Chapter 248 Chapter Two Hundred And Forty Eight

Chapter 248 Chapter Two Hundred And Forty Eight


I pulled the bag back out of the cupboard and set it on the dusty floor. My hands were steadier now, fueled by a desperate kind of determination. I'd already stolen the bag. Already crossed that line. Might as well see it through.

I rooted around in the dark corners of the cupboard, searching for something sharp enough to cut through designer leather. My fingers closed around an old pair of scissors, the kind with orange handles that teachers used to use before everything went digital. They were rusty and one handle was cracked, but the blades still looked functional.

I sat cross-legged on the floor with the bag in my lap, feeling along the lining just like Sarah had shown me. There—that barely perceptible bump in the bottom corner. Something thin and rectangular, sewn carefully into the fabric so it wouldn't shift around or be noticeable.

I positioned the scissors at the seam and hesitated for just a second. This was it. The point of no return. Once I cut into this bag, there would be no hiding what I'd done.

Then I thought about Mrs. Sinclair's cold dismissal. About my mother's face when she found out I'd been expelled. About every college application I'd poured my heart into becoming worthless pieces of paper.

I cut.

The scissors were duller than I'd hoped, so it took some effort to saw through the thick leather and the inner lining. But eventually, I made a slit about three inches long. I reached inside and felt something smooth and plastic. My fingers closed around it and pulled it free.

A memory card. One of those tiny SD cards that went in cameras and phones.

My heart leaped. This was it. This had to be something Allison wanted hidden badly enough to literally sew it into her bag's lining.

I fumbled for my phone with shaking hands and tried to slot the card into the side. But it was way too big for my phone's micro SD slot—this was a full-sized SD card, the older kind.

"Shit," I muttered, staring at the card in my palm. I needed a computer. One with an SD card reader.

The computer lab. The old one in the east wing that still had ancient desktop computers with all the legacy ports because the school was too cheap to replace them. That was my only option.

I shoved the memory card into my pocket, looked at the destroyed bag with its gaping wound in the lining, and made a split-second decision. I couldn't leave it here where someone might find it. But I also couldn't carry it around with me. Finally, I stuffed it back into the cupboard and buried it as deeply as I could under old papers and textbooks.

Then I slipped out of the media room and headed toward the east wing, trying to look casual despite the fact that my heart was trying to break out of my chest.

The computer lab was on the second floor. I climbed the stairs two at a time, checking over my shoulder constantly to make sure no administrators were nearby. The hallways were mostly empty—everyone was in class, which worked in my favor.

I pushed through the door into the computer lab and nearly collided with Mr. Patterson, the technology teacher. He was an older man, probably close to retirement, with reading glasses perpetually perched on top of his head.

"Oh! Sorry, sir," I said, trying to sound normal and not like someone who'd just committed grand theft.

"No problem," he said absently, barely glancing at me as he organized a stack of papers on his desk. "You here for the free period study session?"

"Yes," I lied immediately. Thank God he apparently hadn't heard about my expulsion yet. Or maybe he had and just didn't care enough to enforce it. Mr. Patterson had always been one of those teachers who was generally checked out, more interested in his computer programming than in school politics.

"Alright, well, find a seat. Try to keep the noise down—some students are working on projects."

I nodded and quickly scanned the room. There were about ten students scattered around, most of them wearing headphones and staring intently at their screens. Perfect. Nobody was paying attention to anyone else.

I made my way to the back corner and found one of the ancient desktop computers that nobody ever wanted to use because they were slow and the keyboards were sticky. But these were the ones that still had SD card slots built into the front panel.

I sat down, logged in with my student ID—which thankfully still worked—and pulled the memory card from my pocket. My hands were shaking again as I slid it into the slot.

The computer made a soft chiming sound. A window popped up asking what I wanted to do with the removable media. I clicked "Open folder to view files."

The folder opened, and my breath caught in my throat.

Photos. Dozens and dozens of photos, all thumbnails that I had to click through one by one.

The first image loaded, and I leaned closer to the screen. It was a picture of a notebook page covered in my handwriting. Not just any notes—these were the margins notes I made while reading library books. The little observations and questions I'd scribble down when something struck me as interesting or important.

I clicked to the next image. Another page of notes, this one from a different book. I recognized my shorthand, the way I drew little stars next to important passages, the specific way I formed my lowercase 'g's and 'a's.

My stomach sank as understanding dawned. These were all from library books. Books I'd borrowed over the years, books I'd studied from and made notes in even though you weren't supposed to write in library books. But I'd always used pencil and erased everything before returning them. Or at least, I thought I had.

