The kitchen closes at two a.m.
I'm the last one here. The catering manager left an hour ago. The other servers clocked out before midnight. I stayed. Told them I'd finish the last rack.
I sit on an overturned crate near the loading dock. My hands are red. Raw from the hot water. The skin on my knuckles is tight.
Upstairs, the music has stopped. I can hear voices in the stairwell. Laughter. Heels on marble. People leaving.
I look down at my wrist.
The bracelet catches the overhead light. Silver. Simple. Eiden gave it to me on our first anniversary. He said it reminded him of me. Understated but real.
I stare at it for a long time.
Then I reach for my notebook.
I open it to a clean page. My pen hovers for a moment. Then I start writing.
Not about what happened tonight. Not about the cake or the frosting or the way three hundred people watched him call me a charity case.
I write a list.
*Surveillance footage — gala ballroom, 8:30 PM timestamp.*
*Forum posts — IP trace, device registration, submission timestamps.*
*Cadence thesis — writing style analysis, citation inconsistencies, submission metadata.*
*Venmo records — payments to graduate students, thesis consultation logs.*
*Email correspondence — Raymond Hawkins, university administration.*
I underline the last one twice.
My handwriting is steady. My hands have stopped shaking.
I close the notebook. Stand up. Button my jacket.
When I walk out of the kitchen, I don't look back.
***
I find Neil Bryant on Tuesday.
He works the IT help desk in the basement of the library. I've seen him there for months. Quiet. Competent. The kind of person students look through when they need their laptops fixed and forget the second they leave.
I wait until his shift ends. He's packing up his toolkit when I approach.
"Neil."
He looks up. Blinks once. "Marley."
"I need help with something."
He zips his bag. "What kind of help?"
I pull out my phone. Open the forum app. "These posts. Seventeen threads. All anonymous. I need to know who's behind them."
He takes the phone. Scrolls. His face doesn't change.
"You want me to trace the IPs," he says.
It's not a question.
"Yes."
He hands the phone back. Looks at me for a long moment.
"Why?"
I meet his eyes. "Because I'm tired of being the only one who knows the truth."
He's quiet. Then he nods once.
"After hours," he says. "Ten p.m. Thursday. IT office, second floor. Don't tell anyone you're coming."
"I won't."
He picks up his bag. Pauses at the door.
"Marley."
"Yeah?"
"This is going to take more than IP addresses."
"I know," I say.
He nods again. Then he's gone.
***
Thursday night, I take the stairs to the second floor. The IT office is at the end of the hall. The door is propped open with a doorstop. The lights are on.
Neil is at the main terminal. Three monitors. Lines of code scrolling across the center screen.
I close the door behind me.
"Sit," he says.
I pull up a chair.
He doesn't look away from the screen. His fingers move across the keyboard. Fast. Precise.
"Forum posts route through the university server," he says. "Anonymous submissions still log device MAC addresses and IP registration. University policy. Most people don't know that."
I watch the screen. Numbers and timestamps fill the left monitor.
"How long will this take?" I ask.
"Already done."
I blink.
He pulls up a spreadsheet. Seventeen rows. Each one has a timestamp, an IP address, and a device ID.
He highlights the device ID column.
They're all the same.
"Single device," Neil says. "Registered to Cadence Hawkins. Personal laptop. Connected to her dorm room Wi-Fi every time. MAC address confirms it."
I stare at the screen.
"Can you print this?"
"Already did." He hands me a folder. "Server logs. IP trace records. Device registration. Submission timestamps. Everything cross-referenced."
I open the folder. Twenty pages. Every post. Every login. Every piece of metadata.
"This is legally clean?" I ask.
"University server. Public forum. You're allowed to request access logs under student conduct policy. I just did it faster than the formal process."
I look at him.
"Why are you helping me?"
He finally turns away from the screen. Looks at me.
"Because I'm tired too," he says.
I nod slowly.
"What else do you need?" he asks.
I pull out my notebook. Flip to the list.
"Surveillance footage," I say. "From the gala. Ballroom cameras. Eight-thirty p.m. timestamp."
Neil's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.
"That's not IT," he says. "That's security."
"I know."
"Hector works nights," Neil says. "Third-floor security office. He's good people."
"Will he help?"
Neil shrugs. "Only one way to find out."
I close my notebook. Stand.
"Thank you," I say.
He turns back to the monitors. "Don't thank me yet."
I leave the folder on the desk. Take two steps toward the door.
"Marley."
I stop.
"When you're ready to use this," he says, "make sure you're really ready. Because once you do, there's no taking it back."
"I know," I say.
I walk out. The hallway is dark. The folder is in my bag.
My hands are steady.
I take the stairs down and I don't look back.
