He spoke in a low voice, nodded twice, and hung up.

“She will see you for ten minutes,” he said, gesturing toward the inner office.

I walked in, the heavy door clicking shut behind me.

Dean Vance sat behind a massive mahogany desk cluttered with neat stacks of paper.

She wore a sharp tweed blazer, her silver hair pulled back into a tight, flawless bun.

Her eyes were sharp, scanning me from head to toe.

“Ava,” she said, her voice dry but not unkind.

“I was sorry to hear about Eleanor’s passing.”

“Thank you, Dean Vance,” I said, sitting in the leather chair opposite her.

“I wish I were here under better circumstances.”

She crossed her hands on the desk. “The registrar’s office flagged your account this morning, Ava.”

“Your tuition payment was retracted by the bank.”

“If this is a financial dispute, you need to speak with student accounts, not me.”

“It is not a dispute,” I said, placing the black folder on her desk.

“It is a crime.”

She looked at the folder, then back at me, her brow furrowing.

“Explain,” she said.