Page 27 of The Monster I Am
There’s another curse of my name as I abruptly end the call, opening the app. Shit—this is it.
Throwing the car into drive, the tires kick up gravel as I screech out of the Willowbrook parking lot and make a beeline home.
I’m momentarily distracted by Soph’s car very clearly parked near the front door, pulling up beside it.Liar.
Racing inside, I say a quick hello to Mary as she pokes her head out of the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time.
I crash into my computer chair so fast that the momentum launches me away from the desk, my legs scrambling to pull myself back as I reach hastily for the mouse and click it wildly.
We haven’t been able to sneak into the Dean’s office since his ass has been permanently glued to his leather throne ever since the attack on Cedar Heights. Luckily, we know his credentials—all thanks to a team effort by H and myself.
When the notification popped up on my tracking app that the footage was being accessed, I was so excited to finally see it was go time. We’ve been waiting too damn long to view the footage without it being flagged.
I have to admit, Bexley’s comment that Marcus wouldn’t bother to check had stirred up some uncertainty. But it’s a huge relief to see her assumptions were wrong this time. Maybe Marcus does care deep down.
Okay—that’s probably a vast overstretch. But at the very least, he’d be interested to know who is behind the attack just as much as we are. That man is nothing but particular and anal aboutthings, always needing to know everything about everything, just like Hunter.
If I’m quick, I might be able to log in while he’s still snooping around, lowering the risk of being busted. It’s a nice little reward after the whole traumaticShoegateincident.
Setting up the VPN, which is conveniently routed to the Willowbrook IP address, I open the administration portal, punching in Dean Lannister’s credentials. I’m familiar with the setup, so it only takes me mere seconds to open the cameras’ cloud storage, scrolling to locate the date and time from the night of the dance.
“Friday…” I mutter to myself, heart beating faster in anticipation. “Four o’clock, five o’clock…”
Then nothing.
Physically, I recoil like I’ve been slapped in the face with one of Calvin’s slobbery chew toys—something that has actually happened before, courtesy of Sophia.
I scan the files again, doing a double, then triple check of the timestamps. A huge chunk of time is missing, several hours of footage seemingly gone.
Quickly, I let out a nervous laugh as I try to calm myself, checking the deleted files. It’s not a ridiculous assumption that Marcus may have accidentally hit a wrong key, but ice-cold chills ripple through my body when I realize the deleted files folder is completely empty.
That’s not a coincidence. That’s a choice.
You only ever fully delete and empty your trash folder when you are trying to permanently delete something. And to have a completely cleared folder now? It speaks for itself.
Shit. This is looking more and more suspicious by the day. I can practically hear Bexley laughing, boasting that she was right.
Except, the laugh grows louder, and I realize it’s coming from the hallway outside my bedroom door.
I shove the chair back and scurry to the door, ripping it open.
“Fucking hell, Tai Beckett!” Sophia scolds, clutching her beloved Kindle to her chest. “I didn’t touch your shoes!”
“What?” I gape at her before shaking my head. “I don’t care about that right now. I need Bexley,” I say fast, urgently grabbing the purple-haired woman and yanking her through the doorway.
Bexley stumbles slightly before she straightens up and shoots me a half annoyed, half bewildered glare. “Slow down, you maniac. What’s the emergency?”
I drown out Soph’s protests by closing the door on her, turning to face Bexley. “We have a problem.”
“Your shoes?” she asks. “Yeah, I heard.”
“This isn’t about the sneakers,” I say with a grumble. “Sophia, you have a big mouth!” I call out.
“Fuck you and your stinky shoes!” A faint reply shoots back before I hear her bedroom door slam shut.
The sound of laughing distracts me from my mental cursing, and I twist around to find Bexley hunched over in hysterics.
“It’s not funny. They were my new favorite pair, Spencer.”
