Bertha’s POV
I trudge down the hallway toward Literature class, navigating through a small crowd of students. Most call out to me, and I force a smile, doing my best to respond warmly despite the gnawing dread constricting my chest. It’s not just the mess with Ford that's making me feel antsy, Mondays have a unique way of being pure torture.
As I settle into my seat in class, I dig into my bag for my textbook, instead, my hand brushes against somethiang crisp and smooth. Then my stomach tightens.
I pull out a series of slim brown folders, my eyes darting around to make sure no one’s peeking over my shoulder. It's Ford's investigation files. The proof of our existence, quite detailed and precise. I’d stuffed them into my bag after my little midnight escapade in Ford's room and promptly
