Digging into the inner sleeve of my coat pocket, I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Brandon’s number. I paced the small space between my car and the secretary’s white Buick. I listened to Brandon’s voicemail kick in: “You know what to do after the beep.”
I left a brief, composed message (could he hear the fear in my voice?) and ended the call. I folded and stuffed the envelope with the two Es into my pants pocket and got behind the wheel of my car.
I told Brandon that I’d pick up dinner at the store after leaving school, the tone of my voice cracking when I mentioned the mysterious envelope I had found.
As I pulled out of the parking lot and crept toward Hanville’s main artery entrance, I slammed on the breaks. I glimpsed a blurred figure running toward me, arms waving, her eight
