BURY

FIVE DOLLAR DESKS

Marco's Honda smelled like cheap strawberry perfume and gun oil.

That was Marco. Always both.

"Get in get in GET IN!" He was still in the red dress from my closet, my red dress, soaked through, wig crooked, lipstick bleeding where the rain hit it. He looked beautiful and insane.

Damon shoved me into the backseat first. I landed hard, ash on the seats, mud, the $47M paper crunching against my ribs, the half-burnt Maya page fisted so tight my nails tore it more.

Damon in front, gun between his knees.

Marco floored it before the doors even closed.

Behind us, blue and red. Not sirens yet, just lights, pulling into Damon's long driveway. Vincent called local cops, not FBI. Local cops are faster. Local cops don't ask about trust funds.

"Where?" Marco shouted, wiping rain and makeup off his face, looking at me in the rearview.

"Flea market on 5th," I gasped. "St. Agnes desks. Mrs. Alvarez sold them there."

"That place closed at 6 PM!" Damon said.

"It never closes," Marco and I said at the same time.

St. Agnes kids know. The flea market on 5th never closes. The man who runs it sleeps under the tarp.

3:49 AM. 2 hours 11 minutes.

Marco drove like we stole something. We did.

"You shot my Dad's tree camera," he said, almost laughing, eyes on the road. "He's had that camera since I was 12. He watches the tree die on his phone. You're so f****d, Lena."

"You told him we were digging," Damon said, cold.

"I told him you were leaving," Marco said. "Big difference. He checked the camera himself. He always checks the tree at night. He talks to it."

My hands were shaking so bad I almost lost Maya's half-page. _USB IN -_

IN what? I kept turning it over. Black Sharpie, Maya's handwriting, she pressed hard when she was scared.

_USB IN -_

In the desk, I thought. But Maya wouldn't write "desk." She would write "DESK." She wrote "USB IN -" like there were more letters. IN what?

In... Inside? Invisible? Initials?

"Marco," I said suddenly. "When you burned the notebook - was there anything taped inside it? A USB?"

He glanced back, driving 70 in a 30, red dress strap falling off his shoulder.

"What? No. It was just paper. Dad said burn the whole thing, don't read it. I read one page. The one that said Lena is next."

My blood went cold.

"He told you I was next?"

"He wrote it on a Post-it on the cover. _Burn this, Maya was dramatic, Lena is next if she doesn't learn._ I didn't - I didn't want to be next either, Lena."

Damon looked at Marco like he wanted to shoot the rearview mirror.

Flea market on 5th. 3:58 AM. 2 hours 2 minutes.

It was dark, tarps flapping, rain making the whole thing sag. One bare bulb on, swinging. And under it, like Marco said, the owner asleep in a lawn chair, mouth open.

Desks. A pile of them. Tiny. Kid-sized. All different colors, initials carved in.

St. Agnes desks. $5 each. She really sold them.

I was out before the car stopped, knees still muddy, ash still on my face, running in bare feet because I lost my shoes in Damon's garden.

"MAYA'S WAS BLUE!" I shouted to no one. "HER'S WAS BLUE, CHIPPED ON THE LEFT!"

There were 40 desks. Maybe 50. All kid desks.

Damon and Marco behind me, flipping them, turning them over, rain pouring off the tarp onto our backs.

Blue. Blue. Blue -

I found it.

Blue desk, chipped on the left, _M.C. + L.C. = SISTERS_ carved into the top in little kid letters. My letters. I carved that when I was 8.

I flipped it. Hands bleeding now from wood splinters.

Underneath. Duct tape. Old, yellow, peeling.

And under the tape - nothing. Dust outline where something rectangle had been.

Someone had taken it.

"No," I whispered. "No no no -"

Damon flipped his own desk. "Lena -"

On the bottom of MY desk - pink one, next to Maya's, _LENA CRUZ WAS HERE, DON'T FORGET ME_ - tape still holding.

A small black USB, taped with three strips of glitter tape that Maya stole from art class in 2017.

Not Maya's USB.

Mine.

She taped it under MY desk, not hers.

_USB IN - LENA'S DESK._

She knew I'd look in hers. Vincent would look in hers. She put it in mine.

I ripped it off, tape pulling splinters.

Marco's phone rang, loud in the dark market. He answered on speaker, breathing hard.

Vincent: _Marco, put her on. 1 hour 58 minutes, Lena. My lawyer clicked submit in 30 minutes earlier than I told you. It files at 5:30 AM now. You have 1 hour 32 minutes to bring me the original and the ash in your hand, or that USB you're holding - which is empty, by the way, I checked both desks last year - will be the only thing they find on your body when they find you. Bring it home. - V_

He knew about the USB. Last year. He checked.

I stared at the black USB in my palm. Empty? Or was that a lie to make me drop it?

Damon took it from me, put it in his pocket, and pulled out the real $47M paper, now almost dry.

"Then we don't need the USB," he said, looking at me, rain in his eyelashes. "We need the notary. If Maya wrote FORGED, she saw who forged it. The USB is her telling us who to call."

He pulled out his phone, searched one name, turned it to me.

_NOTARY PUBLIC: J. HARRISON - STAMP #88471 - That stamp number was on the $47M paper. The gold seal._

J. Harrison notarized a forged signature of a 17-year-old foster kid for a $47M trust.

He would know it was forged. And if we got him before 5:30 AM to sign an affidavit saying he never met Lena Cruz -

We had 1 hour 30 minutes to find a notary who took $47M to lie, and make him tell the truth.

Behind us, sirens finally. Coming to the flea market. Vincent didn't just call cops to Damon's house.

He called them here too.