Part 2 — THE GYM CLOSET

Two hours.

Vance was panicking.

He must have found out Dalton's men were looking for the supplies, so he moved his PR stunt up to get the boxes distributed and out of his hands before he could be caught holding them.

Once he handed them out on camera, he was a hero.

The evidence would be gone.

Dispersed to hundreds of families.

And Emily’s humiliation, Mrs. Dalton’s cruelty, and Harris’s cowardice would all be buried forever.

I looked at Emily.

She was dipping a fry into ketchup, swinging her legs.

“Eat up, sweetie,” I said. “We have to make a stop.”

“Are we going home?”

“Not yet.”

I couldn't take her to the warehouse.

It was too dangerous.

But I couldn't leave her alone, either.

I scrolled through my contacts.

I stopped on Caleb’s mother.

Her name was Rachel.

I hit dial.

“Laura?” she answered.

“Rachel, I need a massive favor. I need you to watch Emily for an hour.”

“Of course. Are you okay? You left the school so fast.”

“I’m fine. I’m dropping her at your house in ten minutes.”

I drove to Rachel’s house in a quiet suburban cul-de-sac.

Emily hugged me tight before she went inside.

“I’ll be right back,” I promised. “I love you.”

“Love you, Mom.”

I got back in the car and drove toward the river docks.

The industrial district of Dayton was old.

Rusting metal fences, cracked pavement, and abandoned factories.

Warehouse 4 was at the end of a dead-end street near the water.

It was a massive corrugated steel building.

I parked my car two blocks away and walked the rest of the distance.

The sun was starting to set, casting long, dark shadows.

There was a loading dock at the front, but the bay doors were shut.

Around the side, I found a small personnel door.

I tried the handle.

Locked.

I walked further down the alley, checking windows.

Most were painted black or covered in grime.

But one was cracked open to let in air.

I pulled myself up onto a dumpster and peered inside.

The warehouse was cavernous.

In the center of the concrete floor sat the boxes.

Dozens of them.

And surrounding them were three men.

One was the man in the brown suit from the library.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

They had found the warehouse before Vance’s truck arrived to take them to the rally.

The man in the suit was holding a crowbar.

He used it to pry open a box labeled DAYTON COMMUNITY FOUNDATION.

He pulled out a handful of pink erasers and threw them on the floor in disgust.

“It’s all school supplies,” he said to the other two men. “Where’s the money?”

One of the other men, heavily tattooed, kicked a box of notebooks.

“Dalton said the boxes were worth a hundred grand.”

“He lied,” the suit said. “These are worth maybe ten thousand retail. It doesn't cover his debt.”

“So what do we do?”

The man in the suit pulled out a phone.

“We burn it.”

I gasped, my hand slipping on the metal window frame.

My foot kicked the side of the dumpster.

It made a loud, hollow BONG.

The three men stopped talking.

They all turned toward the window.

“Someone’s out there,” the tattooed man said.

I scrambled off the dumpster and hit the ground running.

I sprinted down the alley.

Behind me, I heard the metal door rip open.

“Hey!”

I didn't look back.

I ran toward the main street, my lungs burning.

I turned a corner and practically collided with a woman in a grey coat.

She grabbed my arms to steady us both.

I looked up.

It was Eleanor Parker.

The school counselor.

She looked terrified.

“Laura? What are you doing here?”

“Running!” I gasped. “Dalton’s men are in there. They’re going to burn the boxes.”

Eleanor’s face drained of color.

“No. Marcus is supposed to pick them up in twenty minutes.”

“Marcus is a thief, Eleanor! And you helped him!”

She shook her head, tears forming in her eyes.

“You don’t understand. I didn't take them for his campaign.”

I stared at her.

“What?”

“I took them to protect them from Dalton.”

Footsteps echoed from the alley.

The men were coming.

Eleanor grabbed my hand.

“My car is right here.”

We dove into her Honda Civic.

She locked the doors and ducked down.

I crouched in the passenger seat.

The man in the suit ran past the car, looking up and down the street.

He cursed, then jogged back toward the warehouse.

We stayed completely still for three minutes.

Finally, Eleanor sat up, her hands shaking on the steering wheel.

I sat up too.

“Talk,” I demanded.

She took a ragged breath.

“David Dalton has been using the school grant to launder money for the cartel. He overcharges the district, buys cheap supplies, and sends the extra cash to his handlers.”

“I know that,” I said.

“But this year,” she continued, “he messed up. He lost the cartel's money gambling. So he told them he had a hundred thousand dollars worth of high-end electronics sitting in the school's gym closet to pay them back.”

I frowned.

“But it was just crayons and notebooks.”

“Exactly,” Eleanor said. “When the cartel opened those boxes and saw pencils, they were going to kill him. And they were going to burn down the school to send a message.”

I felt cold.

“I found out,” she whispered. “I overheard Dalton on the phone. So I panicked. I called my brother, Marcus. I begged him to send a truck in the middle of the night to move the boxes before the cartel arrived.”

“So Marcus isn't using them for a campaign rally?”

“No! The press release about the rally was a cover story. He had to invent a public reason for why he suddenly possessed five hundred boxes of stolen district property, just in case the police found them in his warehouse!”

It was a reversal I hadn't seen coming.

Eleanor wasn't corrupt.

Marcus Vance wasn't corrupt.

They were trying to save the school from a cartel firebombing.

“But Dalton’s men found the warehouse,” I said.

“And they’re going to burn it,” Eleanor said, crying. “Which means Dalton’s debt isn't paid. They’ll still come after him. And they’ll come after the school.”

My mind raced.

The cartel didn't want pencils.

They wanted money.

Or value.

I looked at Eleanor.

“What time is the fake campaign rally?”

“It’s not fake anymore,” she said. “Marcus actually invited the press. He’s stalling. He’s at the community center right now, waiting for the truck.”

“But the truck isn't coming. The cartel has the warehouse.”

I looked at the dashboard clock.

6:15 PM.

“Start the car,” I said.

“Where are we going?”