Foreigner

Chapter 6

Before the second act can start, I have to clean up a mess and teach someone a lesson.

Because here's the thing: a picture doesn't cut it.

I have leverage, sure, but I need a plan. And to make it work, I have to ask my very intimidating roommate a question—something I've been dreading for a variety of reasons.

When I walk into our room after the trek back from the stadium, I hear the shower running. Christian's in there. Good. That gives me a few moments to collect myself. I leave my jacket and boots on, too focused on what I'm about to do.

The shower turns off. A few beats later, Christian steps out of the bathroom, steam billowing behind him. He's shirtless, a towel slung low on his hips, his damp blonde hair clinging to his forehead. His piercing eyes lock on mine, and he freezes mid-step.

We stare at each other across the room. The silence stretches long enough for it to feel awkward, but I can't seem to speak. It's like my voice abandoned ship the second I needed it most.

"Spit it out," Christian says, his tone flat but laced with impatience.

I take a deep breath, force myself to focus, and ask, "Where does the school keep our files?"

Christian crosses his arms, his gaze narrowing in suspicion. After a few seconds, understanding dawns on his face, and his expression softens slightly. "Psychologist's office," he answers.

I nod, breaking eye contact as I turn to leave.

"It's locked," he adds, stopping me in my tracks. "You'll have to pick it."

I glance back at him, surprised by the unsolicited advice. "Right. Thanks."

He doesn't reply, and I don't linger.

¤ ¤ ¤

The schoolhouse is eerily empty and dark, the faint hum of fluorescent lights the only sound. I tread carefully, my phone's flashlight guiding my way.

Thankfully, Whittiker's lack of functioning security cameras works in my favor. The ones scattered around are obviously fake—cheap props meant to deter students. I know better.

I reach the door to room 029, Dr. Matthews' office. After a quick look over my shoulder, I kneel in front of the lock and pull two paperclips from my back pocket. Bending them into shape, I wedge one into the lock and start raking the pins with the other. My phone's flashlight, clenched between my teeth, wobbles slightly as I focus.

With a satisfying click, the lock gives way. I straighten up, stash the clips, and step inside.

The room feels even darker now, the flickering overhead light casting sporadic shadows. I scan the room until my gaze lands on a tall metal cabinet in the corner. Three drawers, each labeled with a range of letters. I pull open the middle drawer and start rifling through the pale yellow folders.

"Manson... Markson... Matthews. Got it."

Oliver's file is thick, but I'm not interested in his history. I flip through quickly, my focus narrowing on one thing. Near the back, I find it: Whittiker All-Boys Boarding School Admission Contract.

Three signatures sit at the bottom—Principal Andrews, Dr. Matthews, and Oliver himself. Perfect. I snap a photo of Oliver's signature, put the file back, and close the drawer.

The door doesn't lock behind me, but I'm already gone, blending back into the shadows of the hallway.

¤ ¤ ¤

Saturday. The first weekend at Whittiker.

It's just after two in the afternoon, and I'm sitting alone in my room, practicing forging Oliver's signature. My desk is littered with scraps of paper as I mimic the loops and angles of his chicken scratch. It's not hard—just time-consuming.