“Ellie’s file—what?”

Camille’s voice cracked—sharp, too loud, like it didn’t belong to her. It shot out before she could think, too panicked to be polite. Her chest was caving in, ribs pounding. Everything was too loud. Too bright. Too—God. The California night wrapped around her like a sweaty fist, jasmine blooming sick-sweet in the air while they crouched behind a dumpster that reeked of piss and week-old garbage. Oil. Rot. Something dead. Maybe her hope.

Her palms slid on Ellie’s trembling shoulders—too much sweat, not enough grip. She tried to steady her. Failed. Ms. Harper’s phone was glowing between them, throwing jerky, twitchy shadows across the graffiti-covered wall like ghosts...