Forty -Eight Hours to Survive

Forty.Eight.Hours

Chapter 3: Forty-Eight Hours

The car behind us is not stopping.

Its headlights stay fixed in the rearview mirror even when Damon takes the back roads past the football field, cuts through the maintenance lot, and kills the lights.

For ten seconds, the Charger coasts through darkness.

The other car follows.

My fingers tighten around the flash drive in my lap.

Maya Patel.

That was how the podcast had said my name.

Like I was a headline.

Like I was already dead.

Damon glances at me. “You okay?”

“No.”

He nods once.

“Then we don’t go home. We don’t go to the dorms. We don’t use our IDs anywhere.”

“Where do we go?”

“Somewhere they can't watch us for five minutes.”

The Charger rolls to a stop behind the old art building.

Damon kills the engine.

Silence fills the car.

He watches the entrance through the rearview mirror before finally turning toward me.

“Alliance,” he says. “You meant it?”

“I meant I’m not dying in episode six.”

His mouth twitches.

“Then we have rules.”

“Go on.”

“No cops. No council. No telling anyone where we go.”

“And?”

His eyes drop to the flash drive.

“You don't touch that unless I'm watching.”

I lift my chin. “And you don't lie to me.”

He almost smiles.

“I lie to everyone.”

“Then don't lie to me.”

Something changes in his expression.

“Fine.”

I wait.

“No lies,” he says. “Only omissions.”

“That isn't good enough.”

“Best you're going to get, Patel.”

We get out.

The night air is cold against my skin. I realize I'm still wearing my library uniform, my name tag pinned to my chest.

Maya.

Damon walks ahead of me, keeping just enough distance to avoid touching me while positioning himself between me and the parking lot.

I notice.

I don't know why that bothers me more than if he had touched me.

Inside, the old art building smells like mildew and dried paint. Damon checks the hallway, then the windows, before leading me into a supply room at the back.

He shuts the door.

“We need to listen to the drive again,” I say.

“No.”

I stare at him.

“Lila said the ledger was in the headmaster's office.”

“Behind the founder's portrait.”

“Exactly.”

“Which means it probably isn't there anymore.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Trent heard the same recording we did.”

He has a point.

I hate that he has a point.

My phone vibrates.

I glance down.

A message from the school council group chat.

CURFEW VIOLATION. ASSAULT. POTENTIAL THEFT OF SCHOOL PROPERTY.

Both our names are attached.

Trent.

Of course.

A second message appears beneath it.

Unknown number.

Stay away from Damon Cole. He's not what you think.

I show him.

He barely looks at the screen.

“People have been sending me that since freshman year.”

“Who?”

“No idea.”

“You don't seem worried.”

“I've had two years to get used to people wanting me dead.”

I study him.

“Did you deserve it?”

His eyes meet mine.

“Some of it.”

The answer catches me off guard.

I expected arrogance.

Not honesty.

Before I can ask what he means, he pushes away from the wall.

“We need to find the ledger before they move it again.”

“Where?”

“The council room.”

“Why?”

“Because if Trent thinks the headmaster's office is compromised, he'll move anything important somewhere only the council can access.”

“You think it's there?”

“I think it's worth checking.”

He reaches for the door.

I follow.

The campus is almost completely dark.

We move quickly through the corridors, staying away from the main security cameras. Damon never explains how he knows where they are.

I don't ask.

Not yet.

We reach the administration building.

The headmaster's office is on the second floor.

One light is still on.

Damon looks at me.

“Stay here.”

“No.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“You're supposed to be the one following rules,” I whisper.

“I don't remember agreeing to that.”

He takes out a small metal tool.

I stare at it.

“Is that a lockpick?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you have one?”

“My brother taught me.”

He works the lock.

Click.

The door opens.

I follow him inside.

The headmaster's office smells like old wood and expensive cologne.

The founder's portrait hangs above the desk.

Damon reaches for it.

He lifts it from the wall.

Nothing.

Only plaster.

“Gone,” he says.

“Then the council room.”

He nods.

We leave.

Five minutes later, we reach the council room.

Damon crouches beside the lock.

I stand watch.

My hands are shaking.

I force them still.

Click.

The door opens.

The room is immaculate.

A long table sits beneath the portraits of every student council president in Kingsley Prep history.

Damon steps inside.

Then stops.

A white rose rests in the center of the table.

Fresh.

Perfect.

Tied with black ribbon.

“Don't touch it,” he says.

I take one step closer.

A small card is tucked beneath the ribbon.

I reach for it.

Damon catches my wrist.

Too late.

My fingers close around the card.

I pull it free.

Three words are written across the front.

EPISODE SIX.

I turn it over.

A name is written underneath.

MARCUS HALE.

My stomach drops.

Marcus.

The boy who held doors open for me.

The boy who always asked how my classes were going.

The boy I saw walking across campus with Clara less than an hour ago.

Damon takes the card from my hand.

His expression hardens.

“They're choosing targets now.”

“Why Marcus?”

“I don't know.”

“You know more than you're saying.”

He looks at me.

“I told you. Omissions.”

Before I can answer, something catches my eye.

The glass of the trophy case beside the council room.

Three words are written across it in dark, wet streaks.

YOU'RE NEXT, MAYA.

My breath catches.

Damon grabs my arm.

“Move.”

Footsteps explode somewhere down the corridor.

One set.

Then another.

Then several.

Flashlights sweep beneath the door.

“They're here,” I whisper.

Damon pulls me toward the back exit.

The front doors slam open.

“Maya!”

Someone shouts my name.

Not Damon.

A man's voice.

I run.

Damon keeps hold of my hand as we race down the stairs.

We burst into the courtyard.

Flashlights s***h across the darkness behind us.

Damon pulls me into the narrow space between the science wing and the fence.

We press against the brick.

His body shields mine as the lights sweep across the courtyard.

Neither of us breathes.

The beams pass.

Footsteps fade.

Damon finally steps back.

“You're shaking.”

“So are you.”

He looks at his hand.

It's trembling.

He closes it into a fist.

My phone vibrates.

We both freeze.

The podcast app is open.

EPISODE SIX.

Scheduled.

A preview begins playing before I can stop it.

The voice is distorted.

Male.

“Marcus Hale thought kindness would protect him.”

A pause.

“Maya Patel thought invisibility would protect her.”

Another pause.

“And Damon Cole picked the wrong girl to save.”

The audio cuts.

Damon stares at my phone.

“They know we're together.”

“Maybe they want us together.”

His jaw tightens.

“That's worse.”

Another notification appears.

A photo.

No number.

No message.

Just an image.

I open it.

The council room.

The white rose is gone.

In its place sits my scholarship name tag.

The one that was pinned to my uniform.

The one I was wearing when we left the library.

My stomach turns.

Someone had been close enough to take it f

rom me.

Close enough to watch us.

Written across the table beneath it are two words.

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS.

I stare at the screen.

Damon takes the phone from my hand.

For once, he doesn't have an answer.

He looks at me.

Then at the darkness beyond the courtyard.

“They're not hunting us anymore.”

“What are they doing?”

His eyes return to mine.

“Counting down.”

Somewhere beyond the fence, an engine starts.

Damon grabs my hand.

“Run.”

This time, I do.