Four wealthy boys shattered my daughter’s jaw in six places, then laughed that their families had enough money, political power, and influence to make the entire attack disappear. By the time I reached the hospital, security footage was already gone, witnesses had suddenly seen nothing, and the police seemed terrified to investigate. What those four spoiled sons didn’t know was that the grieving father holding his daughter’s hand had once been known by another name: the Phantom Commander.

“Where is the money going?” I asked, stepping closer to Maya so no passing nurses could overhear us.

“That’s what she was trying to figure out,” Maya explained, pulling at the sleeves of her sweater. “She’d been spending all her free time comparing public donor reports to internal student aid numbers she managed to scrape from the server. She thought several multi-million dollar donations were being actively routed through shell foundations.”

“Foundations connected to who?”

Maya’s terrified eyes gave me the answer before her mouth did.

“Major university trustees,” she whispered. “Kensington. Sterling. Holbrook. Caldwell.”

The four names from the bloodstained paper.

“But why go after their sons?” I asked, trying to piece the logic together. “The fathers run the foundations. The sons are just frat boys.”

“They aren't just frat boys,” Maya corrected me. “They all belong to the exact same elite, private student society on campus. The Bellweather Club. It’s ultra-exclusive. They help the university organize high-roller donor events. Nora thought the boys might have accidentally seen documents or overheard conversations they shouldn't have.”

The tactical puzzle was finally starting to form a coherent picture in my mind.

“Why would Nora agree to meet any of them in a dark, isolated parking structure at night?” I pressed.

“I don't know for sure,” Maya admitted, looking miserable. “But yesterday afternoon, right before she left the dorm, she told me someone from the Bellweather Club had contacted her secretly.”

“Who?”

“She wouldn't say his name!” Maya cried softly. “She just said the guy was absolutely terrified. He wanted to blow the whistle on his own family, but he needed a journalist to publish it so he wouldn't take the fall alone.”

A whistle-blower.

I remembered Bishop’s intelligence report from earlier. Preston Caldwell had arrived at a different hospital last night, desperately injured, trying repeatedly to call the police before his powerful father arrived and silenced him.

Perhaps Nora hadn't gone to the parking garage to meet her attackers.

Perhaps she had gone to meet her source, and they were both ambushed.

I pushed past Maya and walked straight back into Nora’s room.

“Nora,” I said gently but firmly.

She looked up from her phone.

“Maya just told me about the scholarship investigation.”