When I reached St. Catherine, Vivian was kneeling on the third stone step—the same place I had fallen 22 years earlier.
Rain streamed through her hair. The instant she saw me, she lurched forward on her knees.
"Marianne, please spare Lily. She earned every one of her grades. I arranged the authorship. She only did what I told her."
Sobbing, Vivian caught the hem of my coat. "She's only 24."
I stopped in front of her. "22 years ago, I was only 25."
Her voice caught.
"She's still young. She has her whole life ahead of her."
"So did I."
"She knows she was wrong," Vivian pleaded. "She'll apologize publicly. She'll withdraw her name from every paper. Isn't admitting what she did enough?"
"She lost 3 years." I stared down at her. "You took 22 from me. She still has her degree, her job,
