Sitting in Vanessa’s living room, the weight of what we were about to do settled heavily in the air. Vanessa’s tearful confession had given us a clearer picture of what had happened with Professor Mitchell, but the question remained: how could we use what we knew to make him pay?
“This isn’t just about him being the father of your baby,” Jake said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “If we want to make him face real consequences, we need more. We need proof that he manipulated you, that he threatened or coerced you.”
Vanessa looked up, her eyes rimmed red. “He did,” she whispered. “He said if I told anyone, he’d ruin me. That no one would believe me. He said he’d make sure my parents disowned me if I didn’t...” She trailed off, her voice cracking.
I placed a hand on her knee, my heart aching for her. “Vanessa, I know this is hard, but we need to know everything. Did he ever send you messages? Emails? Anything that could prove what he said?”
She hesitated, her gaze flicking between me and Jake. “There were texts,” she said finally. “He used to text me all the time. After it happened, he kept saying he wanted to ‘keep things discreet.’ That if I didn’t cooperate, he’d make my life hell.”
Jake’s jaw tightened. “Do you still have them?”
Vanessa shook her head. “I deleted everything when my dad found out about the pregnancy. He would’ve killed me if he saw those messages.”
A pang of frustration shot through me, but I pushed it aside. “Even if the messages are gone, there has to be another way,” I said. “Maybe he still has them on his phone. Or maybe there’s a way to recover them.”
***
Later that evening, after we left Vanessa’s house, Jake and I met up with Sarah to strategize. I filled her in on what Vanessa had told us, and her face darkened with determination.
“We need to get creative,” Sarah said. “If he was texting Vanessa, there’s a good chance he was sloppy in other areas too. Guys like Mitchell always think they’re untouchable. We just need to find the cracks in his armor.”
Jake nodded. “What about his phone? If we could get access to it...”
“That’s risky,” Sarah said. “And it could backfire if we get caught.”
I bit my lip, thinking. “What if we didn’t need his phone? What if we could track him down and find out where he’s working now? Maybe he’s done this to other people. If we can find someone else he’s hurt, it might strengthen our case.”
Jake frowned. “Do you know where he is now?”
I hesitated, then shook my head. “No. But I know someone who might be able to help.”
The next day, I met with Dr. Harper, one of the professors at my school who had always been supportive of my goals to pursue medicine. She was sharp, resourceful, and someone I trusted completely.
When I explained the situation to her—leaving out the names and exact details—her expression shifted from curiosity to grim understanding.
“Emma,” she said, her voice steady but serious. “What you’re describing isn’t just a personal issue. It’s a legal one. If this man did what you’re saying, he needs to be held accountable. But you’ll need more than hearsay to make that happen.”
“I know,” I said. “But we don’t even know where he is now. He left the school after everything happened, and we haven’t been able to track him down.”
Dr. Harper tapped her pen against her desk, deep in thought. “If he worked at a university, there might be a record of where he transferred. Professors don’t just disappear—they leave trails. I can do some digging and see what I can find.”
Relief washed over me. “Thank you,” I said, my voice filled with gratitude. “This means so much to me.”
Dr. Harper gave me a small smile. “Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see what we can find first.”
A week later, we had a breakthrough.
Dr. Harper called me into her office, her expression a mix of triumph and concern. “Emma, I found him,” she said, sliding a folder across the desk.
Inside was a printout of Mitchell’s professional history. After leaving our school, he’d taken a position at a small private university in a neighboring city.
“He’s still teaching,” Dr. Harper said, her voice laced with disgust. “And if what you’ve told me is true, he’s still a threat.”
That evening, I met with Jake and Sarah to share the news.
“We’ve got him,” I said, spreading the documents out on the table. “He’s teaching at Ashford University. We can go there, confront him, maybe even talk to the administration if we need to.”
Jake frowned. “That’s risky. If he catches wind of this, he could lawyer up or try to disappear again.”
“We don’t have to confront him right away,” Sarah said. “What if we start by talking to his students? If he’s done this before, there’s a chance someone else has a story to tell. If we can gather enough evidence, we can take it to the authorities.”
The plan began to take shape. Over the next few days, Sarah, Jake, and I worked tirelessly to dig deeper into Mitchell’s history. We searched online forums, reached out to former students, and even found a few old reviews that hinted at inappropriate behavior.
Meanwhile, Vanessa agreed to look through her old backups and emails, just in case something had been saved without her realizing it.
It wasn’t easy, and every step forward felt like a battle. But with every piece of evidence we uncovered, the picture became clearer: Professor Mitchell wasn’t just a predator—he was a serial manipulator who had been getting away with it for far too long.
And now, finally, we had a chance to stop him.