Past Imperfect. Crystal Green

as Rachel did.

      Students who were still fresh-faced and eager to listen to all his advice.

      For a second, Rachel saw him as the man he used to be: filled with enthusiasm and pep, his brown eyes sparkling with wit and affection. But then he glanced over at her, and she saw the reality: the bent shoulders, the gray in his hair, the fading energy.

      Still, Rachel’s emotions overwhelmed her, bringing a brilliant smile to her face as she chanced a wave at her beloved mentor.

      He brightened at this, and she realized how much she affected him, how happy she made him when she was around.

      Yet she’d always known that, ever since the day she’d quit college and he’d practically begged her to come back.

      Just as she was about to take her first hesitant step toward Gilbert, the press surrounded him. In their ranks she saw Ian Beck, his pen poised above his notebook as he observed Rachel.

      She could tell he knew that she was hanging back, too riddled with doubts to go to Gilbert.

      Turning aside from the journalist’s measuring gaze, she entered Lumley Hall with her friends, feeling as if they were about to step into a fighting ring.

      The spacious lecture hall was filled with observers and echoing with Alex Broadstreet’s voice as he spoke into the standing microphone. He was reading the board’s charges against Professor Gilbert Harrison, his tone as rich and full of crap as a senator on the campaign trail.

      Ian was tuning the man out because he was more than familiar with Broadstreet’s complaints. Instead, he inspected the faces.

      That’s where the real story was—in the people, not the unproved speculations.

      Next to him, Joe took another picture of Broadstreet’s grandstanding. The flash caught a real headline moment, the spit-polished president pointing his finger in the air, his brows raised in righteous indignation.

      Broadstreet was forty-two, sleek as a political machine, smooth and polished in a creased gray suit. From the get-go, Ian had gotten a bad vibe from him, and he trusted his instinct implicitly. It had served him well over the years in every hard-hitting assignment from Bosnia to Iran, from Sudan to the urban ghettos of America. But those had been the days of real news, and sometimes Ian feared that he’d lost his edge during recent stories like this one, where the intention was to shock instead of illuminate.

      As the president gabbed on, Ian took another opportunity to peek at Rachel James, who had a front-row seat along with the rest of her friends. Late arrivals Dr. Jacob Weber and Ella Gardner had sneaked into their nearby seats just moments ago, giving Ian an excuse to train unfettered attention in Rachel’s direction.

      But it was almost as if she was stridently avoiding him. Was it because she was questioning his part in the proceedings?

      Hell, he couldn’t blame her.

      The audience stirred as Broadstreet called David Westport as the first character witness for Gilbert, then retreated to his seat behind a long table. He was surrounded by the nine other faculty members and ten students who composed the board.

      The people who would be deciding Gilbert’s fate.

      At the other end of the table, Professor Harrison sat by himself. Ian noticed that the older man kept glancing at Rachel, as if measuring something about her.

      There was a real story somewhere. Beneath all the dirt, there was definitely something else blooming.

      By now, David Westport had taken his place at the other end of the table. A former college jock, he looked daunting with his flashing green eyes, coal-black hair and all-pro shoulders. As he sat, he sent Broadstreet a glare of pure distaste—not that it fazed the president—then turned the tables and winked at Gilbert.

      Cameras flashed, causing Ian to once again notice how much of a circus Broadstreet had constructed. The president really had something against Gilbert, and from what Ian knew, he suspected it all had to do with running the college like a dictator.

      And a lot to do with personal jealousy.

      For the next half hour, Broadstreet allowed the witness to praise Gilbert, to expound on the professor’s exemplary guidance skills and giving nature. It was a good start.

      Until the president dove in.

      “Mr. Westport,” he began, “thank you for the testimonial.”

      “Anything for Professor Harrison,” David said, smiling.

      “Yes. Yes, you know, that seems to be our problem.” Broadstreet shuffled some papers while clearing his throat. “Or, should I say, the professor’s willingness to do anything for his students is the real sticking point.”

      From the very first, Ian had been bowled over by the sense of loyalty Gilbert inspired in his students, former and present. Now, as his attention drifted to the professor—a beaten version of the savior he was supposed to be—Ian’s heart actually went out to him. Quickly, he sketched the older man in his notepad, wanting to capture the weariness, the lines of exhaustion mapping his face.

      Then, it got ugly.

      Broadstreet began questioning David Westport about his poor high school grades, clearly catching the big guy off guard in light of how the proceedings had been going so far. It seemed that, in spite of his academic woes, Westport had received an athletic scholarship, and the president hounded him on how this could’ve possibly happened.

      During all of this, Ian kept glancing at Rachel, noting how pained and baffled she appeared.

      There’s something deeper going on in her head, Ian thought. Something that was rooted below Westport’s academic record.

      And as Broadstreet revealed that Gilbert Harrison had been instrumental in securing this scholarship for David Westport, the hall was silenced.

      Temporarily victorious, the president turned to Gilbert. “What’s your response to this, Harrison?”

      The audience stirred, clearly noticing how Broadstreet had already stripped Gilbert of his title.

      The older man sighed, offering a weary smile and spreading out his hands. “I have no comment, other than to say that even if David seemed to be an undeserving candidate for the scholarship, he’s since proved his worthiness.”

      He wasn’t directly defending himself? Why?

      Without thinking, Ian scribbled notes. Westport had worked with kids after college, strengthening their self-esteem through the creation of a sports camp. Maybe that was all the defense Gilbert thought he needed.

      As if to prove that theory, a smattering of light applause came from the crowd at the mention of Westport’s eventual success, but Broadstreet held up a hand, silencing them.

      The president went on from there, hardly cowed.

      He ripped into Professor Harrison, saying that there was no way of knowing whether or not Westport was worthy of the scholarship, seeing as no one could’ve foretold the future back then.

      All the while, Gilbert Harrison refused to defend himself further.

      With a flurry of penmanship, Ian wrote, “Why the refusal to answer?”

      After that, the president went on to attack Gilbert, painting a picture of a scheming professor who didn’t think twice about going behind the administration’s back. Unfortunately, even though Westport did his best to remedy the situation by sticking to his testimonial and saying how Gilbert had affected his life for the good, Broadstreet hammered away at Gilbert’s failure to defend himself, encouraging a heavy silence after Westport was finally dismissed.

      Broadstreet had managed to definitely turn the tables on a promising start, and during the break, his smug grin bore testament to that.

      Things will all go downhill from here if Gilbert doesn’t speak up, Ian thought. When he risked a glance at Rachel, he found her distraught, biting her lip and shaking