick question. Hypothetically, if someone—not me, obviously—got involved with Rowan King’s… network… how bad would that be?”
Her pen freezes over a half-finished bullet point before she looks up at me, her eyes locking on mine. “You didn’t.”
“I said hypothetically.”
“Tessa.” She leans forward, voice dropping to a low hiss. “Tell me you did not take one of his cards.”
She makes it sound like it’s a bad thing.
I open my mouth to lie, then close it.
“How many?” She sighs dramatically.
“How many what?”
“Cards,” she says. “IOUs. How many do you owe him?”
Even she knows Rowan doesn’t deal in singles. He multiplies leverage. Builds favors the way other people build retirement accounts.
I swallow. “Two.”
Madison’s face goes completely white. The pen drops from her fingers and hits the table with a click. “Oh, crap, Tessa. Two?”
“Is that... bad?”
She laughs. It’s the kind that sounds like it got stuck in her throat.
“Bad?” she echoes. “Tessa, two IOUs put you in the danger zone. That’s not casual debt anymore. That’s serious leverage territory.”
My stomach drops. “What does that even mean?”
Madison glances around the library before leaning in. “You remember Sarah Hendricks?”
Nodding, my memory flashes back to a quiet girl in my torts class who used to carry a highlighter in each hand.
“She started with one favor,” Madison says. “She needed help with a grade dispute. Nothing huge. Professor Lowell wouldn’t budge on the curve. Rowan made a call, and just like that, Sarah’s B+ became an A-.”
“That doesn’t sound so?—”
“She’s been doing Rowan’s research ever since. Last week, I saw her formatting citations for a clerkship recommendation packet at two in the morning.”
I blink. “That’s not?—”
“Marcus Webb,” Madison cuts me off. “Remember him? Tall guy, vintage band T-shirts, always faintly smelled like weed?”
“Yeah.”
