Chapter 3 - The Hidden AccountThe USB drive sat on the archive desk like a loaded gun.
Nobody touched it.
Dean Harrow ordered IT security to isolate the computer.
Professor Lennox stood against the wall.
Stephanie hovered beside the doorway.
My father had somehow made his way into the hallway.
My mother was crying.
But I barely noticed.
I couldn't stop staring at the photograph.
Eighteen-year-old me.
Hair pulled into a messy ponytail.
Cheap backpack.
Scholarship letter clutched in both hands.
I remembered that day.
My father had looked proud.
For about six minutes.
Then Stephanie complained that the scholarship ceremony made her late for dinner.
Now someone had written:
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED SMALL.
Dean Harrow looked at me.
“Emily, I need you to step away from this.”
“No.”
“This is now an active security investigation.”
“Exactly.”
The IT employee carefully photographed the USB drive.
Then he connected a clean forensic workstation.
The screen flashed.
A folder appeared.
Inside were dozens of files.
My academic records.
My scholarship applications.
My personal emails.
My employment contract.
My medical leave request from sophomore year.
Even messages between me and my closest friend.
All private.
All stolen.
My stomach twisted.
“They've been watching me for years.”
The IT employee nodded.
“Some of these documents are four years old.”
Stephanie suddenly whispered, “That's impossible.”
I turned.
“You seem surprised.”
She didn't respond.
Lennox stepped forward.
“We don't know whether these files are authentic.”
I looked at him.
“You recognized them.”
“No.”
“You said the drive was dangerous.”
“I said not to plug it in.”
“Why?”
Silence.
Dean Harrow's face hardened.
“Professor Lennox.”
He sighed.
“This isn't the place.”
“Then where?”
Lennox looked toward Stephanie.
The two exchanged a glance.
I saw it.
That tiny communication between people who had already discussed the situation.
People who knew more than they were saying.
I turned toward Stephanie.
“Did you know about the USB?”
“No.”
“You looked at it and knew exactly what it was.”
“I guessed.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“You recognized it.”
She backed away.
“You're obsessed.”
I laughed.
“That's rich.”
Then the IT employee spoke.
“Dean.”
Everyone looked at him.
He had opened another file.
A spreadsheet.
Thousands of rows.
Student information.
Grades.
Exam results.
Scholarship rankings.
I stared.
“What is that?”
He zoomed in.
My name appeared.
Next to it was a numerical code.
Beside the code was a status.
REMOVE.
My pulse quickened.
“What does remove mean?”
He scrolled.
Other students had codes.
Some were marked PROMOTE.
Others were marked RESTRICT.
One was marked FAIL.
The data went back five years.
Dean Harrow stared at the screen.
“This university has no system like this.”
“Not officially,” the IT employee said.
Lennox interrupted.
“Shut it down.”
The employee didn't move.
“Professor?”
“Shut it down.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because you don't understand what you're looking at.”
“Then explain it.”
He didn't.
Stephanie grabbed my arm.
“Emily, stop.”
I pulled away.
“Why are you protecting him?”
She whispered, “Because you don't know what he'll do.”
That was the first honest thing she had said all day.
I stared at her.
“You're afraid of him.”
Her face tightened.
“I'm afraid of what happens if this goes public.”
Lennox stepped forward.
“Enough.”
A security officer blocked him.
“Sir, you need to remain here.”
Lennox glared at him.
Then the lights went out.
Every monitor died.
Someone screamed.
Emergency lights flickered on.
The hallway turned red.
I heard a metallic sound behind me.
Click.
I turned.
The archive room door was closing.
“Stephanie?”
She was gone.
I ran.
I reached the door just as it slammed shut.
I pulled it open.
Empty.
A side exit stood ajar.
She had disappeared.
On the floor was her phone.
The screen was cracked.
A single message was visible.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES.
I picked up the phone.
Another message appeared.
ASK YOUR FATHER WHAT HAPPENED TO THE ORIGINAL SCHOLARSHIP FILE.
I looked toward my father.
He had gone completely still.
“What scholarship file?”
He didn't answer.
“Dad?”
He looked at the floor.
My mother's sobbing stopped.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then my father said quietly:
“The scholarship wasn't supposed to go to you.”
The words hit harder than any accusation.
“What?”
He closed his eyes.
“Your sister had been nominated.”
I felt something inside me crack.
“You told me I earned it.”
“You did.”
“But she was supposed to get it?”
“Stephanie had connections.”
“With the university?”
He nodded.
I stared at him.
Then at the spreadsheet.
PROMOTE.
RESTRICT.
REMOVE.
Suddenly, four years of my life looked different.
Not random.
Not cruel.
Organized.
Someone had been deciding who succeeded.
Who failed.
Who disappeared from the rankings.
And my name had been marked:
REMOVE.
Then my father's phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed instantly.
He listened for three seconds.
Then whispered:
“She's here.”
I stepped toward him.
“Who?”
He looked at me.
“The woman who paid for your scholarship.”
My blood turned cold.
“Who is she?”
My father slowly lowered the phone.
“She wants to meet you.”
“Why?”
He looked terrified.
“Because she says she knows who ordered Stephanie to destroy you.”
And then he told me the name.
A name I had never heard before.
But when Stephanie returned five minutes later…
She heard it.
And screamed.
May you like
“Emily, don't go!”
It was the first time she had ever begged me not to learn the truth.
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