Chapter 4

Chloe’s sobs hitched.

It was an infinitesimal pause, so brief Vance didn't catch it at all, but I did.

Her fingers tightened on Vance’s sleeve, her knuckles turning pale.

"Dean Vance," she whispered, her voice fragile like a wounded kitten. "I just want to go home. I can't be here anymore... I'm scared..."

Vance turned back instantly, his ferocious scowl instantly morphing into gentle concern.

"Of course, don't worry. I'll walk you to your car right now."

He whipped around to glare at me, brooking no argument.

"Security cameras? As if a predator like you doesn't know how to play the system! Get the hell out of here before I have security throw you out!"

Seeing that I hadn't moved, he spat, "Do you have any idea how many reporters are circling the block? Do you know how many people on Twitter are calling for our heads? If you cause another scene, forget your job—this entire school’s reputation is ruined!"

I looked into Vance’s eyes, sorely tempted to ask him: Is the school's reputation more important than the truth?

But I didn't bother.

I already knew the answer.

To Richard Vance, public perception was everything.

Even if pulling the security footage could prove my innocence, he would sweep it under the rug. My reputation was already toxic.

He might even suspect that Chloe’s story had holes, but he couldn't afford to take the gamble.

What if she wasn't lying?

What if I really had done it?

Rather than risking the district's standing by defending me, it was infinitely safer to sacrifice me.

"Fine. I'm leaving," I said.

Vance visibly exhaled in relief.

"But I’ll be back," I added, looking right at Chloe. "The day the truth comes out."

Clinging to Vance, Chloe’s posture stiffened for a second.

Only a second.

She quickly sank back into her pitiful facade, keeping her head lowered as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

I turned and walked away at an unhurried pace.

Rounding the corner, I heard Vance’s muffled voice drifting down the quiet hallway:

"Don't be scared, Chloe. He’s gone. The school will handle this. Go home and rest. Call me if you need anything."

Then came Chloe’s sweet, fragile reply.

"Thank you, Dean Vance. I'm so sorry for causing you trouble."

Trouble?

I almost laughed.

The disaster she was brewing for this school was ten times worse than whatever they thought I had done.

She was just brilliant at wrapping herself in victimhood, playing the public's sympathy like a violin.

Stepping out into the parking lot, I checked my phone.

Two audio files.

One was the full recording of Chloe’s phone call. The other was our entire confrontation in the hallway.

Combined, they totaled nearly twenty minutes.

More than enough to clear my name.

Yet, I didn't rush to post them online.

Because I knew two recordings alone were far from enough.

Audio can be forged. It can be spliced. A good lawyer could easily argue that I hired an actress to impersonate Chloe.

In an environment where everyone had already presumed me guilty, these clips would only be dismissed as a desperate smear campaign.

I needed ironclad proof.

The kind of evidence that left no room for debate.

I dialed Mark.

Mark was my college roommate, now a senior forensics expert at the State Police Crime Lab specializing in digital audio and video authentication.

Three days ago, I had begged him to analyze the recording Chloe gave the police. He told me it would take at least three days.

"Mark, it's Arthur."

"Arthur? Man, I was just about to call you. The analysis is done."

My heart jumped into my throat. "And?"

Mark went quiet for two long seconds before dropping a bomb that made the blood in my veins ignite.

"The voice clip she gave them is an AI deepfake."

My hand holding the phone began to tremble.

Not out of fear, but pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

"Are you certain?"

"A hundred percent. We ran it through our newest voice-print spectrum analyzer three times. While the timber matches yours almost flawlessly, the formant frequencies in the mid-to-low bands display distinct synthetic artifacts."