Chapter 4
Packing their bags took less than a minute. Maya swept the modern research folders, index cards, and her biology notes into her canvas tote bag, zipping it shut with a decisive click. Leo carefully slid the vintage water board documents inside a durable plastic sleeve he had brought specifically for the purpose, tucking the protective pocket safely beneath his dark blue hoodie against his chest. They moved with a synchronized quietness, stepping away from the study table and making their way toward the library's main exit doors without drawing the attention of the librarian behind the mahogany front desk.
The crisp autumn air hit them immediately as they stepped out onto the front steps of Oakridge High. The sun was dipping low behind the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange. Across the courtyard, the school buses were already idling, their diesel engines rumbling as they prepared to transport the last remaining students home.
"We take my bike," Leo said, pointing toward the bicycle racks near the gymnasium where his older-model mountain bike was chained. "It's faster through the alleyways, and we won't get caught in the commuter traffic heading down toward Main Street."
Maya hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing toward the faculty parking lot where her uncle’s dark sedan was still parked in its designated administrative space. The vehicle was empty, but the dark tinted windows seemed to watch them with silent vigilance. She swallowed hard, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "Lead the way."
The ride through the town’s older districts was a blur of russet-colored maple leaves and fading Victorian architecture. Oakridge was a town defined by its picturesque facade—neatly manicured lawns, white picket fences, and historical landmarks celebrating industrial prosperity. But as Leo navigated the alleyways behind the old textile mill, the darker reality of the town's geography became apparent. The rusted drainage pipes running along the riverbank leaked a foul-smelling gray residue directly into the local waterway, a silent testament to decades of unchecked industrial dumping that the historical society conveniently omitted from their glossy tourism brochures.
Leo slowed his pace as they approached the rear entrance of the county courthouse, a monolithic stone building constructed during the New Deal era. Its towering limestone pillars cast long shadows across the concrete steps. He parked his bicycle against a rusted iron railing, securing the lock with practiced efficiency.
May you like
Maya dismounted, her boots clicking softly against the pavement. She looked up at the heavy oak doors of the courthouse, feeling the gravity of what they were attempting to uncover. "If security asks what we're doing after hours, what's our cover?"
"We're working on the centennial exhibit architecture committee," Leo said smoothly, adjusting his hood. "My dad used to do electrical work here; I know the layout of the basement records room like the back of my hand."
