“But why?!” I cried, feeling like the walls were closing in on me. “Why go through all this trouble to frame me for a felony just because I won a ribbon?”
Dad stared at the dashboard, his eyes narrowed. “Because they need you disqualified immediately. Today. Not tomorrow. Not next week.”
He looked at me. “Maya, when you were near Victoria’s horse before the competition... did you notice anything unusual?”
I thought back to the VIP stalls. “Monarch was sweating heavily. He was frantic. The grooms were trying to wipe foam off his neck, but it wasn't hot outside.”
Dad nodded slowly. “They doped the horse.”
The realization hit me like a physical blow. “The new State Equestrian rules,” I whispered. “As of this year, the first-place winner and the runner-up both have to submit mandatory blood tests to the State Commissioner within twenty-four hours of the qualifier.”
“Exactly,” Dad said. “If you won, Victoria is the runner-up. Monarch gets tested by the independent state board. He’ll fail, and Victoria gets banned.”
“But if I’m expelled and arrested for felony theft today,” I continued, the horrific genius of their plan becoming clear, “my win is vacated. The blue ribbon defaults to Victoria. She becomes the first-place winner.”
“And Arthur Kensington controls the private vet who handles the primary testing for Crestwood winners,” Dad finished. “They flush the horse’s system, submit a fake clean sample, and Victoria goes to the State Finals. But to do that, they have to completely destroy you before the sun goes down.”
I looked at the envelope of cash, feeling terrified. “Dad, what do we do? We have to go to the police!”
“The local police are already bought,” Dad said grimly. “If we hand them this envelope, they’ll just say we got caught and are trying to return it. We need leverage. We need proof that overrides Arthur Kensington’s money.”
Dad put the truck back in gear, but he didn't pull back onto the highway heading toward our apartment. He pulled a sharp U-turn, the tires squealing against the asphalt.
“Where are we going?” I asked, gripping the door handle.
“We aren't retreating,” Dad said, his voice cold and determined. “We’re going to Sloane’s house.”
CHAPTER 3
Sloane’s house wasn't a house; it was a sprawling, gated mansion in the wealthiest zip code in the county. But unlike the Kensingtons, Sloane’s parents were currently in Europe on a business trip, a fact Sloane loved to brag about in the locker room.
Dad parked his beat-up Ford truck right at the edge of her pristine circular driveway.
“Stay behind me,” he instructed as we walked up to the massive mahogany front door.
He didn't ring the bell. He knocked. It was a heavy, authoritative knock that practically shook the hinges.
A minute later, the door creaked open. Sloane stood there in expensive silk pajamas, her eyes wide and bloodshot, holding a half-eaten apple. When she saw my dad's uniform, she looked like she wanted to slam the door and run, but Dad placed a firm hand on the wood, holding it open.
“We need to talk, Sloane,” Dad said quietly. He didn't sound angry. He sounded inevitable.
Sloane stepped back, her bravado completely gone without Victoria there to shield her. We stepped into a massive foyer with a sweeping marble staircase.
“I didn't do anything,” Sloane immediately stammered, backing toward the stairs. “Victoria was the one with the scissors! I just stood there!”
“I know,” Dad said, keeping his voice level. “And Lexi slipped ten thousand dollars in stolen entry fees into Maya’s bag while Harper held her down.”
Sloane’s breath hitched. She looked at me, genuine panic in her eyes. “She… she found it?”