Quinn Carter absorbed the surrounding chorus of condemnation with visible satisfaction, like a conductor listening to his orchestra hit every note.
"Nauseating," he declared, loud enough for the final row of tables to hear. "Absolutely nauseating."
Stan looked around the cafeteria, at the hostile faces, the shaking heads, the phones being pulled out to text friends who weren't present, and felt a familiar, weary amusement settle over him.
These people had taken a thirty-second interaction, stripped it of all context, filled the gaps with pure imagination, and arrived at a version of events in which Stan Harrison was a predatory monster holding a beautiful girl hostage with financial leverage. They hadn't asked Sarah. They hadn't asked him. They'd listened to Quinn Carter, Quinn Carter, a man whose primary qualification was losing a love triangle to a guy who'd also lost, and decided that was sufficient evidence to convict.
