Thorne stepped into the lab, his cold eyes immediately locking onto me crouched on the floor, my face bright red, holding my phone up.
"She hit me," I said immediately, scrambling to my feet and hitting the 'stop recording' button. I slid the phone deep into my pocket, terrified they would try to take it. "Chloe just assaulted me."
Thorne didn't look at the massive red welt forming on my face. He didn't ask if I needed ice or a nurse. He looked at Chloe, who was suddenly trembling, tears springing to her eyes as if on command.
"She attacked me, Uncle Richard," Chloe sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "She came in here screaming about Sarah. She cornered me. I just pushed her away because I was scared."
"That's a lie!" I shouted, the injustice burning hotter than the physical pain. "I have it on video! She slapped me!"
"Miss Reynolds," Thorne said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that demanded absolute obedience. "You will lower your voice. Hand me the phone."
"No," I said, taking a step back toward the door. "No, this is my property. You have no right."
"You are secretly recording other students in an unauthorized area," Thorne said smoothly, stepping toward me. "That is a severe violation of the student code of conduct. Furthermore, you have been harassing Miss Sterling for days regarding a tragic accident that the police have already closed."
"She knows something!" I yelled, pointing at Chloe, who was now being comforted by her silent friends. "She flinched when I mentioned the staircase!"
Thorne’s expression hardened into granite. "My office. Now."
The walk to the administration wing felt like a death march. Every student we passed stared at my red face and my cheap clothes, whispering behind their hands. When we got to Thorne’s massive, mahogany-paneled office, he didn't even offer me a seat.
He stood behind his massive desk, steepling his fingers.
"I am trying to be sympathetic to your grief, Maya," Thorne began, his voice dripping with condescension. "Your sister's accident has been difficult for the entire St. Jude's community. But your behavior is becoming a liability."
"She slapped me," I repeated, my voice shaking. "You're supposed to protect students."
"I am protecting my students," Thorne said coldly. "From you. You've instigated a physical altercation with the valedictorian. You are illegally recording people. You are suspended for five days, effective immediately."
"Suspended?" I gasped, the air rushing out of my lungs. If I was suspended, my scholarship was voided. If my scholarship was voided, my mother owed the full semester tuition. It would ruin us. "You can't do that. I have proof!"
"If that video surfaces anywhere online, Miss Reynolds," Thorne said, leaning forward, his eyes dead and flat, "I will personally see to it that the Sterling family attorneys bury your mother in defamation lawsuits until she loses her home. Do you understand me? You will leave this campus, and you will stay gone until you learn to accept reality."
I couldn't speak. The sheer weight of the corruption pressed down on my chest until I felt like I was suffocating. I turned and practically ran out of the office.
The drive home was a blur of tears and adrenaline. My 2008 Honda Civic rattled violently as I took the turns too fast, my tires splashing through muddy puddles. When I finally pulled into the driveway of our small, vinyl-sided house on the edge of town, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely pull the keys out of the ignition.
My mother's car wasn't in the driveway. She was working her second shift at the diner. I was thankful for that. I didn't want her to see my face yet.
I ran inside, locked the deadbolt, and practically sprinted to my bedroom. I threw my backpack on the floor, climbed onto my bed, and pulled my phone out of my pocket.
My cheek was throbbing with a dull, constant ache. I touched it gently, wincing as my fingers brushed the swollen skin.
I unlocked my phone and opened the photo gallery. The thumbnail of the video sat right at the top. Ten seconds that had just cost me my entire future.
I hit play.
The screen filled with Chloe’s furious face. The audio picked up my voice, steady and accusing. “Did you catch her stealing the exam answers? Is that why you pushed her down a flight of marble stairs?”
I watched the slap happen again. I watched myself fall. The camera went wild for a second, capturing a dizzying blur of the ceiling, the fluorescent lights, and the edge of the lab table.
But as I watched it a second time, something caught my eye.
I paused the video, my breath hitching in my throat. I scrubbed the timeline backward, moving frame by frame through the chaotic moment when I fell toward the floor.
During that chaotic two-second window, the camera had momentarily swung toward the background, capturing Chloe's three friends. Emily and Jessica had been looking at me in shock.
But Harper wasn't looking at me.
In the chaotic background, Harper had her back turned to the conflict. She was standing by the heavy metal door of the lab's equipment supply closet. And she was using a distinct silver keycard to quickly swipe the electronic lock and slip something inside.
I leaned closer to the screen, my heart pounding in my ears.
Students didn't have access to the supply closet. It required a faculty master key. Why did Harper have one? And what was she hiding while everyone else was distracted by the slap?
I played the audio again, turning the volume all the way up and holding the speaker to my ear.
During the chaos, right after the slap, when Chloe stepped forward into my space, there was a faint, muffled sound caught on the microphone before Chloe spoke her loud threat.
It was a whisper. Frantic. Panicked.
I rewound it. Played it again.
It was Chloe, whispering under her breath before she composed herself to yell at me.
“Tell him she knows. Tell him to get rid of the drive.”
I froze. A cold shiver crawled slowly down my spine, settling heavily in the pit of my stomach.
Tell him. Who was him? And what drive?