I slipped inside, pressing myself against the cold cinderblock wall. The hallways were dark, illuminated only by the faint red glow of the exit signs. My heart beat so hard in my chest it felt bruising.
I moved silently down the corridor, passing the chemistry labs, until I reached the CPR training room. The door was closed.
I reached for the handle and twisted. It was unlocked.
I slipped inside and closed the door behind me, plunging myself into near total darkness. The streetlights outside cast long, eerie shadows across the rubber CPR dummies, making them look like corpses laid out in a morgue.
I turned on my phone’s flashlight, shielding the beam with my hand so it wouldn't be visible from the hallway. I moved quickly to the back of the room, approaching the heavy metal door of the equipment supply closet.
I inspected the electronic lock. It had a card reader. I didn't have a keycard.
I cursed under my breath, my frustration boiling over. I looked around the room, desperate. My eyes landed on the teacher's desk at the front of the lab. The top drawer was slightly ajar.
I hurried over and pulled the drawer open. Paperclips, pens, a few spare charging cables. Nothing useful. But toward the back, hidden under a stack of graded papers, was a heavy, industrial flashlight and a thick flathead screwdriver.
I grabbed the screwdriver, rushed back to the closet door, and wedged the flat metal head into the gap between the door and the electronic strike plate.
It was loud. The metal scraped against metal with a sickening screech. I leaned my entire body weight into the handle, gritting my teeth as the pressure built. Pop.
The lock gave way. The heavy door swung open, hitting the wall with a dull thud.
I aimed my flashlight inside. The closet was filled with extra plastic lungs, boxes of sterile wipes, and spare mannequin heads wrapped in plastic.
I systematically searched the shelves, tossing boxes aside in a frantic rush.
On the very bottom shelf, hidden behind a stack of deflated rubber lungs, was a small, black velvet box. It looked completely out of place in a medical supply closet. It looked like a jewelry box.
My breath hitched. I reached out and pulled the box toward me.
I opened it.
Inside resting on the black velvet was a small, silver USB flash drive.
I stared at it, triumph and terror fighting for control in my chest. This was it. This was the drive Chloe was panicking about. This was what Harper had hidden.
Suddenly, a loud, echoing clatter sounded from the hallway right outside the lab.
"Who's down there?" a deep, booming voice yelled. A high-powered flashlight beam swept across the frosted glass of the lab door. It was the night security guard.
Panic spiked instantly. I slammed the velvet box shut and shoved it deep into my jacket pocket. I clicked my phone flashlight off, plunging the room into darkness.
I heard the jingle of heavy keys. The door handle rattled.
I scrambled backward, ducking behind the nearest lab table, curling my body into a tight ball just as the door swung open.
The security guard's flashlight cut through the room, sweeping across the rows of dummies. The beam passed three feet above my head. I held my breath, squeezing my eyes shut, my heart screaming in my ears.
"Hello?" the guard called out.
I knew if he walked two steps further, he would see the broken closet door. He would call Thorne. He would call the police.
I had to create a distraction.
I reached onto the desk beside me, my fingers brushing against an empty glass beaker. With a violent flick of my wrist, I threw it as hard as I could toward the back corner of the room, away from the door.
Crash.
The glass shattered loudly against the far wall. The guard flinched, shining his light into the corner.
In that exact moment, I bolted.
I shot out from under the table, running silently on the balls of my feet. I slipped through the open door right behind the guard, hitting the hallway at a full sprint.
"Hey! Stop right there!" the guard bellowed, but I was already gone.
I ran faster than I ever had in my life, taking the corner so hard my sneakers skidded on the tile. I crashed through the propped-open loading dock doors, bursting out into the cold, rainy night. I didn't stop running until I was three blocks away, collapsing into the driver's seat of my Civic, gasping for air.
I locked the car doors and sat in the dark, shivering uncontrollably.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small black box. The metal of the USB drive felt freezing cold against my thumb.
I had to know. Right now.
I reached into the passenger seat and pulled my cheap, battered laptop out of my backpack. I flipped it open, the bright screen illuminating the dark, rainy interior of my car. My battery was at 14%.
I plugged the USB drive into the port.
A folder popped up on the screen. There was only one file inside. It wasn't an audio recording from the device Liam checked out. It was a video file labeled: STAIRWELL_CAM_03.mp4.
The school had claimed the security cameras in the East Wing were down for maintenance the day Sarah fell. It was a lie. Someone had downloaded the footage and hid it.