My heart hammered against my ribs like a jackhammer. He knew. He suspected I had found something.
Trent shifted his weight, cutting off my path toward my Honda. Chloe stood blocking the sidewalk. They were entirely comfortable using their physical presence to trap me. The school was empty. There were no cameras on this side of the lot.
“Get out of my way, Brody,” I commanded, trying to project a teacher’s authority I absolutely did not feel.
“Hand over what you found, Clara,” Brody said, dropping the ‘Ms. Higgins’ title entirely. His eyes were dark, devoid of any empathy or remorse. “It’s just garbage anyway. You don’t want to lose your job over a piece of garbage, do you?”
He reached his hand out, his palm facing upward, expecting me to simply surrender. The ultimate entitlement of a boy who had never been told no.
Inside my pocket, my fingers dug into the jagged edges of the VIP permit until the sharp plastic broke the skin of my palm.
CHAPTER 4
I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.
Brody’s hand remained outstretched in the cold air, his fingers twitching slightly. Trent stepped closer, a massive, intimidating wall of muscle blocking my only clear exit.
“I said, give it to me,” Brody demanded, his voice hardening into a direct threat.
In that fraction of a second, something snapped inside me. It wasn’t just anger anymore. It was a fierce, protective survival instinct. These teenagers had shattered my mother’s body, hidden behind their wealth, and now they were trying to physically intimidate me in an empty parking lot.
I pulled my hand out of my pocket. I kept my fist tightly closed.
Brody’s smirk returned, assuming I was going to hand it over.
Instead, I lunged forward, shoved my shoulder violently into Chloe’s chest, knocking her off balance, and broke through the semi-circle.
“Hey!” Trent shouted, lunging to grab the back of my coat.
His fingers grazed the wool, but I was already sprinting. I didn’t run toward my car—I knew I would never get the keys in the ignition before Trent caught me. I ran straight for the side door of the administrative building. I had the staff master key gripped in my left hand.
I heard heavy, pounding footsteps on the asphalt behind me. Brody was fast.
I slammed my body against the heavy metal door, shoved the key into the lock, twisted, and threw my weight forward. The door gave way. I tumbled into the dark hallway, instantly whirling around to slam the door shut.
The heavy deadbolt clicked into place a microsecond before someone slammed into the outside of the metal door. The frame shuddered violently.
“Open the door!” Brody muffled voice echoed through the steel. He kicked the door, the sound ringing through the empty school. “You can’t prove anything! It’s your word against mine, and nobody cares about you!”
I backed away from the door, my chest heaving, gasping for air. I didn’t answer him. Let him kick. Let him panic.
I turned and sprinted down the dark, polished corridor, my shoes squeaking loudly against the linoleum. I didn’t stop until I reached my classroom. I locked that door behind me too, collapsing into the chair behind my desk.
My hands were shaking so violently I could barely type my password into the desktop computer.
The screen flickered to life. I opened my hand. The jagged yellow plastic was smeared with a tiny bit of my own blood where I had gripped it too tightly, but the black barcode and the serial number remained perfectly intact.
#V-8902.
I opened the district database. I bypassed the student license plate lookup and clicked directly into the Administrative Records—the file that tracked financial donations and VIP permit issuances.
My fingers flew across the keyboard. I typed the serial number exactly as it appeared on the plastic.
Search: V-8902.
The system thought for three agonizing seconds. A little blue circle spun in the center of the screen. I prayed to God that Richard Vance hadn’t already had his lawyers wipe this database too.
The screen flashed green. A file pulled up.
Permit: #V-8902.
Issued To: Brody Vance.
Vehicle Assigned: 2024 Porsche 911 Carrera, Silver.
Status: Active.
A harsh, desperate laugh tore out of my throat. I had it. It wasn’t circumstantial. It wasn’t he-said-she-said. It was a physical piece of his vehicle, definitively linking him to the exact point of impact.
I didn’t call the tired local police officer who had brushed me off in the hospital. I pulled out my phone and dialed the county sheriff’s department.
When the dispatcher answered, my voice was dead calm. “My name is Clara Higgins. I have physical evidence identifying the vehicle in the hit-and-run at Oak Creek High School. The suspect is Brody Vance. He is currently on school property, attempting to destroy evidence.”