Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Columbia
The admissions building at Columbia University was an imposing structure of neoclassical architecture, its grand stone pillars standing as sentinels of elite academia. To me, it looked like a fortress.
I stood in the lobby of the admissions office, my worn sneakers looking entirely out of place against the polished wood floors. Students around me were dressed in designer casual wear, accompanied by parents who carried themselves with the same effortless confidence my mother and father possessed.
"Name, please?" the young woman behind the desk asked, not looking up from her computer.
"Emily. Emily Mercer."
The woman's fingers paused over the keyboard. She typed the name, then paused again. She looked up, her eyes wide as she examined my faded clothes and the backpack held together by a safety pin. "Are you the Emily Mercer from Illinois? The state valedictorian?"
"Yes."
"Please hold one moment." She didn't just transfer a call; she stood up and walked directly into a back office.
A few minutes later, an older man with silver hair and a sharp tweed jacket stepped out. His name tag read Dr. Arthur Vance, Dean of Undergraduate Admissions. His expression was a mix of profound relief and intense curiosity.
"Emily," he said, offering a warm hand. "We have been trying to reach you for three days. Come into my office, please."
As the door clicked shut behind me, Dr. Vance offered me a seat. "Your high school guidance counselor, a Mrs. Avery, contacted our office forty-eight hours ago. She informed us of a... highly volatile domestic situation. She also mentioned that your parents might attempt to rescind your enrollment or claim you were missing."
"They told me I couldn't come," I whispered, my voice sounding small in the grand room. "They wanted me to work in an auto-parts factory to pay for my brother's spending money at college."
Dr. Vance’s jaw tightened. "Mrs. Avery forwarded us your academic file independently, along with documentation regarding the police investigation currently unfolding in Highland Park. Emily, I want to be entirely clear: your place at Columbia is secure. We have converted your financial aid package to a full-ride institutional scholarship covering tuition, housing, and stipends. You do not need your parents' signatures, and you do not need their money."
A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. For ten years, I had been told that my brain was a useless parlor trick, that my only value was what I could provide for Tyler.
"Thank you," I choked out.
"However," Dr. Vance continued gently, "there is a complication. Your father filed a formal report with the Illinois State Police claiming you fled the state with stolen funds. Because you crossed state lines, the FBI was briefly notified. Mrs. Avery has provided evidence that refutes his claims, but until the legal matters are resolved, your official enrollment must remain confidential. We are placing you in a secure, private university-owned apartment rather than a standard freshman dorm. For your own safety."
"Is my father going to jail?" I asked.
"The investigation into child endangerment and filing a false police report is ongoing," Dr. Vance said carefully. "But men like Richard Mercer have powerful lawyers. He is currently out on bail, and his legal team is attempting to scrub the records. They are claiming the 'balcony' was simply a renovated sunroom and that you are an estranged child suffering from mental delusions."
The news didn't surprise me. My father had spent his entire life buying his way out of consequences. When he hit a pedestrian with his car five years ago, the police report vanished within twenty-four hours, replaced by a settlement that bought the victim's silence.
That afternoon, I was escorted to my new home—a small, clean studio apartment in a quiet residential building owned by the university near Morningside Heights. It had a real bed, a small kitchenette, and a massive window that looked out onto a courtyard filled with oak trees.
For the first week, I couldn't sleep in the bed. It felt too soft, too spacious, too dangerous. I found myself pulling the mattress tracker down to the floor, sleeping next to the wall because the enclosure felt safer.
I spent my days in the library, losing myself in advanced mathematics and economic theory. The numbers didn't lie; they didn't change their mind based on who was looking at them. In the world of equations, I was completely safe.
But the peace didn't last.
Three weeks into the semester, as October brought the first true chill of autumn, I was walking back from a late-night study session at the library. The street was quiet, the lamps casting long shadows across the pavement.
A black SUV with tinted windows pulled up to the curb beside me.
The door slid open.
"Emily," a voice called out from the darkness inside the vehicle.
May you like
It wasn't my father. It wasn't my mother. It was a voice I had never heard before—low, authoritative, and distinctly feminine.
"Get in," the woman said. "Before your father's private investigators find you. We have very little time."
