Chapter 19: Ransom

The school at 11:00 PM is a different beast. The fluorescent lights are hum-less, replaced by the rhythmic, red blink of the security sensors. Every shadow looks like a person standing still, and every breath I take feels loud enough to trigger an alarm.

"Hurry," I whisper, my voice echoing off the rows of metal lockers.

Jaxson doesn't respond. He’s focused on the dial of Miller’s locker. He isn't using a bolt cutter; he’s using a master key he swiped from the coach’s office during his disciplinary meeting earlier today. With a sharp clack, the door swings open.

The smell of Miller’s locker is identical to Miller himself—expensive cologne and a clinical sort of order. But as we start digging, the order vanishes.

"Look at this," Jaxson mutters, pulling out a thick, manila envelope hidden behind a stack of spare hockey jerseys.

He opens it, and my jaw drops. Inside are dozens of copies of the upcoming Calculus and Physics finals, along with a ledger that looks like it belongs in a bank. It’s a list of names—mostly rich kids from the heights—and the amounts they’ve paid for tutoring.

"He’s not tutoring them," I say, scanning the names. "He’s selling the exams. And look at these receipts." I pull out a stack of carbon copies from the school’s athletic treasurer’s office. "He’s been skimming from the equipment fund. Thousands of dollars, Jaxson. He’s been funneling school money into his own pocket for months."

"He wasn't just trying to take my spot," Jaxson says, his voice vibrating with a dark, dangerous edge. "He was building a bankroll. He’s been stealing from the very team he claims to lead."

I look at the evidence in our hands. "Will this help? I mean, if we turn this in, we’re still in that photo. Does this keep him quiet?"

Jaxson shrugs, but there’s a cold finality in his eyes. "It’s enough to keep him off our backs. He can’t post a photo of a secret kiss if I have proof that can put him in a juvenile detention center. We play him the exact same way he played us. Silence for silence."

Jaxson reaches into his bag and pulls out a brand-new burner phone he bought at a gas station on the way here. He takes high-resolution photos of every exam, every ledger entry, and every stolen receipt.

"We’re going to send these to him one by one," Jaxson whispers. "We’ll make him wonder who knows, who saw, and how much time he has before the principal finds out. By the time he’s done looking over his shoulder for a ghost, he’ll have forgotten all about stalking us."

We’re about to pack it all back in and vanish when my hand hits something hidden in the very back of the locker—a small, velvet-lined box tucked inside a discarded helmet.

"What’s that?" I ask.

Jaxson takes it, his brow furrowed. He opens it, expecting more money or maybe the burner phone Miller used for the photos. Instead, he freezes.

Inside the box isn't a phone. It’s a collection of Polaroids.

Jaxson pulls them out, and I watch the color drain from his face. In the dim light of my flashlight, the images are crystal clear. They aren't from the bridge. They are from a bedroom—a bedroom I recognize from the one time I walked past the Thorne estate.

It’s Chloe. And she isn't alone.

In every photo, she’s draped over Miller. They aren't just hooking up; the way they’re looking at each other speaks of a months-long, secret affair. In one shot, Miller is wearing Jaxson’s spare varsity jacket—the one Jaxson thought he’d lost at the victory party three months ago.

The silence in the hallway becomes suffocating. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.

"Jaxson?" I whisper, reaching for his arm.

"She’s cheating on me," he says, his voice sounding like it’s being dragged over broken glass. "With my best friend. My brother. The guy who stood next to me while I bought her that promise ring."

He looks at the photo of them together, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the locker.

"They were laughing at me," Jaxson mutters. "Every time we went to lunch. Every time Miller told me I was lucky to have her. They were waiting for me to leave the room so they could laugh."

"Jaxson, we have to go," I say, hearing a distant hum that might be the night janitor’s floor buffer. "We have what we need. We have the leverage."

Jaxson doesn't move. He stares at the photo of Chloe and Miller, and for a second, I see the him crumble. But then, he stuffs the Polaroids into his pocket along with the burner phone. When he looks at me, the sadness is gone. It’s been replaced by a white-hot, focused rage.

"You’re right," he says, his voice deathly calm. "We have the leverage. But we’re not just going to keep him quiet anymore, Maya."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to let them think they're winning," he says, a ghost of a smile touching his lips—a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "And then, I’m going to take everything from them at once. I’m going to watch it all burn."

He grabs my hand, his grip firm and steady. We slip out of the locker bay and toward the side exit.

As we reach the car, the cool night air hits my face. I look at Jaxson, sitting in the driver’s seat, staring at the darkened school building.

"Maya?" he asks, not looking at me.

"Yeah?"

"Don't ever lie to me. Please."

I look at the handkerchief still tied around my scraped palm—the one he gave me to protect me from the lie he had to tell. "I won't, Jaxson. I promise."