“No, I don’t mean that, sir. The administration has already covered up a rape charge. I think it’s highly likely they’re covering up his drug abuse too.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Zach and a number of other Dukes’ players have informed the coaching staff of Dyers's drug use and nothing ever seems to be done. He’s still playing, not even a sniff of being benched.”
“How… peculiar. I can smell a rotting rat, can’t you?”
“Uh-huh. So, I’m thinking we need to make a big stink about that. I’ve been toying with the idea of something explosive that’ll lead to a deluge of information trickling out.”
“Like?”
“I’m still pondering that, Conor. It’ll involve me hacking into some of the phones of his closest friends.”
“Do you have the skill set?”
“Sure!”
I hide a smile because Conor isn’t wrong—Callan sounds very perky about this whole thing.
“I think we need to be whistleblowers. Revealing a lot of shady shit that goes on at Rho Epsilon Beta. We’ll focus on him, of course, but if we can bring any other assholes down with him, then I’m game for that.”
Conor rocks back in his desk chair. “Shay can help with the Rhos. He must know a lot of their secrets.”
“Hate to disappoint you, Uncle Conor, but the last time Shay went to the frat house was October.”
“Excuse me?!”
“Hey!”
Their moans are simultaneous—Conor’s impatient, Shay’s annoyed as he glowers at me.
“We discussed this, Shay!”
“And I told you and the rest of the uncles that they’re idiots!”
“Prior to this,” Callan inserts, though he appears fascinated with the byplay, “I was looking into donations to the college?—”
“Now, why on earth would you be doing that, Callan?” Conor inquires, distracted.
“Well, donations tell a lot, sir,” he says bashfully.
“Conor,” our uncle corrects.
“Yes. Um. Conor.” If I didn’t know Callan was hiding something before, I do now. “Anyway, his father donates a lot to the school. He’s an alumnus, but this is borderline ridiculous. He covered a new endowment and a state-of-the-art gym at the Dukes’ training facility all while Dyers has been a student here.” Callan tugs on his collar. “I also know that Dyers's Jr. and Sr. are Veronians.”
“How do you know that, Callan?” Shay demands.
That’s where I recognize his last name from—Clyde Korhonen, the Veronian, the allegedmurderer, is his father.
“I’d be a legacy if I’d accepted the invitation to pledge.”
Shay whistles. “No shit.”
“Eloquently put, Shay,” Conor teases. “Okay, so why did you turn down the invitation, Callan?”
“Because I want nothing to do with my old man. I hate his guts. Plus, if they think I’m anything like him, well, they’re destined for disappointment.” He toys with a fidget spinner on his desk. “You’d be the one who’d know if I was right or not, Victoria.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
