Chapter 4The Decimal Point That Ruined Her

From June to September, I waited.

I waited for Beth to write her paper using that poisoned data. I waited for her to commit.

I did nothing but run my own experiments and give my usual, lukewarm updates to Whitaker. His attitude remained cold. His attitude toward Beth remained... indulgent.

In late September, Beth took a week off, saying she was visiting her mother.

I was at the lab printer when I saw a discarded page in the recycling bin. It was a Table of Contents for a manuscript.

The title was nearly identical to my research.

Lead Author: Beth Miller.

Corresponding Author: Dr. Richard Whitaker.

I folded the paper and put it in my bag. I scanned it, uploaded it, and emailed it to myself.

Mid-October, Beth’s paper was published.

It landed in a high-impact journal. The lab was buzzing. During our weekly meeting, Whitaker stood up and singled her out.

"Beth’s work is a testament to clarity and drive. She is quite possibly the most brilliant student I’ve had the pleasure of mentoring in years."

Beth stood up, blushing, looking modest. "I couldn't have done it without Dr. Whitaker’s guidance."

The look they exchanged was one everyone in the room understood.

After the meeting, I sat at my desk and downloaded her paper. I read every word.

The methodology, the framework—it was mine.

I scrolled to Section Three: Results and Analysis.

Third control group: p=0.03.

She hadn't even caught it. She’d copied the error, character for character.

I closed my laptop and exhaled.

Game on.

One week later, the University Academic Integrity Committee received an anonymous tip.

The tip didn't target Beth. It targeted me.

The report claimed that I, Julie, had been spying on Beth’s research, stealing her ideas, and making "hostile remarks" about her in private.

Attached were five "witness statements" from my lab mates.

Kaitlyn wrote: Julie was always trying to look at Beth’s screen.

A junior named Mark wrote: Julie told me Beth’s data was 'fake' to try and discredit her.

Each statement was a half-truth or a fabrication, woven together to create a portrait of a jealous, unstable girl.

The committee launched an investigation.

I was placed on administrative leave. My keycard was confiscated.

Whitaker held a lab meeting without naming me, but his message was clear: "Academic dishonesty is a red line. Anyone who crosses it is dead to this profession."

The room looked at me. No one spoke up. Hannah kept her head down, flipping through her notes.

That afternoon, the university’s anonymous message board exploded.

[LEAK: Grad student in the Bio-Sciences caught stealing roommate's thesis]

The thread was vicious.

“Kick the academic trash out.”

“Imagine stealing from the girl who literally helped you pay tuition.”

“I heard she’s a total psycho. A real backstabber.”

The last comment had the most upvotes.

I shut down the forum. My phone rang. It was my mother.

"Honey," her voice was trembling. "Tell me the truth. Did you... is what they’re saying true?"

I gripped the phone. "No, Mom. I didn't do it."

Silence. "Then... then you have to explain it to them. You have to make them listen."

"I will."

I sat on the edge of my dorm bed. Beth wasn't there. She’d been staying "out"—likely at Whitaker’s condo.

I looked at my hands.

In my first life, I would have broken here. I would have run to Whitaker crying, tried to explain it to the committee, sounding more guilty with every desperate word. And then Beth would have started "worrying" about my mental health.

Not this time.

I set my phone to Do Not Disturb and opened my evidence folder.

The next day, Beth came back to the dorm to pack a bag. She saw me at my desk, hesitated, and then sat down across from me.

"Julie."

"Mhm."

"How are you... holding up?"

"I’m fine."

"I heard about the investigation. I don't even know what to say. I just think the pressure got to you."

She reached out and put her hand over mine. Her skin was cool.

"Maybe you should see someone? The campus clinic has great counselors. I can make an appointment for you."

I looked at her hand. Perfectly manicured. A small bite mark on her middle finger—a nervous habit she had when she was lying.

In my last life, this was the hand that signed my commitment papers.

"I don't need a counselor," I said, pulling my hand away. "I’m perfectly sane."

Beth sighed. "Julie, don't bottle it up. I’m really worried about you. I’m afraid you’ll do something... drastic."

I looked her in the eye. "Beth."

"Yeah?"

"When are you going to pay me back that thousand dollars?"

Her face stiffened for a heartbeat. Then she smiled.

"See? This is what I mean. You’re fixating on money. It’s not a normal way to react to all of this. You really need help, Julie."

She grabbed her things and left. As the door clicked shut, I heard her pick up her phone in the hallway.

"Dr. Whitaker? Yeah, she’s getting worse... she said some really strange things... I’m scared, Richard. What do we do?"

Her voice faded as she hit the stairs.

I opened my laptop and logged the time and content of the conversation.

Save. Sync. Email.

The hearing was set for Wednesday.

I made one more call.

"Hi, is this the Facilities and Security office? I’d like to request a formal backup of the hallway footage from the Science Building. May 17th. Yes, I have the case number from the Dean’s office."