BURY

NOTARY

5:30 AM. That was the new time. Vincent moved it up because we were winning.

1 hour 28 minutes.

Sirens were two blocks away from the flea market. Not one car. Two.

"He called them on us," Marco said, pulling his red dress up to run. "He said you stole from the flea market. He knows the owner."

Damon grabbed my hand, USB in his other pocket, real $47M paper shoved back under my dagger strap where it cut into my skin. Maya's half-burnt page was dissolving in my fist from rain.

We ran. Through the tarps, through kids' bikes, through a pile of old St. Agnes mattresses that smelled like us at 9 years old.

Marco's Honda was on the other side. We got in, same order, me in back, ash, mud, splinters.

"J. Harrison," Damon said, phone in his lap, typing while Marco drove with one hand, wig now completely off, blonde hair underneath wet and flat. "Notary stamp #88471. Vincent uses him for everything. He has an office on Grand. 24-hour notary. For felons."

"Why would he talk to us?" I said. My teeth were chattering. Not from cold.

"Because Maya had a USB," Damon said. "And Vincent told you it was empty last year. If he checked both desks last year, that means Maya was alive last year when he checked. That means -"

He didn't finish. We all knew.

Maya didn't die when they said she died.

3:?? The dashboard clock was broken. My phone said 4:06 AM. 1 hour 24 minutes.

Notary on Grand was open. Neon sign: *NOTARY - BONDS - 24 HRS*. One light on inside.

J. Harrison was not what I expected. Old, Black, glasses, eating noodles at 4 AM, watching a small TV.

Three kids walked in, one in a destroyed red dress, one bleeding from his knuckles, one barefoot, mud to the knees, holding a wet $47M paper like a church program.

He looked up, saw the paper in my hand, and turned white.

"No," he said. "No no no. Get out."

"You notarized this," I said, laying it on his noodle counter. The gold seal. Stamp #88471. LENA CRUZ in blue ink that wasn't mine.

"I notarize 200 papers a day. I don't -"

"You notarized a 17-year-old foster kid for a $47M trust transfer at 11 PM without her present," Damon said, quiet. "That's not 200 a day. That's one. And Vincent paid you $5k extra, didn't he?"

J. Harrison's hand shook over his noodles.

"How -"

"Maya filmed you," I lied. I didn't know if the USB was empty. Vincent said empty. But Maya filmed everything. She hid her phone in her apron.

I pulled the black USB out of Damon's pocket and set it next to the $47M paper. Mud on it. Glitter tape still stuck to it.

"This is her copy. USB IN - LENA'S DESK - she left it for FBI. If you don't sign right now saying you never met me, we give this to FBI at 5:31 AM after Vincent files his fake and they arrest him for fraud AND you for conspiracy. You lose your license. You go to prison, not me."

It was a bluff. Complete foster-kid bluff. The one you use when you have nothing and you pretend you have everything so the social worker doesn't move you.

J. Harrison stared at the USB like it was a gun.

"It wasn't supposed to be a kid," he whispered. "Vincent said it was his daughter, 22, studying abroad. He showed me a photo. Blonde. He said she couldn't fly back. He had her ID. It looked real."

"Show us the log book," Damon said.

Every notary has a log book. Time, thumbprint, ID.

He pulled it out, shaking, flipped to 3 months ago.

_11:14 PM - LENA CRUZ - Trust Transfer - ID: CA DL - Thumbprint: NONE - Note: client ill, verified by phone._

No thumbprint. No signature in person. At 11:14 PM. At night. In a notary office that closes at 7 PM normally.

"Write it," I said, grabbing a blank affidavit form from his counter. "Write: I, J. Harrison, did not meet Lena Cruz in person, I did not witness her signature, I was paid by Vincent Valentino to stamp it. And sign it and stamp it with your real stamp now."

"And then?" He looked at the door, scared Vincent would walk in.

"And then we leave and you call your lawyer and you don't go to prison," Damon said. "You have 12 minutes to write it before cops get here. Vincent sent them to the flea market, next they'll come here. We heard him on the phone."

He wrote. Hand shaking so bad the ink bled. He stamped it. Gold seal, same number, #88471, but this time with real ink, real time: 4:17 AM.

I held it. First real paper with my real name that wasn't forged.

My phone buzzed.

Vincent: _1 hour 13 minutes, Lena. The notary just called me. You think paper beats my lawyer? My lawyer files at 5:30 AM whether Harrison recants or not. A recant after filing looks like you threatened him. Which you did. Come home. Bring both papers. I will still let you live inside. - V_

He knew. Harrison called him while writing. Speakerphone on.

Damon grabbed the affidavit and the $47M paper and me.

Outside, one cop car rolled slow past the notary, lights off, looking.

Marco, still in the red dress, did something crazy. He walked straight out to the cop car, waving, crying, in character.

"OFFICER! MY BOYFRIENDS ARE FIGHTING INSIDE! THEY STOLE MY PURSE! HELP!"

The cop got distracted, got out, and we ran the other way, barefoot, mud, three papers now: fake $47M, half-burnt Maya note, and a real recant with a gold stamp, ticking.

4:19 AM. 1 hour 11 minutes until filing.

The USB was still in my hand. I hadn't checked if it was empty.

We needed a laptop. And the group home file that Mrs. Alvarez kept - the file with Maya's real death certificate. Because if Vincent lied about her death date, and the desk proves she was alive last year -

The USB wasn't empty. It was proof she was alive.