My hand trembled violently as I used the trackpad to double-click the file.
The video opened. The footage was grainy and black-and-white, but the angle clearly showed the top landing of the grand marble staircase.
At the bottom of the screen, the timestamp read the exact date and time of Sarah’s accident.
I hit play.
Sarah walked into the frame, carrying her heavy anatomy textbook. She stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down, seemingly waiting for someone.
A moment later, a figure stepped into the frame from the right. It wasn't Chloe. It wasn't Liam.
It was a tall man in a tailored suit.
I leaned closer, my breath fogging the laptop screen. As the man turned his face toward the camera, the low resolution caught his features clearly enough.
It was Principal Thorne.
My stomach plummeted into my shoes. I watched, paralyzed by horror, as Thorne pointed a finger in Sarah’s face. They were arguing violently. Sarah shook her head, clutching her textbook to her chest, defiant. She took a step backward, dangerously close to the edge of the top step.
Thorne lunged forward. Not to hit her, but grabbing desperately for something in her pocket.
Sarah shoved his arm away. Thorne reacted with brutal violence. He raised both hands and shoved her hard, square in the chest.
Sarah lost her footing. Her arms windmilled backward. She vanished from the frame, and a second later, the horrifying, undeniable blur of her body tumbled down the marble stairs.
Thorne stood at the top, watching her fall. He didn't run down to help. He didn't reach into his pocket to call 911. He just calmly straightened his tie, turned on his heel, and walked out of frame.
I stared at the screen, tears of absolute rage blurring my vision. It wasn't an accident. And it wasn't a teenage bullying prank gone wrong. The Principal of the school had tried to murder my sister.
I reached up to hit the pause button.
But before my finger could touch the trackpad, a deafening, terrifying CRASH shattered the passenger-side window of my car.
A heavy, jagged brick flew through the glass, raining sharp fragments entirely over my lap and the keyboard. I screamed, throwing my arms up over my face as the cold, wet night air rushed into the car.
I looked at the brick resting on my passenger seat among the broken glass. Wrapped around it was a piece of white paper secured with a rubber band.
My hands shaking so badly I could barely move, I pulled the paper off.
Written in thick black marker were four words:
YOUR TIME IS UP.
CHAPTER 3
The freezing rain poured through the shattered passenger window, soaking my jeans and mixing with the tiny cubes of broken glass scattered across my lap.
I stared blindly out into the dark, empty street, my chest heaving with ragged, terrified breaths. There was no one visible in the shadows of the large oak trees. The person who threw the brick had melted away into the darkness, leaving only the terrifying silence of the neighborhood.
Your time is up.
They had followed me from the school. They knew I had the drive.
A primal surge of survival instinct finally snapped me out of my shock. I threw the brick onto the floorboard, carefully brushing the glass off the glowing keyboard of my laptop. I pulled the USB drive free, shoving it deep into the front pocket of my jeans. I slammed the laptop shut, tossed it into the backseat, and frantically jammed the key into the ignition.
The old engine choked, sputtered, and finally roared to life. I slammed the car into drive and hit the gas, speeding away from the school without even turning my headlights on until I was a mile away.
I drove aimlessly for twenty minutes, terrified they were tailing me. I couldn't go home. If they threw a brick through my car window, what would they do to my house? What would they do to my exhausted mother?
I realized I only had one play left.
The police.
I pulled into the bright, harsh lights of the precinct parking lot downtown. It was a brutalist concrete building that usually felt intimidating, but tonight, it looked like a fortress. I grabbed the USB drive from my pocket, gripping it tightly in my fist, and marched through the double glass doors.
The reception area was quiet. A single desk sergeant was reading a magazine behind thick bulletproof glass.
"Excuse me," I said, my voice hoarse. "I need to report an attempted murder. And a cover-up."
The sergeant looked up, his bored expression slowly morphing into mild annoyance as he took in my soaked clothes, my wild hair, and the dark red bruise blooming across my left cheek.
"Take a seat, sweetheart," he grunted. "An officer will be out in a minute."
I paced the waiting room floor for what felt like an hour. My adrenaline was crashing, leaving me shivering and nauseous. I just needed to show them the video. The video was irrefutable. Thorne pushing Sarah. The whole corrupt system of St. Jude's would come crashing down.
Finally, a heavy door clicked open.
"Miss Reynolds?" a deep voice asked.
I spun around. My heart skipped a beat, and a fresh wave of ice-cold dread washed over me.