Chapter 2

The next day, Beckett Shaw walked into the cafeteria and told everyone he was the father.

I was sitting alone. The entire long table had cleared out when I sat down — everyone grabbed their trays and moved like I was contagious. I ate my salad in silence, fork scraping against the plate.

Then the doors swung open.

Beckett Shaw. Lacrosse captain. Jawline like a magazine cover. He walked in with five or six teammates behind him and came straight to my table.

He looked down at me. The cafeteria went quiet.

"So you're telling everyone the test isn't yours?" His voice wasn't loud, but it carried. "That's funny. Because I was there."

I put my fork down.

"What?"

"Spring Fling. March 15th." Hands in his pockets. Relaxed. Like he was telling a boring story. "You had four drinks. You couldn't walk straight. I took you upstairs because I thought you needed to lie down."

He paused. Smiled.

"But you had other ideas."

Gasps. Whispers. Phones out.

I had gone to Spring Fling. It was the only party I'd ever attended at Ashford. I had two sodas, talked to Margaux for half an hour, and swiped back into my dorm at 9:34.

"That's a lie." I stood up. My voice was shaking. "I left that party at nine thirty. I didn't drink. I didn't go upstairs with anyone."

"So you're calling me a liar?" He raised an eyebrow and held up his phone. A Snapchat conversation. My profile picture.

"'Come find me upstairs 😉'" He read it out loud, grinning. "Your words, babe."

"That's not my account!" I reached for his phone.

He lifted it over his head. He had a full head on me.

"Careful." He looked down at me, voice low. "You don't want people thinking you're desperate and crazy."

Laughter from every direction.

"So the baby's Beckett's?"

"At least she has taste."

"Scholarship girls. Always hungry. For everything."

My legs were shaking. Not from fear. From the kind of anger that comes when someone invents a memory you never lived, and the whole world demands you own it.

Margaux showed up right on cue.

"Beckett, that's enough." She pulled gently at his arm. "This isn't the way to handle it."

She turned to me. Her eyes were actually red.

"Greer... is it true? Is Beckett the... I mean —" She covered her mouth. Couldn't finish the sentence.

I looked at those watery eyes and felt my stomach turn.

"It's not true," I said. Flat. "I wasn't drunk. I didn't go upstairs. Those messages aren't mine. And that test is not mine."

Nobody was listening anymore.

Dean Hargrove called me in that afternoon. Second time in two days.

"Greer, in light of Mr. Shaw's testimony, the scholarship committee has decided to suspend your financial aid pending the investigation."

My brain went blank for a second.

"Suspend? You mean I can't —"

"You can remain on campus until the investigation concludes. But tuition payments are frozen. If the investigation finds cause for disciplinary action, the scholarship will be permanently revoked."

"And the Pemberton recommendation?"

His silence said everything.

"The committee feels it would be... premature to finalize the nomination at this time."

My nails dug into the armrest.

The Pemberton. Four years. Four years of perfect grades, competition wins, summer programs I couldn't afford but did anyway. Four years of being the best so that nobody could say I didn't belong here.

"Dean Hargrove. Beckett Shaw is lying. Those Snapchat messages are fabricated. If you check —"

"We're looking into it." He cut me off with the tone of a man who'd already given me more time than I deserved. "In the meantime, I strongly suggest you keep a low profile."

Keep a low profile.

Shut up. Don't fight. Wait to die.

That night, I walked into my room and found Petra packing.

"What are you doing?"

She didn't look at me. "I requested a room transfer."

"Petra —"

"I'm sorry, Greer. I just... I can't. My parents called. They don't want me rooming with —" She stopped herself. "They said..."

She didn't finish. She didn't need to.

Her suitcase bumped against the door frame on the way out. Down the hall, girls were whispering and laughing.

I shut the door. Sat on my bed in the empty room.

I didn't cry.

I started cleaning up Petra's side. Under her bed, I found a small makeup bag — not Petra's style. Too expensive. A Sephora limited edition.

Inside: a lipstick and a crumpled receipt.

CVS pharmacy. Three miles off campus.

ClearBlue Digital Pregnancy Test, 1-pack. Purchased two days before the anonymous post went up.

Payment method: credit card ending in 7714.

I stared at those four numbers.

This bag wasn't Petra's. Too pricey, wrong style entirely.

Someone else left it here.

Whose card?