Forty -Eight Hours to Survive

Chapter 1 – FL POV The voice in my earbuds says my name. Not my full name. Not the one on my scholarship paperwork. The nickname I used once, three years ago, when I thought no one was listening and I told the golden girl that I was terrified I’d lose everything if one person found out I didn’t belong here. “Hi, quiet girl,” the podcast says, and the sound is soft, like she’s whispering from inside my skull. “If you’re hearing this, then you cleaned up after prom like you always do. Check the third trash bag by the stage. The one you’re not supposed to touch.” My hand jerks and the mop handle clatters against the library floor. I freeze. The library is supposed to be empty at 12:14 a.m. I checked the exits before I came in. I should leave. Scholarship students like me don't get second chances. But the voice knows. The voice knows about the keys, It knows about the third trash bag, It knows about me. My heart is hammering so loud I’m sure the microphone in this anonymous feed can hear it. Episode 4. Lila didn’t run. Lila recorded this before prom night. Before she disappeared and left no body and no note and a hundred million questions. I pull one earbud out. The silence is worse. One suspension could cost me my scholarship. One mistake could send me home. And yet my feet are already moving toward the stage storage room because the other option is to sit here and wait to become the next episode. The door to the storage room sticks. It always sticks. I keep a paperclip in my pocket for it because the school won’t fix it and I can’t afford to be late. Inside, the smell is old wood and glitter and spilled punch. The third trash bag is shoved in the corner, half-hidden behind the backdrop for the prom photo booth. My fingers shake when I untie it. Inside is trash. Streamers. A broken tiara. A corsage. And at the bottom, wrapped in a piece of Lila’s dress, is a flash drive. There’s a note taped to it in Lila’s handwriting. The loops are messy, like she was in a hurry. _If you find this, it means they came for me. Don’t trust the council. Don’t trust the cameras. Trust the one person they all hate._ Below that, there’s a name. I don’t get to read it. The storage door slams open and the light from the hallway cuts across the floor and lands directly on the flash drive in my hand. I look up. He’s standing in the doorway. Six foot something. Black jacket. Hands in his pockets like he owns the building and the night and every bad decision that’s ever been made in this school. The most notorious bad boy at Kingsley Prep. His last name is on half the donor plaques and the other half of the police reports. Damon Cole. His eyes drop from my face to the flash drive. Then back to my face. For a second neither of us moves. Then he says, “You’re not supposed to be here.” My voice comes out too quiet. “Neither are you.” Damon steps inside and closes the door behind him. The click is loud. “You heard the podcast,” he says. It isn’t a question. I should lie. I should drop the drive and run and pretend I don’t know what any of this means. That’s what quiet girls do. That’s what scholarship girls do. But Lila’s voice is still in my ear. _Trust the one person they all hate._ And right now, that’s him. “What do you want?” I ask. Damon looks at the drive, then at me, and his mouth pulls into something that isn’t quite a smile. “I want to not be the next name on the list,” he says. “Looks like you don’t either.” Outside, footsteps echo down the hall. Slow. Deliberate. Coming this way. Damon holds out his hand. “Give me the drive, quiet girl. Before they see you with it.” “Tell me what's on it.” My earbud cr ackles. Lila's voice whispers: "If Damon Cole is standing beside you, you're already too late.”