The Message Dated a Day Ahead

Dad lifted his head, weariness hardening into anger. “You have no idea how people like them operate, Eli.”

“And you do?” I snapped. “If they rescind the expulsion the minute they’ve taken Mom’s files, everyone will see the payoff. They need that threat to seem credible. They need a reason for the police to come here.”

He started to answer, but I kept going. “They’ll expel me, Dad. They’ll wreck my future, then point to today’s police report and say they were right to be afraid of me.”

“You’re getting carried away.”

“No. I’m trying to think.” I reached behind myself, tugged a bulky bundle from beneath my hoodie, and dropped it onto the kitchen island.

The papers struck the stone with a slap that seemed much louder than it should have. Dad recoiled. His eyes fixed on the stack.

“Where did those come from?”

“They got the decoy copies. These are the pages that matter.” I opened the folded bundle and pressed the bent corners flat with my palms. Fluorescent yellow marks streaked the columns.

Under the kitchen lights, the highlighted entries stood out like warning signs. “Sixty-two thousand. Then forty-five thousand. Then more payments. Hayes and Lawson, again and again.”

Dad’s face lost its color as he scanned the figures. Fear replaced the relief I’d expected to see. “Get rid of those, Eli. Burn them.”

I stared at him. “You want me to destroy the only evidence we have?”

“It’s not enough!” he shouted, rising from his stool. “Without the archive, those are just scraps from a spreadsheet. They can claim the figures were taken out of context.”

He jabbed a finger toward the pages. “Hayes will say your mother invented them because she was angry about being on medical leave. How do you prove where they came from?”

His argument landed because it was true. A paper copy could be waved away. Someone could call it forged, incomplete, or meaningless, and the original records were gone.

“I know,” I said. I studied the routing numbers, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “I need Mom’s encryption key and the digital logs. They can show somebody faked my IP address.”

I looked up from the ledger. “Then I need the foundation’s real banking records. The routing number has to lead back to them.”

“Her key disappeared,” Dad said. The bitterness in his voice sounded like a verdict. “She erased her district laptop before she died.”

“Not the backup.” I met his gaze. “Lucas Lawson had Mom’s green flash drive in the computer lab. I saw him with it before we left.”

Dad went rigid. “Trent’s brother?”

“Margaret sent her older son to handle it,” I said. I gathered the pages and folded them again. “He used the drive to get around the portal’s security and put the threat on my account.”

“He set it to go out tomorrow morning,” I added, shoving the papers into my backpack. The zipper rasped as I pulled it shut.

Dad’s expression shifted from fear to alarm. “You can’t go near the Lawsons. You’re suspended. If you break the rules, you could be arrested for trespassing.”

I slung the pack over my shoulder. “They took my phone. I don’t have a computer, either. I don’t even have school now. What else can they take from me?”

He had no answer ready. I didn’t wait for one. I left through the back entrance, hauled my bicycle out of the garage, and pushed off into the dull afternoon.

Cold air needled my face. I rode hard, letting my legs work against the panic tightening my chest. The clock had to be around 2:15. Dismissal was at 2:40.

The high school was out. Dad was right about the danger: if Helen Davis spotted me on campus, she could have me detained before I got near the student lot.

I headed instead for the public library, three blocks from the rear school exit. Lucas drove a silver Toyota Tacoma, and I knew the route he took after classes.

He parked among the seniors’ cars, then avoided the crowded main road by using the service lane behind the school. It ran right past the library.

I hid my bicycle behind the brick enclosure around the library’s dumpster. Then I waited, watching the road and trying not to imagine all the ways this could go wrong.

At 2:45, cars began streaming along the main streets. I kept my eyes on the crossing. Ten minutes passed before the silver Tacoma appeared and rolled toward the four-way stop.

The truck slowed directly in front of the library. I burst from behind the brick wall and planted myself in the marked crossing, squarely in its path.

Lucas hit the brakes. The pickup lurched to a stop, its front bumper barely two feet from my legs. My heart hammered, but I stayed put.

He leaned toward the open window, his mouth twisting. “Have you lost your mind, Vance? Move!”

I went around to the driver’s side. Every instinct told me to keep my distance. Lucas was a senior, a football team starter, and far bigger than I was.

“Switch off the engine,” I said. I made my voice calm, though my hands wanted to shake.

“I’m calling the police.” He reached toward the phone in the cupholder. “You’re not allowed anywhere near school.”

“Go ahead,” I told him, leaning close enough to be heard without shouting. “Tell them I’m here. Then tell them to look for an emerald-green cassette-style flash drive belonging to a district employee who’s dead.”

His hand stalled on its way to the phone. The color drained from his face, leaving him suddenly sick-looking.

“I know you’ve got it,” I said, lowering my voice. “You used the master terminal this morning. You set up the message to your brother and sent it through my account.”

“You’re out of your mind,” he said, stumbling over the words. His eyes darted toward the pocket where he carried the flash drive. “I was doing routine diagnostics.”