Chapter 3 Chapter 3
Sloane’s POV
If there was one thing I’d learned during my time at Ashcroft Academy, it was that people didn’t actually want the truth.
They wanted the version that entertained them most.
By eight-thirty, Quinn Sinclair had apparently confessed to attempted murder, fled the country, and been arrested by the FBI.
Which was impressive, considering I’d seen him walk into first period ten minutes earlier.
“I heard Noah Whitaker died,” a freshman announced near the journalism classroom.
“No, he’s paralyzed,” her friend replied. “My cousin knows somebody who knows his family.”
Wonderful. A cousin of somebody. Practically a sworn affidavit.
I opened my notebook and wrote down the rumors circulating around campus. Not because I intended to publish them, but because I wanted to know how far the story had traveled from the actual facts.
“Sloane.”
Amelia Brooks appeared beside me carrying two iced coffees.
“You look like you’re about to solve a murder.”
“According to the freshmen, Quinn already committed one.”
She handed me a coffee.
“Please tell me you’re not putting that in the Chronicle.”
“I’m putting it on my list of things people say without using their brains.”
“That’s going to be a long list.”
“I’m considering a second notebook.”
Amelia laughed, then glanced at my phone.
“Is that the picture?”
I nodded.
The Velvet Ledger’s second post had been circulating for less than an hour. Already, students were treating the photograph as proof that Quinn had been driving, despite the blogger explicitly saying otherwise.
I enlarged the image.
Fifteen-year-old Quinn stood beside the Range Rover, his white shirt stained with blood. The second figure’s face was obscured, but the rest of the photograph was surprisingly clear.
And in the lower corner sat the silver side mirror Quinn had pointed out to Sebastian.
“That’s strange,” Amelia said.
“Which part?”
“The mirror. Why wouldn’t the person taking the picture get out of the car?”
“Maybe they were afraid.”
“Or maybe they didn’t want anyone to see them.”
I looked at her.
She shrugged.
“What? I occasionally have intelligent thoughts.”
“I’m documenting this historic occasion.”
She elbowed me.
I studied the image again. My first instinct was to assume whoever took it had been prepared, perhaps with a professional camera. But a clear photograph didn’t prove that, and screenshots could be misleading.
I needed the original file.
Or something else I could verify.
I opened the Chronicle’s photo archive on my laptop.
“What are you doing?” Amelia asked.
“Looking for the road.”
“Briar Ridge?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know where that car was parked.”
Twenty minutes later, I had found three old photographs from Ashcroft’s annual charity run.
The route had passed along Briar Ridge Road, and the Chronicle had covered it.
I compared the road markings and the low stone wall visible behind the Range Rover with the older photographs.
Same stretch of road.
Same wall.
Same narrow shoulder.
But something bothered me.
In the Ledger photograph, the silver mirror appeared to belong to a vehicle parked just beyond the curve.
That wasn’t a particularly safe place to stop.
“Maybe the photographer pulled over after seeing the accident,” Amelia suggested.
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not convinced of anything yet.”
I took screenshots of the comparison and sent them to Sebastian.
I found the location. Can we check whether the silver mirror matches any vehicles in Ashcroft’s old event photos?
His response came almost immediately.
Already checking. Good catch.
I smiled.
Amelia leaned over my shoulder.
“Sebastian?”
“Yes.”
“You two are going to be unbearable together.”
“We’re thorough.”
“That’s a much nicer word for it.”
Before I could respond, the school speakers crackled.
“Attention, students. All students are to report immediately to the Grand Assembly Hall. Classes are suspended until further notice.”
Amelia looked at me.
“Well, that’s comforting.”
I closed my laptop.
“Come on.”
The Grand Assembly Hall was packed.
Students crowded the aisles, whispering over their phones while faculty members stood along the walls looking unusually tense.
I spotted our friends halfway down the room.
Luca waved both arms.
“Detective! Over here!”
Several students turned.
I closed my eyes.
One day, I was going to strangle him.
“Could you possibly be louder?” I asked when I reached him.
He considered it.
“Absolutely.”
“Don’t.”
Evie laughed beside him.
Sebastian didn’t even look up from his phone.
“Please don’t encourage him.”
