Pick up that pry bar, Rachel said, pointing toward the heavy piece of iron lying near the broken cage. Place it neatly on the bench. Then pick up your flashlight and set it beside it.
Brett moved like a terrified automaton, darting forward, scooping up the tools of their attempted burglary, and placing them on the wooden locker bench with trembling hands before backing away, keeping his eyes glued to Rachel as if she were a live grenade.
Rachel walked calmly past the three boys, her bare feet making no sound on the floor, and retrieved Mitchell’s tactical knife. With a practiced flick of her thumb that revealed years of muscle memory, she pressed the liner lock, folded the blade shut, and slipped the heavy metal casing into the deep pocket of her cardigan.
She walked back to where Mitchell was still groaning on the floor.
Sit up, Mitchell, Rachel commanded.
I can’t, he whimpered, clutching his arm. It’s broken.
Your elbow is dislocated, Rachel corrected coldly, her medic training taking over her visual assessment. The olecranon has slipped laterally from the trochlea. The humerus is intact. You have severe ligament distension, but the radial pulse in your fingers is still present. You will not die. Now sit up against the locker before I decide to set it myself without anesthesia.
The threat of her touching his arm again was enough to cut through the boy’s paralysis. Grunting in sheer agony, Mitchell scrambled backward using his heels and his uninjured left hand until his back was propped against the blue steel lockers. His face was gray, covered in sweat, dirt, and dried blood from his bloody nose. He looked up at her with a mixture of burning hatred and absolute, gut-churning terror.
You’re finished, Mitchell whispered through clattered teeth, his voice trembling with venomous spite. You think you’re tough? You think you can do this to me? My dad… my dad is gonna ruin your life. He’s gonna have you arrested for aggravated assault. Uncle Bob is gonna throw you in a concrete cell, and you’ll never see the light of day again. You touched the wrong guy, you psycho!
Rachel looked down at him, her expression completely unchanged. There was no fear in her eyes. There was no regret. There was only the clinical detachment of someone who had watched empires fall and warlords die in ditch water.
Call them, Rachel said calmly.
Mitchell froze, his angry tirade catching in his throat. What?
Take your phone out of your pocket with your left hand, Rachel instructed, crossing her arms over her chest. Call your father. Call Sheriff Turner. Tell them to come to the athletic wing of Liberty Falls High School immediately. Tell them their star quarterback was caught committing commercial burglary after hours, pulled a concealed weapon on a state employee, and suffered an injury during lawful self-defense. Go on, Mitchell. Make the call.
Mitchell stared at her, his jaw hanging slack. He had expected her to panic. He had expected her to realize what she had done, to beg him not to tell, to bargain for her career. That was how the script was supposed to go. That was how Liberty Falls worked. The Turners always won, and everyone else negotiated for scraps.
He didn’t move. He couldn’t. Because beneath his blind arrogance, a terrifying realization had just dawned on him: if this went to an official police report, if crime scene investigators logged the shattered padlock, the iron pry bar, and the illegal spring-assisted knife with his fingerprints all over the hilt, the pristine narrative of Mitchell Turner’s golden future would be completely destroyed before the college scouts arrived in November.
Suddenly, the heavy silence of the corridor was shattered by a sharp, vibrating buzz.
The three boys jumped. Rachel didn’t flinch.
On the floor, beside the puddle of water near the water fountain, Mitchell’s iPhone had lit up. It was vibrating against the linoleum, the screen glowing brightly in the dim light.
Rachel stepped forward, picked up the phone, and looked at the caller ID.
The name flashing on the screen was not Thomas Turner. It was not Sheriff Bob Turner.
It was Coach Vince Vance.
And beneath the coach’s name, a text notification preview popped up on the illuminated lock screen, sent just two minutes earlier:
Get the lockbox open and grab the envelope marked ‘R. Morgan’ behind the athletic files. Do not let her see what’s inside. If she finds those service records, the whole town is going to burn.
Rachel stared at the screen, her dark eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal concentration.
