Vincent looked out the wide window at the dark outline of Harvard Yard stretching toward the Charles River.
“The Claire Bennett Memorial Institute for Advanced Mathematical Research,” Vincent dictated, his voice cracking with old sorrow.
“And Harold,” Vincent added, his tone sharpening into cold, iron authority.
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“Noah Bennett is never to know where that funding originated until the day my pulse ceases permanently on this earth,” he commanded.
He ended the call, set the phone face down on the polished mahogany, and buried his face in his hands as the midnight rain began to fall.
PART 7: The Midnight Promenade
The rain fell in soft, rhythmic sheets over Harvard Yard, turning the red brick paths into mirrors reflecting the amber streetlights.
Noah and I walked beneath my black umbrella, our footsteps synchronizing in the quiet sanctuary of the ancient campus.
Neither of us had spoken since leaving the hotel; the weight of the evening’s revelations hung between us like a physical bridge.
