Mira's POV
I slammed my locker door open so hard it banged against the metal lockers next to it.
My hands were shaking. That woman's message kept playing in my head like a song I couldn't stop hearing: *Check your locker. Someone left you a present.
The locker looked normal at first. My jacket hung on the hook. My street shoes sat on the bottom. My bag—
Wait.
My bag was unzipped.
I always zipped it. Always. Coach Maria made us practice being organized. "A messy locker means a messy mind," she'd say.
I grabbed the bag and dumped everything onto the bench. Wallet. Lip balm. Hair ties. My lucky charm bracelet from my grandmother.
And an envelope.
A white envelope that definitely wasn't there this morning.
My name was written on the front in block letters: MIRA CHEN.
I looked around the locker room. Empty. Everyone was still at the rink or at the hospital with Damien.
I opened the envelope with trembling fingers.
Inside were three things: a photograph, a flash drive, and a note.
The photograph made my breath catch.
It showed Damien talking to a woman. Not just any woman. The same woman from the parking lot. The one with the sunglasses. They were standing in what looked like a coffee shop. Damien was holding a white envelope. Money was sticking out of it.
No. That couldn't be right.
The note was typed, not handwritten:
Damien was paid $50,000 to drop you. The flash drive has proof. Video from the coffee shop. Audio recordings of phone calls. Everything you need to know the truth. Your best friend betrayed you. I'm sorry. - A Friend
The paper fell from my hands.
Damien wouldn't. He couldn't. We'd been best friends for eight years. We trusted each other with everything.
But then I remembered how weird he'd acted at the hospital. How angry he got when I mentioned sabotage. How he told me to just accept it and move on.
No, I told myself. This is fake. Someone's trying to turn me against Damien.
But what if it wasn't fake?
I grabbed the flash drive and ran to the coaches' office. Coach Maria had a computer there. She was still at the hospital, so the office was unlocked.
I plugged in the flash drive. My heart hammered so hard I could hear it in my ears.
Three files appeared: VIDEO.mp4, AUDIO1.mp3, AUDIO2.mp3.
I clicked on the video first.
The footage was grainy but clear enough. A coffee shop. Three days ago, according to the timestamp. Damien sat at a corner table. Then a woman walked in.
Not the woman from the parking lot. A different woman. She had dark hair pulled back tight. She wore an expensive-looking suit.
They talked for exactly four minutes. I couldn't hear what they said, but I could see Damien's face. He looked scared. Then angry. Then defeated.
The woman slid an envelope across the table.
Damien stared at it for a long time. His hands were fists.
Then he took it.
The video ended.
I felt sick. Actually sick, like I might throw up.
I clicked on the first audio file. Static, then voices:
"You want me to do WHAT?" Damien's voice. Definitely Damien.
"Drop her during the throw quad. Make it look like an accident." A woman's voice. Cold. Confident.
"I can't do that! Mira's my best friend. We've worked our whole lives for this!"
"Then I guess your sister will just have to face the consequences."
Silence.
"What did you say about my sister?" Damien's voice changed. It went from angry to terrified.
"Emma, right? Twelve years old. Goes to Lincoln Middle School. Walks home alone every Tuesday and Thursday."
"If you touch her—"
"I won't touch her. As long as you do exactly what I tell you. Drop Mira. Ruin your performance. Make sure you don't make the Olympic team. It's simple."
"Why? Why do you want us to fail?"
"That's not your concern. Do we have a deal?"
Another long silence. Then, quietly: "Yes."
The recording ended.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't move.
Damien had been threatened. Someone was using his little sister to force him to betray me.
But he still did it. He still dropped me. He still ruined everything.
I clicked the second audio file. This one was from yesterday:
"I can't do this." Damien again. He sounded like he'd been crying. "Please don't make me do this."
"It's already done. The plan is set. Tomorrow at Nationals, you drop her during the throw quad. You grab your knee. You cry. You apologize. Everyone thinks it's an accident."
"Mira will hate me."
"Probably. But your sister will be safe. Isn't that worth it?"
No response from Damien.
"Oh, and Damien? If you tell anyone about our arrangement—Mira, your coach, your parents, the police—I'll know. And Emma will disappear. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
I ripped out my earbuds and stood up so fast the chair fell over.
Damien had protected his sister. I understood that. I'd do the same thing if someone threatened my little brother.
But he could have told me. We could have figured something out together. Instead, he lied to my face. He destroyed our Olympic dreams. He made me think I was crazy for suspecting sabotage.
My phone rang. Mom.
"Mira? Where are you? I'm at the hospital. Damien said you were coming."
"I'm not coming." My voice sounded strange. Flat. "Tell Damien I know everything. Tell him to stay away from me."
"What? Mira, what's wrong?"
I hung up.
I grabbed the flash drive and the photograph and stuffed them in my pocket. Then I ran.
I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I had to get away. Away from the rink. Away from Damien. Away from everything that just got destroyed.
My phone buzzed. A new message from the unknown number:
Now you know the truth. But knowing isn't enough. The woman who threatened Damien is named Victoria Cross. She works for the Santos twins' coach. She's done this before. She'll do it again. Meet me tomorrow at 2 PM. Stone Bridge Park. I'll tell you how to stop her. And how to still make the Olympic team.
I stared at the message.
The Olympic team? After everything that just happened?
Another message came through:
P.S. - Victoria knows you have the evidence now. She's coming for you. Watch your back.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Someone was coming toward the office.
I looked at the door. No lock.
The footsteps got closer.
Closer.
I dove under Coach Maria's desk just as the door opened.