The automatic locks engaged.
Trent pounded his fist against the glass, the impact making the entire car shake. "Open the door!" he screamed, his face contorted in rage. "I have your bag! You're dead, Evans!"
I jammed the key into the ignition, my hands shaking so badly I missed the slot twice. The engine sputtered, then roared to life. I threw it into reverse, not even looking in the rearview mirror, and slammed my foot on the gas.
The tires squealed, burning rubber against the cold asphalt. Trent had to jump backward to avoid the front bumper sweeping his legs.
I slammed the shifter into drive and sped out of the parking lot, blowing right through the stop sign at the exit. My breath came in jagged, desperate gasps. Tears were finally streaming down my face, blurring the road ahead.
I had escaped. But as I merged onto the highway, a sickening realization hit me.
They had my backpack.
They had the brown envelope. They had the bank papers with my dad's signature.
I slammed my hand against the steering wheel, letting out a scream of pure frustration. I had lost the only piece of physical evidence that could explain what happened. I had ruined it.
I pulled into the cracked concrete driveway of my small house on the South Side, turned off the engine, and just sat in the cold car for a long time, staring at the peeling paint on our front porch. I felt utterly defeated. They were too strong. The Legacy Club always won.
I unzipped the front pocket of my grey hoodie to get my house keys.
My fingers brushed against something hard.
I pulled it out, staring at the small, black rectangular piece of plastic resting in my palm.
The USB flash drive.
When I was hiding the papers in the hallway, I hadn't put the flash drive in my backpack. I had instinctively shoved it into my hoodie pocket with the blue notebook.
A spark of hope flickered in the darkness of my chest. They had the papers, but I had the data.
I rushed inside, bypassing the kitchen where my dad was asleep in his recliner, the television muting casting a blue glow over his exhausted face. I crept silently up the stairs to my room and locked the door behind me.
I booted up my old laptop, its cooling fan whirring loudly in the quiet room. I took a deep breath, inserted the flash drive into the port, and waited.
A window popped open on the screen. There was only one file on the drive. It was an audio file, labeled with a single date: October 22.
The day before the embezzlement was discovered.
I hovered the mouse over the icon. My hand was slick with sweat. I clicked play.
For three seconds, there was only the sound of static and the rustle of clothing, as if a phone had been left recording inside a pocket or a purse. And then, a voice spoke. Clear, arrogant, and terrifyingly familiar.
"I don't care how it looks, Dad. You have to fix it. If the auditors see those transfers, they're going to trace it back to the storage unit account."
It was Chloe Sterling.
A heavy, deep voice answered her. It was Mayor Sterling.
"Calm down, Chloe. The money is already moved. We just need a scapegoat. Someone with access to the system, someone desperate enough to make it believable."
"What about the mechanic kid?" Chloe asked, her tone entirely devoid of empathy. "Leo Evans. He set up the school's new server last month for extra credit. He has all the admin passwords. And everyone knows his family is broke."
"We need authorization signatures," the Mayor replied. "There's a paper trail."
"Then forge them!" Chloe snapped. "Get one of his dad's municipal inspection reports, copy the signature, and put it on the transfer forms. Date it for yesterday. By the time anyone figures it out, the money will be overseas, and the Evans family will take the fall."
I hit pause. The audio stopped, leaving the room in a deafening, ringing silence.
My lungs stopped working. The world tilted on its axis.
My dad hadn't signed those forms. He hadn't stolen the money. Leo hadn't covered for him.