Chapter 5 - The Missing FolderCampus security treated the note seriously.
At first.
Then they discovered there were no signs of forced entry.
“The door likely wasn’t locked,” Officer Keller said.
“It was,” Nora replied.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“We both checked.”
He examined the lock.
“Dorm doors sometimes fail to latch.”
Nora crossed her arms.
“And threatening notes sometimes magically write themselves?”
He sighed.
“I didn’t say that.”
Dad arrived forty minutes later with university security director James Porter.
That changed the room immediately.
Porter knew Dad.
Not casually.
He shook his hand and said, “David.”
Dad replied, “Jim.”
I groaned.
“Does everyone here know you?”
Dad glanced around.
“I’m becoming concerned about your observational skills.”
“Not helping.”
He examined the note without touching it.
“What exactly was in the folder?”
“Copies of the reports you showed me.”
Dad became very still.
“I never left those with you.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No.”
I looked at the desk.
Then remembered.
After our conversation, Dad had placed the folder beside me while answering a phone call.
I had put it into my backpack.
He must have forgotten it.
“That’s bad, isn’t it?”
Dad looked at Porter.
“Lock down the floor logs.”
Porter nodded.
“The residence hall uses electronic access. We can see every card that opened the exterior doors.”
“What about individual rooms?”
“Physical keys.”
Nora looked at me.
“So anyone could have copied one.”
Porter hesitated.
“Potentially.”
Dad called his attorney.
Then he called someone named Elena and told her to preserve every digital file connected to the Carlisle project.
He was no longer the joking father defending contractor bags.
I saw, for the first time, the man who ran a multibillion-dollar company.
Calm.
Precise.
Fast.
And frankly intimidating.
“Dad,” I whispered.
He ended the call.
“Yeah?”
“Am I in danger?”
His entire expression changed.
He sat beside me.
“I don’t know.”
That answer scared me because he didn’t pretend otherwise.
“But you won’t stay here tonight.”
“I have class tomorrow.”
“Emma.”
“I’m not leaving campus.”
“This isn’t about proving something.”
“No. It’s about not letting whoever did this decide where I live.”
Dad looked at Mom, who had just arrived.
Mom surprised us both.
“She stays.”
Dad stared.
“Rachel.”
“She stays with security outside.”
“Rachel.”
“Our daughter is an adult.”
“An adult who received a threat.”
Mom sat beside me.
“And if you pull her home every time someone tries to intimidate her, you teach her intimidation works.”
Dad hated it.
I could tell.
But he agreed.
Security changed our lock.
An officer remained on the floor overnight.
The next morning, Blake was waiting outside my economics class.
I nearly walked away.
“Emma, wait.”
“No.”
“I heard what happened.”
That stopped me.
“How?”
“Madison called me.”
I studied him.
“Where were you last night?”
His face hardened.
“You think I did it?”
“I think your father sent you to manipulate me.”
“That doesn’t mean I broke into your room.”
“Did you tell him about the reports?”
Blake looked away.
My stomach dropped.
“You did.”
“I told him your father showed you something.”
“You told him I had the folder?”
“No.”
“Blake.”
“I didn’t know you had it.”
“Why should I believe you?”
He ran a hand through his hair.
“Because I’m scared too.”
That sounded real.
“What are you afraid of?”
“My father.”
We sat inside an empty lecture hall.
For the next thirty minutes, Blake told me about Arthur Carlisle.
The public version was easy.
Successful developer.
Philanthropist.
Major donor.
Private version?
Controlling.
Explosive.
Obsessed with status.
Blake had spent years earning his father’s approval by following instructions.
Madison rebelled in smaller ways.
Then compensated by mimicking their mother.
“My dad bought the Dover site four years ago,” Blake explained. “He borrowed heavily against other projects.”
“The contaminated property.”
“Yes.”
“He knew?”
“I don’t know when he knew.”
“And now he needs Hayes Meridian.”
“Your father’s involvement would bring other investors.”
I understood.
Dad wasn’t just money.
He was credibility.
“If Dad signs on, everyone assumes it’s safe.”
Blake nodded.
“So Arthur needs him badly.”
“I saw your father’s text.”
“I know.”
Blake looked ashamed.
“At first, I agreed.”
“To use me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been agreeing with my father my entire life.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
I stood.
“You should find a better one.”
He didn’t stop me.
That afternoon, campus security found surveillance footage.
At 11:42 p.m., a man wearing maintenance clothes entered Whitmore Hall through a side entrance.
His face was partially hidden.
He stayed eleven minutes.
No maintenance work had been scheduled.
The access card belonged to a university employee who reported it missing two weeks earlier.
Dad wanted federal investigators involved because he believed the break-in might relate to corporate fraud.
Arthur Carlisle called it absurd.
I knew because he released a statement.
By evening, reporters were outside campus.
The story transformed from “secret billionaire freshman” into something much uglier.
DEVELOPER DISPUTE SPILLS INTO HAWTHORNE UNIVERSITY
I hated it.
Students stared.
Some whispered.
My professor excused me from class, assuming I wanted privacy.
I insisted on staying.
Then Nora did something that changed everything.
She sat beside me in the dining hall and loudly complained about the mashed potatoes.
Not the reporters.
Not my family.
Potatoes.
“These are structurally unsound,” she announced.
I laughed.
People stopped staring.
At least for a few minutes.
“You’re doing this deliberately.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending everything is normal.”
She stabbed the potatoes.
“Emma, your weird rich-person conspiracy is interesting, but I have an organic chemistry quiz tomorrow.”
I smiled.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Then she became serious.
“Whoever broke in wanted that folder.”
“Yes.”
“What was inside that they don’t want people seeing?”
I thought about the contamination reports.
Then something occurred to me.
“If the information is dangerous enough to steal…”
Nora understood.
“Then hiding it protects them.”
That night, I called Dad.
“What happens if you publish the reports?”
Silence.
“Emma.”
“Can you?”
“They contain proprietary analysis.”
“Can you legally release them?”
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
“Because allegations like these affect property values, employees, lenders, residents—real people. You don’t throw information into the public simply because you’re angry.”
“So what do you do?”
“You verify.”
“Again?”
“Until you can defend every sentence.”
Two days later, Dad’s company hired three independent environmental laboratories.
Samples were collected under third-party supervision.
Arthur’s attorneys threatened litigation.
Then came something worse.
The first anonymous post appeared online.
It claimed my father had fabricated the environmental concerns to destroy a competitor.
A second claimed I had staged the dorm break-in for attention.
A third included an old photo of Dad in work clothes with the caption:
FAKE BILLIONAIRE FAMILY RUNNING A REAL ESTATE SCAM?
Ironically, the clothes that had embarrassed me were now being used to make Dad look dishonest.
I expected him to rage.
He laughed.
“That is a good picture.”
“Dad.”
“What? Your mother took it.”
“The article says you’re lying.”
“The truth does not improve because I shout at strangers online.”
“How are you this calm?”
He looked at me through the video call.
“Because I know something Arthur doesn’t.”
“What?”
“The new lab results arrive tomorrow.”
They arrived at 8:17 a.m.
Dad called me nine minutes later.
His voice had no humor in it.
“Emma.”
“What?”
“The contamination is worse than our original report.”
“How much worse?”
A long silence.
Then:
“Bad enough that if Arthur knew about it and concealed it, he may have committed a crime.”
May you like
And by noon, Arthur Carlisle had stopped returning everyone’s calls.
Including his own children’s.
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