The Tuesday afternoon bell at Oakridge High didn't just signal the end of classes; it felt like a starting gun.
I spent the entire day trying to ignore the lingering glances in the hallway, but my mind was completely stuck on the small, folded sticky note tucked inside my pocket. During AP English, Mike had walked past my desk to hand in his paper, and with a swift, entirely invisible movement, he had dropped the note onto my binder. It just had his sharp, heavy handwriting: 4:30 PM. The Mansion Library. Don't be late, Gilbert.
At exactly 4:30 PM, I walked up the grand stone steps of the main Weller mansion, my heart doing a nervous little dance against my ribs. I had changed into a cozy, comfortable outfit—a thick, oversized thrifted cream sweater that swallowed my frame, dark leggin
