I flipped to the next page. More numbers. But this time, they weren't six digits. They were different.
L-314. Combo: 17-04-32.
L-318. Combo: 09-21-14.
L-342. Combo: 28-11-05.
Locker combinations.
My eyes widened. The lockers in the junior hallway started with 'L'. Leo had written down the combinations to a dozen different lockers in the school. Why? Was he storing something? Or was he tracking something?
I stared at the last entry on the page.
L-409. Combo: 12-34-18.
I felt a chill race down my spine. L-409 wasn't just any locker. It was Leo's old locker. The one the school administration had permanently sealed after he died, claiming it was out of respect, though everyone knew it was because they didn't want a memorial for a thief.
I traced the numbers with a shaking finger. 12-34-18.
If Chloe was terrified of this notebook, there was something in these pages that could hurt her. Something that proved she, or someone she protected, was involved with what happened to Leo. I had survived a year by playing dead. But playing dead hadn't saved my brother, and it hadn't saved my dad.
It was time to wake up.
I stuffed the notebook back into my pocket, unlocked the stall, and stepped out into the empty restroom. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. I stared at myself in the mirror. My face was pale, my eyes wide and bloodshot, but the grey hood cast a sharp, dark line across my forehead.
I didn't recognize the girl looking back at me. And I didn't want to.
I needed to open locker 409.
CHAPTER 2
The hallway was deserted. Fifth period had started ten minutes ago, which meant the corridors were completely clear of teachers on patrol. The only sound was the distant drone of Mr. Harrison’s voice echoing through the open door of a history classroom down the hall.
I walked quickly, my rubber-soled boots making barely a whisper against the polished floor.
Locker 409 was located in the oldest wing of the building, a narrow, poorly lit corridor that housed the administrative archives and the overflow lockers. No one liked getting assigned a locker down here. It smelled like damp paper and old floor wax.
I stopped in front of it. The school had placed a blank metal plate over the name slot, a silent erasure of Leo’s existence. A standard school-issued Master lock hung from the heavy steel latch.
I pulled the blue notebook from my pocket, double-checking the sequence. 12-34-18.
My hands were still trembling from the cafeteria confrontation. I took a deep breath, pinched the cold metal dial, and spun it to the right. Past zero. Past ten. I stopped on 12.
Click.
I reversed the dial to the left. One full rotation, stopping on 34.
Click.
I spun it to the right again, directly to 18.
I gripped the black latch and pulled up.
The lock popped open with a heavy metallic thud. My heart leaped into my throat. The school had never changed the combination. They just assumed no one would ever want to look inside.
I pulled the lock free, hooked it onto the loop, and slowly opened the narrow steel door.
The inside was coated in a thin layer of dust. The top shelf was empty. The hooks were bare. But resting perfectly flat on the bottom metal floor of the locker was a thick, brown manila envelope, heavily sealed with clear packing tape.
I dropped to one knee, glancing nervously over my shoulder. The hallway remained empty.
I grabbed the envelope. It was surprisingly heavy. Using my thumbnail, I tore through the packing tape and pulled the flap open. Inside, I found a black plastic USB flash drive, and a stack of printed, stapled papers.
I pulled the papers out. They were official bank transfer forms. At the top left corner, the letterhead read: Oakridge Athletics Foundation.
I scanned the columns. My eyes blurred as I tried to make sense of the financial jargon. There were routing numbers, massive withdrawal amounts, and offshore account destinations. This was it. This was the proof of the embezzlement that had ruined our lives.