Chapter 3

Early next morning, the guy I hired showed up.

Middle-aged. The name was Charlie.

Right before we hit the school gates, I ran him through the plan one more time.

He took the cash and nodded. Easy.

We hadn't even made it to class when—of course—Vivian.

Her eyes dragged over Charlie, slow and judgmental. Then she laughed. "Wow. Who's this? He screams paid actor."

My heart stuttered.

She sneered and walked off as she'd already won.

At the start of the parent-teacher meeting, they were supposed to invite the top student to the front.

But the one who stood was Linda. "My daughter Vivian has worked very hard this semester..."

A parent nearby flipped through a report card, frowning. "Isn't Riley number one?"

Linda heard. Of course she did. She turned, a smile locked in place.

"Speaking of Riley." A beat. Calm, smooth. "Her 'top score' came from copying Vivian."

The room went dead quiet.

She glanced at me. "And this child's guardians are death row inmates from Northbridge Maximum Security Prison. You all know what kind of people end up there."

A ripple moved through the room. Chairs scraped. Parents pulled their kids closer like I was contagious.

Charlie's hand shook. He looked at me, panic written all over him. "You're the daughter of death row inmates? I—I can't do this job!"

Silence. Again.

Through the anger and humiliation, I caught him hesitating. Like he might pull the cash out and give it back.

He didn't.

His jaw tightened, and he bolted for the door. "Why would I refund a murderer's daughter?"

The room exploded.

Vivian covered her mouth, laughing so hard her shoulders shook.

Mr. Todd shot up, face dark. "Riley Ray! This is a parent-teacher meeting, and you hired someone to fool us?"

My phone buzzed.

Dad Fifty-Five—Allan Hardy.

One of the top criminal investigators in the country.

[I'm in Northbridge. Came to see you. Which building are you in?]

Vivian already had her phone up, camera locked on me.

"Let's livestream it. Let everyone watch."

"Don't livestream." The words slipped out before I could stop them. "I'll apologize. My guardian's not here, but I'll apologize!"

Desperate to end it fast, I stepped onto the raised platform, grabbed the mic, and blurted, almost hysterical, "She's right! I copied the test! The score wasn't mine! I'm not smart enough to earn it! I'm sorry!"

I kept saying it. Over and over.

Then—someone shoved me from behind.

I stumbled. My forehead slammed into the edge of the platform.

Blood spread, sticky against the surface. When I lifted my head, it tugged where it had started to dry.

I pushed myself up, blood all over my face, and walked down.

The crowd split for me.

No one said a word.

Right after I stepped out, Vivian blocked me in the covered walkway.

"Leave? Did I say you could?"

She pulled a plastic bag from her purse—cafeteria scraps, still warm—and dumped it over my head.

Greasy broth slid down my hair. Bits stuck to my lashes.

"Eat it off the floor," she said. "And say, 'Thanks for the food, Vivian.'"

I didn't move.

She lifted her phone. "Then I'll livestream it."

"No!"

She laughed. "Too late. I already got it."

She shoved the phone in my face. My apology played back, clear as day.

"I can make you die whenever I want."

"You—"

My nails bit into my palm.

But for my dads—their safety, their identities—I dropped my head and slowly crouched.

Food scraps were everywhere. Mixed with dirt.

I didn't hesitate.

I reached down and scooped it up.

Just as Vivian and her minions cracked up right in my ear, a group rushed over.

"Riley."

The voice shook—but I knew it. It locked me in place.

I looked up.

Dad One stood in front. Behind him—Dad Thirty-Two, Dad Sixty-Seven, Dad Ninety-Four.

Their faces went dark. Silent. Taking in the scraps all over me, the blood on my face, the mess at my feet.

Dad One's rough fingers brushed my cheek.

Then he looked at Vivian and her minions, now dead quiet.

His voice dropped, low and heavy.

"What did you do to my daughter?"