Chapter 55
Mireya
Play - Sappy (Early Demo) by Kurt Cobain
And If I do it alone
We come in straight from the mats. Morning training is probably the worst thing here. Blue stayed awake all night long causing mayhem so I know he’ll probably be asleep all day which is something less I have to worry about.
I can’t feel my legs anymore, the intense training is not mixing well with my insomnia.
So I drag myself out after a quick shower and walk toward the next class.
The hallway smells like disinfectant and sweat, and everyone’s talking too loudly, riding the tail end of the drill.
Hayzel walks backward in front of me, stretching her arms over her head.
“If I ever have to disarm another guy twice my size, I’m suing. ”
“You’d lose,” I say. “On multiple counts.”
“Then I’m going to fake my own death.”
“You’d probably also fail the paperwork.”
She grins and winks at me before replying, “Worth it.”
Ethan joins us with a smile a few seconds later. “Why are we faking our deaths?” he asks.
“Cause it’s fun,” Hayzel replies as she laughs and shoves the classroom door open.
The noise dies instantly. Every table has a box on it.
Brown cardboard boxes, sealed and numbered.
We get in, sitting quickly as the door closes behind us.
Miss Green and Damien stand at the front.
He looks composed, watching us take in the room.
Knowing him, he’s probably curious to see us anxiously waiting for an explanation.
“Before you open anything,” he starts, “you need to understand why this exercise matters.” The projector hums to life behind him. “In the real world, most investigations don’t fail because of intelligence,” he continues. “They fail because of assumptions.”
He clicks the remote, and a slide appears. Two IDs side by side. One real. One fake.
“To a patrol officer,” he says, “both of these look legitimate.” Another click, the fake is highlighted. “To you, they shouldn’t.”
“You are being trained to see what others are not,” Miss Green speaks finally. “Because you’re taught where to look. Paperwork, credentials, and documentation, all of these are systems and systems always leave seams.”
“This isn’t about catching criminals at a traffic stop,” Damien continues.
“You need to understand how people move through institutions without resistance. How files disappear and how access is granted.” His gaze sweeps the room.
“If you can’t recognize a perfect fake, you can’t protect the system from it. ”
I glance at Hayzel who’s suddenly serious with her eyes focused on the screen.
“Today’s exercise will expose you to materials you are not authorized to use outside of this room.
” That earns a few raised brows from some of the students, myself included.
“You will analyze them, break them down carefully and you will return them. Each of them has your picture on, a fake name, and fake information.”
Miss Green smiles and nods toward the boxes. “You can open them.”
Cardboard scrapes, tissue paper rustles, and plastic sleeves slide free at every table around me. Our box contains folders, printed records and IDs. Everything looks…real.
I start sorting automatically. My picture is on everything, driver’s license, passport and utility bills. Then I see it, an FBI credential. It looks used and real enough for Seraphin Bay.
Hayzel notices my pause. “Oh, come on,” she whispers. “That’s unfair. I have a fake company one.”
I slide it back into the sleeve. “Don’t get distracted.”
“Too late.”
We work through the exercise, dismantle other identities first, highlighting inconsistencies in the design, identify tells, trace where they’d fail under deeper scrutiny. The FBI credential stays untouched.
Both Ms Green and Damien circulate around the students, but then he stops at our desk, I feel it immediately.
“Find anything interesting?” he asks.
I explain our analysis quickly and he nods before stopping, “And the federal credential?” he asks quietly.
“It’s solid,” I say. “Construction-wise.”
He studies me for a second too long, then he leans in, voice low. “Don’t do anything stupid, remember.”
A faint smile lifts my mouth as I meet his eyes. “I won’t.” And I mean it, because this isn’t about thrill-seeking and I told him yesterday that I would do anything to find the man who took away this girl’s life.
The exercise ends, materials are returned, all the boxes are sealed again and the numbers are checked. I slide the fake FBI badge into my jacket pocket quickly before standing up. Hayzel is already talking about drinks tonight with Ethan, she doesn’t even notice.
As I zip my bag, I catch Damien’s reflection in the glass. He’s watching me.
