"Maya?" Chase’s voice whimpered. He sounded young, pathetic, entirely sobered by terror. "Maya, get out. The door is jammed. Kick it."
"Ryan," Maya gasped, her voice thick with pain. "Chase, help me get Ryan."
"He's not moving," Chase panicked. The sound of a seatbelt clicking and a heavy door being forced open groaned through the speakers. "Maya, leave him! We have to leave him!"
"Are you insane?! Call 911!"
"My dad will kill me!" Chase screamed, the desperation in his voice echoing in my quiet bedroom. "I had three beers, Maya! If they test me, I lose the scholarship. I lose everything! Ryan's already gone. Look at him!"
"Don't touch me! Chase, stop!"
There was a scuffle, the sound of boots splashing in deep mud.
"I'm sorry," Chase cried. "I'm so sorry."
The footsteps faded into the distance, leaving only Maya’s sobbing and the relentless rain. The recording clicked off.
I ripped the headphones from my ears, gasping as if I had been the one trapped in the sinking car. My chest heaved. My hands gripped the edge of my cheap particle-board desk so hard my knuckles were white.
The official story was that Ryan had been driving alone. That he had swerved to miss a deer. That it was a tragic, unavoidable accident.
Chase hadn't just been in the car. Chase had been driving drunk. And when his brother was unconscious, bleeding, dying in the backseat, Chase had dragged Maya out and abandoned his own flesh and blood to protect his football scholarship.
And Mayor Harding had covered the whole thing up.
I stared at the neon pink phone as if it were a live grenade. Maya must have turned on her voice memo app during the argument, trying to capture Chase's reckless behavior, only to inadvertently record the murder of her boyfriend.
But why did Maya leave town? Why didn't she take this to the police?
I tapped back into the messages. I scrolled up to the days following the crash. There were no outgoing messages from Maya, only incoming texts from an unknown number.
Unknown: Your tuition at Northeastern is fully paid. Four years. You get on the bus tomorrow. If you show anyone that phone, your father's business will face a tax audit that will leave him in federal prison.
They bought her silence. They threatened her family, paid for her college, and forced her to run. She must have hidden the phone in the darkroom before she left, either because she was afraid of being searched at the bus station, or because she wanted someone to find it.
I didn't sleep that night. I sat by the window, watching the streetlights flicker, every shadow looking like a police cruiser slowly rolling past my building.
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen. My mom was standing at the counter in her worn courthouse uniform, pouring bitter coffee into a travel mug. The dark circles under her eyes seemed heavier today.
"Morning, Leo," she said, offering a tired smile. Then her eyes darted to my face. Her hand froze. "What happened to your cheek?"
I turned away, pulling open the refrigerator door to hide my face. "Got elbowed playing basketball in gym class."
"Leo." Her voice was stern, laced with the anxiety of a parent who knows they can't afford a hospital bill. "Look at me."
I closed the fridge and faced her. She gently touched the bruised skin over my cheekbone, her eyes filled with a familiar, weary sadness.
"I'm fine, Mom. Just a clumsy collision."
She sighed, kissing my forehead. "Be careful, please. I have the late shift at the records room tonight. Mayor Harding is pushing up the timeline on the Lake Lawson development permits, so we're drowning in paperwork. There’s leftover pasta in the fridge for dinner."
"Lake Lawson?" I asked, the name sending a cold spike through my stomach.
"Yeah. The town is clearing out the old boathouses to build luxury condos. It's causing a massive headache. Anyway, have a good day, sweetie."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Lake Lawson. Where Ryan died. They were clearing out the old boathouses.
I grabbed my bag, making sure the pink phone was buried deep at the bottom, wrapped in a spare sweater. I had a terrible feeling about taking it to school, but I couldn't leave it in the apartment. If Chase realized I had handed him a decoy, my bedroom would be the first place he’d look.
Walking into Harding High that morning felt like stepping into an arena blindfolded.
The whispers started before I even reached my locker. Kids were staring at me, holding up their phones, snickering behind their hands. The video. Trent and Kyle must have posted the clip of me being slammed into the wall.
I kept my head down, spinning the dial on my locker.
"Hey, ghost."
The voice was a low, arrogant rumble. I closed my locker. Chase was standing there, flanked by his three shadows. He looked pale, exhausted, but his eyes were dangerous.
"You think you're clever?" Chase whispered, stepping so close I could smell the strong mint on his breath. "I checked that piece of trash you dropped in the alley. It's a dead iPhone 8. Where is it, Leo?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, keeping my voice flat.