“I feel deeply unsupported,” Luca announced.
“You’ll survive,” Charlotte said.
Her voice sounded tired.
I glanced at Quinn, who sat beside Theo, staring at the floor.
He’d admitted he was present when Noah was injured. He’d refused to identify the other person in the photograph.
And now the entire academy was trying to solve his life like a crossword puzzle.
I sat behind him.
“Quinn?”
He looked back.
“I found the section of Briar Ridge where the photograph was taken.”
His expression changed.
“Already?”
“I’m good at my job.”
Luca leaned over.
“She’s modest too.”
I ignored him.
“Sebastian’s checking the vehicle.”
Quinn nodded.
“Thank you.”
Two words.
But I could tell he meant them.
The lights dimmed before I could say anything else.
Headmaster Whitmore walked onto the stage with Dean Holloway and two trustees.
That was unusual enough to quiet the room.
“I understand this morning has been distressing for many members of our community,” Whitmore began. “An anonymous publication has circulated allegations concerning one of our students and an incident from several years ago.”
He paused.
“Ashcroft Academy will not discipline students based on anonymous accusations. Nor will we tolerate harassment, threats, or the deliberate spread of false information.”
Several students shifted uncomfortably.
Good.
They should.
“We are reviewing the circumstances surrounding this publication and cooperating with appropriate authorities where necessary. Until that review is complete, I expect every student to behave responsibly.”
His gaze swept the room.
“Classes will resume after lunch. Faculty will be available for any student who feels threatened or unsafe.”
Then he stepped away.
That was it.
No dramatic announcement.
No expulsion.
No answers.
Luca stared at the stage.
“I missed breakfast for that?”
Evie elbowed him.
“Luca.”
“What? I’m concerned about institutional transparency. And pancakes.”
Sebastian leaned toward me.
“Did you notice he never said the allegations were false?”
I nodded.
“He was careful.”
“Very.”
Whitmore had offered protection without defending the Sinclair family.
For a headmaster whose school stadium carried Patrick Sinclair’s name, that was interesting.
But interesting wasn’t evidence.
Not yet.
We stayed behind while the other students filed out.
Charlotte sat beside Quinn, their hands resting close together without quite touching.
I didn’t know what had happened between them that morning, and I wasn’t going to ask.
Some things mattered more than satisfying my curiosity.
Sebastian turned his phone toward me.
“I checked the Chronicle archive.”
“And?”
“The silver mirror could belong to several vehicles. There’s not enough detail to identify the model.”
I sighed.
“So we have nothing.”
“Not nothing.”
He enlarged the image.
“Look at the emergency lights.”
I leaned closer.
Red and blue reflections stretched across the wet pavement.
“What about them?”
“The photographer was still there after emergency services arrived.”
I looked at him.
That was obvious once he said it, but I hadn’t considered what it meant.
Whoever had taken the picture hadn’t necessarily witnessed the collision.
They could have arrived afterward.
I sat back.
“So the photograph doesn’t prove anyone was waiting for the accident.”
“No,” Sebastian said. “It doesn’t.”
I appreciated that about him. Sebastian didn’t try to make evidence more exciting than it was.
Quinn leaned toward us.
“Then how do we find out who took it?”
I looked down at my notebook.
The charity-run photographs had shown something else along that stretch of road.
A small sign attached to the stone wall.
I opened one of the old images and zoomed in.
PRIVATE PROPERTY — NORTH RIDGE ESTATES
I showed it to the others.
“The photographer may have been on the road,” I said. “But that wall borders a private entrance. If there were security cameras nearby three years ago, someone might have recorded the vehicles coming and going.”
Charlotte straightened.
“My mother knows one of the homeowners.”
Luca grinned.
“Of course she does.”
Charlotte gave him a look.
“Would you prefer I didn’t?”
“Nope. Love a useful senator connection.”
Quinn studied the photograph again.
For the first time all morning, something other than fear crossed his face.
Hope.
It was small, but it was there.
I closed my notebook.
We hadn’t identified the photographer.
We hadn’t proved who was driving.
But we’d found somewhere to start asking questions.
And for once, The Velvet Ledger wasn’t the one telling us where to look.
