My father refused to speak to me after I dropped out of medical school to care for my sick boyfriend — 5 years later, he drove over to "take me home," but the moment he stepped into our apartment, he froze and said, "This can't be real!"

We all looked at the phone.

Renner had found Elliot's number.

That meant he'd gone looking for it.

That meant the call to Dad hadn't been enough, and Vivian Shen's questions had reached him faster than he'd expected, and now he was trying a different angle.

"Put it on speaker," I said.

Elliot answered.

"Hello."

"Is this Elliot?" The smoothness was thinner now.

Something underneath it was working harder.

"It is."

"My name is Marcus Renner.

I'm a colleague of Richard Calloway — I believe you know him.

I'm calling because I think there may be a way to resolve a professional matter that's become unnecessarily complicated.

I understand you've been close to this research project.

I'd like to speak with you directly, man to man, without —"

"Without my partner in the room?" Elliot said.

A beat.

"I simply thought a direct conversation might be more productive."

"She's sitting next to me," Elliot said.

"Her father is across the table.

You're on speaker."

The line was quiet for three full seconds.

"Dr.

Renner," Dad said.

"You've now contacted me, my daughter, and her partner in the space of one evening.

The Calloway Institute has her documentation.

The board chair will have it by morning.

I want you to think carefully about what you do next."

"Richard, I've always respected you —"

"Then act like it," Dad said.

"Withdraw the submission.

Tonight.

Whatever statement you filed this afternoon, retract it.

If you do that, this ends here."

"And if I don't?"

"Then Dr.

Shen takes it to formal review with forty-six documents that show, in sequence, exactly how this work was created and by whom.

Your name appears in those documents, Marcus.

In your own words.

Asking her to explain her methodology to you."

Silence.

"That could be characterized as standard academic consultation," Renner said.

But the steadiness in his voice had developed a crack.

"It could," Dad said.

"It won't be."

Another silence.

Longer.

"I want to speak to a lawyer before I make any decisions," Renner said.

"That's your right," Dad said.

"But the board opens at eight.

Whatever you decide, decide it before then."

Renner ended the call.

Elliot set the phone on the table.

None of us spoke for a moment.

"He's not going to withdraw tonight," I said.

"No," Dad said.

"But he's scared.

Scared men make mistakes." He looked at me.

"Get some sleep.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

"I can't sleep."

"I know." He stood up, picked up the printed draft again.

"Then walk me through the inflammatory response section.

Explain it to me the way you'd explain it to someone who hasn't read the earlier chapters."

I looked at him.

"I want to understand what he tried to take," Dad said simply.

So I explained it.

I stood at the whiteboard and walked him through it from the beginning, the way I'd built it, the reasoning behind each step, the dead ends and the corrections and the moment six months ago when the data had finally resolved into something that held.

Elliot sat quietly at the table and didn't interrupt.

Dad asked questions — real ones, the kind that pushed on the weak points, the kind he used to ask when I was in high school and we'd go through my biology textbooks together on Sunday mornings.

It was two-thirty in the morning when I finished.

Dad stood looking at the whiteboard.

"This is good work," he said.

"This is genuinely good work."

"I know," I said.

Not arrogantly.

Just honestly.

He nodded.

"Yes.

You do."

My phone buzzed.

I looked down.