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“Shh!” She grabs my wrists and pulls me down, both of us squatting low as I notice the muffled sound of talking coming from the lab.
“No, I heard a door shut,” one of the guards says.
“This was the only door open,” another says. “You check it out. I’m going to search the cafeteria.”
I hear her shallow breathing as both of us look to the crack under the door, seeing the glow of a flashlight. Shit.
I look back to Ryen and suddenly drop my eyes, stopping. There’s something on her hands.
I shoot my eyes back up to her and then back down, taking one of her hands and turning it over.
Blue paint.
Or blue…spray paint.
I survey the smudges all over her fingers and palm as realization starts to hit.
Holy shit.
I look up again, locking eyes with her. Well, well, well…
“You just got a whole lot more interesting.”
Fear flashes in her eyes, and she pulls her hand away, her breaths sounding like she’s about to cry.
I smirk, and she shoots a glance to the door and then back to me. “Please don’t say anything,” she begs in a whisper.
Why would I say anything? This is hilarious. Ryen Trevarrow, Queen Good Girl, sneaks into the school at night, breaking more than one law, to anonymously leave messages and air dirty secrets for the student body right under their noses.
Excellent.
I hear the guard’s radio beep and more muffled chatter, and I listen, hearing him talk, his voice moving away from the door.
I take my bag and inch toward the door, listening again.
His voice is farther away now, and I crack the door just a sliver and p
eek out. If we stay here, we’ll get caught. This isn’t the first time I’ve run from cops, and you don’t choose a hiding place without an out.
“What are you doing?” Ryen asks.
I look out, seeing the beam of his flashlight outside the classroom door as he talks on the radio. I glance across the lab, behind the teacher’s desk, and see the door to another classroom, connected to the lab. Grabbing her hand in mine, I pull her quickly across the room, hearing her suck in a breath as we tread softly and hurry into the next room.
Pulling her through the doorway, I whip around a tall set of file cabinets and back her into the dark corner, squatting down and hiding.
We hear him enter the other room again, a door creaks open and then shuts, and a grumbled “little shit” before he talks to the other guy on the radio again.
I stare at Ryen.
She’s Punk.
Oh, my God. She’s been sneaking around right under everyone’s noses, carrying on this secret life at night. And then watching everyone’s reactions in the morning as they scurry about, trying to find out which of their own it is. Never suspecting her.
Why would they, I guess? She’s never given the impression she’s any deeper than a teaspoon. The perfect cover.
How long has she been doing this?
“Stop looking at me,” she whispers, her tone finally finding its fight again.
