Blackridge smells different at night.
In the day, it's all polished wood and expensive perfume, the faint tang of chlorine from the pool drifting down the halls. At night, the air feels hollow, sterile, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Every creak of the old floorboards echoes louder. Every shadow stretches too long.
Which is why my pulse is hammering as I slip through the side door, backpack slung over my shoulder, flashlight clenched in my hand.
I shouldn't be here. One wrong move, one camera I missed, and I'll be caught. But the whispers in my head are louder than the fear. Noah's face, half-forgotten by the rest of the world but burned into me. His voice, the way he said don't flinch like it was gospel. The thought of his name buried in dusty cabinets, rewritten by people who wanted him gone.
If I want answers, I have to dig them up myself.
The admin wing is tucked behind the east staircase, offices lined up like little fortresses with locked doors and frosted glass. But I did my homework. The lock on the records room is old, barely updated since the seventies. Liam swiped me a skeleton key from theater props. He thought I needed it for a prank.
One deep breath, and I slip the key into the lock. It clicks open with a sound too loud for comfort. I freeze, listening. Silence.
The room is colder than the hall, smelling faintly of dust and ink. Rows of cabinets tower against the walls, each drawer labeled in neat block letters: Student Records. Attendance. Disciplinary Actions.
My chest tightens. Somewhere in here is Noah.
I flick on the flashlight and start at the top. The drawers groan when I pull them open, folders packed tight, names alphabetical. I flip through: Langley, Larson, Lawson. My breath catches when I see it.
Carter, Noah.
The folder is thin. Too thin. My brother was top of his class, involved in clubs, already shadowing lawyers before he was eighteen. His file should be thick with achievements. Instead, there are only a few sheets, carefully clipped together.
I pull them out, spreading them across the desk.
Something's wrong.
The transcript is incomplete—half his courses missing. The club rosters list him for debate one year, then nothing. His picture is stapled crooked, like someone rushed to put it back. And worst of all, the disciplinary section is gone. Torn out.
I know it was there once. Noah told me himself—he'd gotten called in after going head-to-head with Chief Langston about corruption. He came home furious, muttering about threats. But in this file, it's like it never happened.
My throat tightens. They erased him.
I shuffle through the folder again, desperate. That's when I notice something at the bottom, buried under a blank form. A small slip of paper, half-crumpled. I unfold it carefully.
Disciplinary Report: Langston, Jace A.
Date: April 14.
Offense: Altercation — Confidential.
April 14.
The same week Noah disappeared.
My heart stops.
The words blur under my flashlight, my hands trembling. Jace Langston's name, tied to a report that should've been sealed, hidden. But someone missed this scrap. Someone left it behind.
I force myself to breathe. This is proof. Maybe not enough to accuse him outright, but enough to know I'm on the right trail. Noah confronted the Langstons. Days later, Jace's name hits the disciplinary records. And then Noah is gone.
Coincidence? No.
A sound outside jolts me. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing down the hall.
I snap off the flashlight and duck behind the filing cabinets, heart battering my ribs. The doorknob rattles. I hold my breath, praying the lock holds.
The footsteps pause, then fade.
I wait a full minute before I move, my hands still shaking as I shove Noah's folder into my backpack. I hesitate over the slip with Jace's name, then fold it into my pocket.
Evidence.
I relock the door and slip into the hall, every nerve screaming. The shadows feel heavier now, the silence sharper. I move fast, sneakers whispering against the tiles, until I'm out the side door and into the night air.
Only when the cold wind hits my face do I let myself breathe.
I should feel victorious. I found something—more than whispers, more than rumors. A piece of the truth. But instead, unease coils in my stomach. Because if Jace's name was on that report, he knows exactly what happened the week Noah vanished.
And if he knows, he's been carrying that secret while smiling, while smirking, while kissing me in front of everyone like it meant nothing.
By the time I reach my dorm, my hands are steady again. I pull out the slip of paper, tracing the letters of his name under my fingertips.
Jace Langston.
This isn't just a game anymore.
The next morning, I walk into school with the folder hidden deep in my bag. The hallways buzz with gossip about the latest fight, the latest scandal, the latest rumor. But all I hear is the echo of that file drawer slamming shut, the sound of my own breath catching when I saw his name.
Because now I have a piece of him. And if I play it right, it could unravel everything.
I'm almost to class when I feel it. That prickle on the back of my neck, that sense of being watched. I glance up—and there he is.
Jace, leaning against the lockers like he owns them, arms crossed, eyes locked on me. His gaze is sharper today, colder. Like he knows something shifted. Like he can smell the file paper on my skin.
He tilts his head, just slightly, a silent question, a silent warning.
My heart pounds, but I force myself not to flinch.
Not yet.
Because rule number one hasn't changed.
But now there's a new rule, written in the ink of his name.
Rule number three: if you dig graves, be ready to fall in.
And I think Jace Langston just realized I've got a shovel.