Part 2 — THE GYM CLOSET

I stared at the front door.

My hands were shaking.

Child Protective Services.

I dropped the phone onto the couch.

Emily looked at me, her large brown eyes wide with fear.

“Mom?”

I put a finger to my lips.

I walked softly to the peephole and looked through.

A man in a cheap brown suit was standing in the hallway.

He held a generic manila folder.

No badge. No ID lanyard.

Real CPS workers don't announce themselves by yelling through a closed door.

They knock professionally. They wait.

This man was shifting his weight, looking up and down the corridor.

He knocked again, harder.

“Mrs. Bennett. I know you’re in there. We need to discuss the welfare of Emily.”

They were using my daughter to get me to open the door.

Rage, hot and sudden, burned away my fear.

I walked to the kitchen and grabbed my car keys.

I went back to Emily.

“Get your shoes,” I whispered.

“Are we leaving?”

“Through the fire escape.”

Our apartment was on the second floor.

The fire escape led down to the alley behind the building.

I helped Emily into her sneakers.

We moved quietly to the bedroom window.

I pushed it up. It slid open with a soft scrape.

I climbed out first, then reached back for Emily.

She was brave. She didn't make a sound.

We hurried down the iron stairs.

My car was parked in the front lot, which meant we had to walk around the building.

I held her hand tightly.

We reached the edge of the alley and peeked around the brick wall.

The brown-suited man was now walking out the front doors of the building.

He looked angry.

He pulled out a cell phone and dialed.

“She’s not answering,” he said.

He walked toward a dark blue sedan parked across the street.

I waited until he got in and drove away.

Then we sprinted to my car.

I locked the doors and started the engine.

My chest was heaving.

“Mom, who was that?” Emily asked from the back seat.

“Just a bad man, honey. We’re safe.”

But we weren't.

David Dalton’s people thought I knew something about the missing supplies.

Because I had been standing by the empty closet.

But if Mrs. Parker didn't take them, and Dalton’s men didn't take them, who did?

I drove toward downtown Dayton.

I needed a public place. Somewhere with cameras and people.

We went to the main public library.

It was quiet, well-lit, and secure.

I bought Emily a hot chocolate from the lobby café and set her up at a table with a stack of fantasy books.

“Read as much as you want. I have to make some calls.”

I sat across from her and opened my laptop.

I needed to figure out who else had access to that gym closet.

I thought back to the principal’s office.

The clipboard.

Mrs. Parker had looked at the signatures.

She had said, “According to this, these supplies have already been distributed.”

But she hadn't just looked at my name.

She had looked at the dates.

I closed my eyes, trying to visualize the page.

My name was there. Caleb's mother's name.

But at the top of the page, there was a signature that had authorized the final sign-off for the entire batch.

It wasn't Principal Harris.

It was a board member’s name.

Marcus Vance.

I typed "Marcus Vance Dayton Community Foundation" into the search engine.

Several articles popped up.

Marcus Vance was the Vice President of the Foundation.

He was also running for City Council.

There was a photo of him at a ribbon-cutting ceremony.

He was a tall, handsome man with silver hair and a sharp suit.

I kept reading.

Vance Champions West Dayton Educational Initiative.

He was the one who pushed the $125,000 grant through.

Why would a man running for office risk his campaign by stealing elementary school supplies?

He wouldn't.

Unless he wasn't stealing them for money.

I clicked on a link to his campaign website.

Under "Recent News," there was a press release dated yesterday.

Vance Campaign Announces Massive Donation Drive for Underprivileged Youth.

My stomach dropped.

This Friday, Marcus Vance will personally deliver over 500 customized student care packages to the local community center, proving his dedication to Dayton's future.

He didn't steal them for cash.

He stole them for PR.

He had hijacked the school’s grant supplies, moved them early so David Dalton couldn't sell them, and was going to rebrand them as a personal campaign donation to buy votes.

No wonder Principal Harris looked sick.

He was caught between a corrupt vendor with violent debt collectors (Dalton) and a corrupt politician who controlled the school's funding (Vance).

And now I was in the middle.

My phone rang again.

This time, the caller ID showed a local number.

I answered it.

“Mrs. Bennett.”

It was Principal Harris.

He sounded exhausted.

“What do you want?” I asked sharply.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he said. “I’m sitting in my car outside the police station.”

I paused. “Are you turning yourself in?”

“I’m trying to. But they won’t listen to me without proof. Marcus Vance is a powerful man in this town.”

“So give them the clipboard.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“I can’t. Vance’s people broke into my office an hour ago. The clipboard is gone.”

I looked over at Emily, who was peacefully reading her book.

“Then we have nothing,” I said.

“You have something,” Harris said.

“What?”

“The bracelet.”

I pulled it out of my pocket. “It’s just Mrs. Parker’s jewelry.”

“Look at the back of the locket.”

I turned the tiny silver heart over.

There was an engraving.

To Eleanor. Love, Marcus.

I stared at it.

“Mrs. Parker’s first name is Eleanor.”

“Yes,” Harris said. “She’s Marcus Vance’s sister.”

The library suddenly felt very small.

“She’s the one who moved the boxes,” Harris continued. “She took them for her brother to save his campaign. The Daltons are coming for her. And if they find out you have the bracelet linking Vance to the theft…”

Before he could finish, a shadow fell over my table.

I looked up.

Standing over Emily was the man in the brown suit.