Allison must have found those books—maybe she'd been systematically going through the library's most-borrowed study guides, or maybe she'd followed me and taken note of which ones I checked out. She'd gathered them all together, photographed every single page that had my handwriting on it, and used those samples to create the forged cheat sheets.

"Oh my God," I whispered, clicking through more images. There had to be fifty photos here, maybe more. All of my handwriting from different sources, different time periods. A complete reference library for forgery.

"Hey, Lena!"

I jumped so violently I nearly knocked the keyboard off the desk. I frantically minimized the window and pulled up a random Google search page, my heart in my throat.

A girl from the cheer squad—Jessica something, I couldn't remember her last name—was standing next to my computer with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was one of Allison's followers, always hovering around her like a satellite.

"Oh my God, I just heard about what happened," Jessica said, her voice dripping with fake concern. "I'm so, so sorry about the whole expulsion thing. That must be, like, totally devastating for you."

"Thanks," I said flatly, my hand hovering over the mouse, ready to close any window that might pop back up.

"I mean, it's such a shame," Jessica continued, examining her manicured nails. "Now there won't be any try-hard there to force us to do complicated routines we don't want to learn. Guess we can go back to the easy stuff now. Silver lining, right?" She laughed, a sharp, mean sound.

I said nothing, just stared at her with what I hoped was a neutral expression even though I wanted to scream at her to go away.

"Anyway, just wanted to say sorry." She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Must be hard, you know? Going from top of the class to... well. Nothing." She gave me one last saccharine smile and finally walked away, her footsteps clicking across the tile floor.

I waited until she was completely out of the lab before I minimized the Google page and brought the folder back up. My hands were shaking worse now, adrenaline flooding my system.

I kept clicking through the photos, my mind racing. So Allison had documented all my handwriting samples. Then what? She couldn't have forged those cheat sheets herself—it was too perfect, too precise. She must have sent these photos to someone. But who?

I scrolled to the bottom of the folder, past all the images. And there, sitting by itself, was a single Word document file named "Contact.doc."

I double-clicked it with my heart pounding.

The document opened. It was almost completely blank—just a single line of text in the center of the page:

555-0147

A phone number. No name. No other context. Just ten digits sitting there like a breadcrumb waiting to be followed.

This was it. This was the link. The person Allison had sent these photos to. The person who'd done the actual forgery work.

I quickly pulled out my phone—which I'd turned back on, ignoring the six missed calls from Jace and three texts asking where I was—and typed the number into my notes app. Then I took a photo of the computer screen showing the number, just in case.

Triumph surged through me. This was what I needed. This was proof that Allison had orchestrated the whole thing. She'd collected samples of my handwriting, photographed them, and sent them to someone who could create convincing forgeries.

But even as I thought it, doubt crept in. Was this enough? A defense lawyer—or even just Mrs. Sinclair—could argue that these photos were circumstantial. Maybe Allison was just keeping samples of different handwriting styles for some innocent reason. Maybe the phone number belonged to a study partner or a tutor. Maybe the memory card being hidden in her bag was just a coincidence, or maybe she'd put it there to keep it safe from being lost.

I needed something more concrete. Something undeniable.

And what was more concrete than a confession?

I stared at the phone number on the screen, an idea forming in my mind. It was risky. Maybe even dangerous. But if I could call this number, if I could somehow get whoever answered to admit they'd forged documents for Allison...

My phone buzzed. Another text from Jace: Princess where are you? Free period starts in 20 min. Meet me outside library??

I looked at the phone number on the computer screen, then at Jace's text, then back at the number.

I could go to the library, tell Jace what I'd found, let him help me figure out what to do next. That would be the smart, safe thing to do.

Or I could call this number right now and see where it led.

My thumb hovered over my phone's keypad. The computer lab was too public for this kind of call—too many people around, too much chance of being overheard. But the old media room was empty and isolated.

I ejected the memory card, slipped it back into my pocket, and logged out of the computer. Then I headed for the door, ignoring Mr. Patterson's absent-minded wave goodbye.

I had twenty minutes before I was supposed to meet Jace at the library. Twenty minutes to see if I could get someone on that phone number to confess to forgery.

It was stupid. It was reckless. It was probably going to blow up in my face.

But I'd already stolen a thirty-thousand-dollar bag and cut it open. What was one more terrible decision at this point?

I made my way back to the media room, checking over my shoulder constantly. The hallways were starting to get busier as classes changed over. I ducked past a group of sophomores arguing about their English assignment and slipped through the media room door just as the warning bell rang.

The bag was still in the cupboard where I'd left it, undisturbed. I closed the cupboard doors and sat down on the floor with my back against the wall, pulling out my phone.

The number glowed on my screen. 555-0147.

I took a deep breath and dialed.