His fingerprints are on the grip. His DNA is on the hilt. That makes this an aggravated felony, Mr. Turner. Burglary in the second degree, possession of a deadly weapon on school grounds, and assault with intent to cause grievous bodily harm. In the state of Pennsylvania, that carries a minimum mandatory sentence of seven to ten years in a maximum-security state correctional institution.
Thomas looked at the knife, then at Mitchell, his jaw working soundlessly. For a fraction of a second, the reality of the situation threatened to pierce his arrogance. But then his eyes hardened, shifting back to his brother.
Bob, Thomas hissed, his voice dropping into a vicious, desperate growl. Arrest her. She attacked three students. She used excessive force on a minor.
Sheriff Turner took a step closer, the gun still pointed at Rachel’s chest, but his eyes were darting nervously around the corridor. He looked at Cody Dawson and Brett Miller, who were still trembling against the lockers like cornered rats.
Cody, Bob barked, his voice laced with unspoken menace. Dawson! Look at me!
Y-Yes, Sheriff? Cody squeaked, barely able to breathe.
You tell me what happened here, Bob commanded, his tone heavy with coercion. This woman ambushed you boys, didn’t she? You were just coming to get Mitchell’s playbook from the coach’s office, and she came out of the dark and attacked Mitchell unprovoked. That’s the story, isn’t it, Cody?
Cody looked at the sheriff. Then he looked down at Mitchell, who was whimpering on the floor, clutching his dislocated arm. Then he looked at Rachel.
Rachel looked back at Cody. She didn’t glare. She didn’t threaten. She simply held his gaze with eyes that seemed to see right through his ribs, into the cowardly, terrified center of his soul.
Be very careful how you answer that, Cody, Rachel said softly. Perjury on an official felony investigation is a federal crime. If you lie to protect him, you will be charged as an accessory before and after the fact. You will forfeit your football scholarship, your high school diploma, and your freedom. You will be tried as an adult. Think about whether Mitchell Turner’s future is worth spending your twenties in a county workhouse.
Cody’s chest heaved. He began to cry, fat tears rolling down his round cheeks. He shook his head frantically, backing further into the lockers.
I—I didn’t do anything! Cody wailed, burying his face in his hands. Mitchell told us to bring the crowbar! He had the knife! He grabbed her cardigan first! I told him not to do it! Don’t put this on me, Sheriff! Please!
You coward! Thomas screamed, taking a step toward the terrified teenager. You ungrateful little piece of—
Thomas, back off! Bob barked, realizing the situation was spiraling out of control. The sheriff lowered his weapon slightly, his knuckles white around the grip. He knew the legal ground beneath his feet was rapidly turning into quicksand. Two witnesses had just blown his self-defense cover story wide open.
Bob lowered the barrel, his jaw grinding so hard the muscles jumped beneath his beard. He stepped closer to Rachel, attempting to use his massive bulk to intimidate her into submission.
Give me the knife, Miss Morgan, Bob said, his voice flat and dangerous. Hand over the weapon. It’s evidence.
It is evidence, Rachel agreed smoothly. Which is why it will be handed over to the Pennsylvania State Police forensics unit in Harrisburg, along with the surveillance footage from the main hallway.
There are no cameras in this wing, Bob countered with an ugly smirk. System’s been down for maintenance for two weeks. It’s my word and my report. Now give me the knife, and give me Mitchell’s phone.
Rachel’s lips curled into the faintest, most chilling smile the sheriff had ever seen.
Ah, she murmured. The phone. I was wondering when you would get to that.
She reached into her other pocket and pulled out Mitchell’s glowing iPhone.
Thomas Turner’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. A sudden, cold panic flashed across the auto dealer’s face—a panic far deeper and more terrifying than the anger he had felt over his son’s dislocated elbow.
Give that to me, Thomas demanded, lunging forward with an outstretched hand. That’s private property! Give me my son’s phone!
Rachel took one single, lightning-fast step backward, pivoting out of his reach with effortless agility. With her thumb, she tapped the screen, turning it outward so both grown men could clearly read the illuminated text message from Coach Vince Vance.
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.
