“Why so late?”
“Grading. End-of-semester revisions.”
“You drove directly home?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone see you?”
“My partner.”
“Margot Holt.”
“Yes.”
No pause. No shift in breathing.
Scout stepped in.
“You ever tell your students that writing is freedom?”
Sinclair’s gaze flicked to him.
A soft smile—not amused. Not defensive.
Reflective.
“Many times.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means authorship is agency.”
“You said it to Lauren Pierce.”
“Yes.”
“She’s dead.”
A beat.
“I heard,” he said quietly.
That’s it.
No flinch.
No “What?”
No crack in the voice.
Scout felt the absence of reaction more than he would have felt grief.
“She felt watched.”
Sinclair didn’t look away.
“Lauren felt many things,” he said evenly. “Humiliation. Abandonment. Confusion. She was very young.”