I’m not doing something stupid. I’m doing exactly what they’re training me to do and I already know which door I’m going to walk through next.
Once we get out of the class and go back to our dorms, Hayzel and Ethan are sprawled next to Blue and I’m overthinking the next part of my plan.
“I hate morning training so much,” Hayzel says as she caresses Blue’s fur.
“You hate doing anything,” Ethan replies before looking at me, “Why are you thinking so loud, it’s making me sick.”
“Your dirty head is on my bed, and you’re still talking?” I reply as I get up and open the door, “I’m going to do some groceries, leaving blue with you is okay?” I ask Hayzel and she nods before stretching and taking him on her shoulders.
“I need moral support, so yep!” They both stand up and get out as I get dressed quickly before going out to take my car.
Everything else happened fast, the journey to the station, me thinking it’s a bad idea and checking the FBI badge a million times.
I don’t go straight to the station. I sit in my car for a full seven minutes with the engine off, the badge resting in my jacket pocket. My phone is in my hands and without thinking I send a text to Edna.
Me: 7 minutes.
I wait, and then her reply comes through.
Nana: Trust yourself, Rey.
Trust yourself. Trust Yourself.
I replay the lecture in my head. Systems leave seams.
The police station is all fluorescent lights, and scuffed tile. All I can hear is the low murmur of phones and printers. I walk in like I belong there.
That’s the first rule: Be confident.
I let the door swing closed behind me and pause quickly to orient myself, like I’ve done this a hundred times before. There’s a front desk with a bored officer behind it and a sign pointing toward Records. I adjust my jacket so the inner pocket sits flat against my ribs and steady myself.
Breathe. Pretend. Breathe.
Records are behind glass, a woman sits inside typing on her computer, with glasses perched low on her nose and I finally step forward. “Can I help you?” she asks without looking up.
“Yes,” I say. My voice sounds normal and stable. Good job, Reya. “I’m here to consult archived case files.”
That gets her attention because she finally looks up, eyes flicking over me. “Badge?”
I nod and take the badge out slowly before holding it up toward her. Her eyes dropped to it and I watched her face to see anything that could reassure me.
There it is, that microsecond where something in her mind clicks into place. Recognition.
She opens the door afterwards. “Sign in here, please,” she says, sliding a clipboard toward me.
I write the fake name on the badge and scribble the fake signature across the page. She takes the pen and clipboard and buzzes me through without another word. The hallway beyond is colder. It’s lined with filing cabinets and doors with labels.
A different officer meets me halfway and helps me with it. “Who are you looking for?”
“Records supervisor,” I say. “I was told they’d be expecting me.”
He nods and replies, “This way.”
No one questions me after that, no one verifies anything beyond what they already believe.
The supervisor waiting for me inside the record room looks at me before asking, “What case?”
“That’s what I’m searching for,” I reply with a confident smile.
Thankfully she laughs and starts walking toward the door. “Okay I’ll leave you there, I’m at the desk there if you need anything.”
I nod and start searching. Mysterious deaths and cold cases from twenty years to fifteen years ago. I search and search, until I see an empty numbered spot. One file is missing.
I kept searching for it again but I couldn't find it anywhere.
What’s going on?
I leave and go back to the officer who let me in and tell her that a file is missing.
She types, clicks and scrolls on her screen, and then she frowns.“That’s odd.”
My pulse jumps as I ask, “What is?”
“There should be a physical file,” she says slowly. “But the system says it was removed.”
“When?”
She checks then looks back at me. “Weeks ago.”
“By who?”
She hesitates before smiling politely. “That information’s restricted, ma’am.”
I tilt the badge slightly as if to remind her and she swallows before standing up. “I’ll see what I can find.”
She disappears into the stacks and I wait. But unfortunately, she comes back empty-handed. “It’s not here,” she says. “There’s no record of it ever being returned.”
I nod like that confirms something instead of detonating it. “It’s fine, thank you,” I say.
I leave the station after that, without looking back or anything. The second I slide into my car and close the door, I exhale all the stress I’ve been holding in since I walked in.
It worked.
Now I know, someone took a specific file, the one I wanted to find.
It can’t be accidental.