Wrong Fake Love

Chapter 1

Ryan

There is an eerie silence in the air as I take the leap.

Landing with a thud on the empty school grounds, I look for the blind spots where I can hide.

The bright yellow-colored, three-story building in front of me is daunting but I push the uneasiness away.

Pulling the hood of my jacket over my head, I adjust the cap again so it covers most of my face.

Should have worn a mask, stupid.

I know where the cameras are, and my movements are preplanned so that nothing traces back to me.

I crouch and blend among the line of shadows until I reach the office behind the administrative building.

The school should be empty at this hour except for the security guards.

Grabbing the metal wire from my pocket, I carefully insert it into the keyhole, turning it around and bending.

A minute later, I hear the lock click open.

Swiftly entering the room, I shut the door and get to work.

The imposing office desk and the placard with his name decorated in gold letters mock me.

Principal Mr. Billy Bolton

Bastard.

Moving around the table, I reach for the cabinets and begin opening them one after the other, hoping to find what I am after. The drawers contain stacked papers and mundane stationary items. Nothing in these drawers interests me.

I run my fingers on the wall looking for any indentations or uneven surface.

I heard rumors that Bolton keeps a security safe.

As I continue searching, my gaze falls on the framed photograph of stationed sailboats on the dock.

There are four sailboats in the picture, but only one of them has a four-digit number—9366—on the sail.

Bolton loves his sailboat, and he is one of the VIPs in his sailing club.

I disregard the photo frame and check the shelves next.

The walls and shelves of this room boast of Billy Bolton’s accolades, his awards and medals, but nothing in here labels him the culprit.

I can’t give up now. Not when I am this close.

Think, Ryan! Where can he hide the evidence of his lies?

I focus on the room once more with a new determination. My mind takes in every detail of this space, cataloging and considering the contents. Time is slipping through my fingers. The thought that I have to abort this mission and return back empty-handed, makes me sick in the stomach.

Don’t give up… Don’t give up…

It has to be here…This could be my last chance…

I am on the verge of panic, even though I am aware that panic will only set me back further into frustration and failure. I take in a deep breath to refocus. Sweat trickles down my forehead as my gaze searches the room again.

For some reason, I keep coming back to the wall facing his desk. This picture looks important. I pour my concentration on the picture once more. There is something there and this time I see it. The frame is hanging slightly askew. I hold the frame and carefully remove it from the wall.

Fuck!

Hidden behind the photo frame and fitted into the wall is a safe with a digital lock blinking in red and asking me for a four-digit password.

My whole body is tense as I punch in a random code without much thought. Yes, I realize immediately that it was a rookie move. In my defense, I don’t break and enter private property every day. This is but only my very first attempt.

The red bold letters reading—ACCESS DENIED—flash back at me. I used Bolton’s birthday for his code. The second time I am more careful. I think about combinations and then try the four digit pin he uses on his phone number. That one fails too.

These kinds of vaults usually only have three attempts and then they send a security alert notification to the owner of the safe, stating someone unauthorized is trying to access the safe.

Damn it!

I have only one more chance to get this right. What four-digit combination would a narcissist use as his passcode? My fingers begin trembling so bad that I have to squeeze my eyes shut and rub my hands together to stop the tremors.

I am so close. I cannot fuck this up.

The clue must be here in this room. If a man had to choose four numbers that were unique only to him and he could remember them easily, what would they be?

9366

The numbers dance in front of my shut eyelids.

I open my eyes to find the same numbers on the sailboat from the picture frame. A rush of adrenaline possesses me, and I punch in the code: 9…3…6…6. The screen blinks to green.

Thank fuck’n hell!

I carefully pull on the door to the safe and peek in. A fresh rush of emotions collides inside me.

Right in front of me, inside the vault, is my dead father’s watch.

My hand shakes even more as I fetch the token that once touched my father’s warm body.

My father used to wear it like his second skin.

My thumb caresses the metallic chain and curve of the dial.

Waves of nausea mixed with guilt wash over me.

So many things left unsaid, so many things I could have done differently, if only I had known he had so little time left with us.

I am about to close the safe and get out of here as fast as I can, but then something else is calling out.

Catching my attention is a white envelope that sits in the dark, along with bundles of cash.

There is at least fifty grand in crisp bills sitting in this safe.

I didn’t come here to steal his money, but the envelope is a different story.

If Bolton feels the need to hide something in his secret safe, it’s got to be important.

It could be something I can use against him.

As I pull out the contents of the envelope, a chill courses through my body.

Inside the envelope are photographs of my father, alive and breathing.

He is wearing the same clothes he had on the night he died.

I pull out image after image, trying to get my head around this discovery.

So many snapshots of my father from different angles.

What the fuck is this?

What does this mean?

I will never forget the night my father died. But these photos narrate a different story.

Who took these photographs? Why does Bolton have them?

My hands fumble and dig farther inside the envelope until my fingers curl around a small rectangular object.

A USB stick.

My phone vibrates telling me it is time to go. Thrusting the envelope inside my hoodie, I pull the zipper up to my chin. The USB I push inside the waist pocket of my jeans.

Taking extra care, I wipe down every place I touched, removing my fingerprints with alcohol wipes that I brought along for this exact purpose. By morning, no one will know I was here.

There is pin drop silence as I rearrange the photo frame back on the wall. And that’s when I hear it.

Footsteps.

Footsteps approaching and stopping outside the office.

Shit!

I hold my breath, rushing for cover behind the door. My hands pull out the pocketknife stored in my black combat boots; the steel blade shines in the dim moonlight coming in from the windows as I brace myself for the worst. Fuck! I am probably going to jail.

I hold my breath as the door handle shuffles, and the door flies open.

Her sweet perfume hits me first and then a head full of black hair comes into view. I hold my breath as her long, tanned legs enter the space.

Is this really her?

So many teased dreams, so many forbidden fantasies, all centered around this one girl. And somehow tonight, she is here sharing the same air as me. How many seconds before she realizes what she walked into?

How many seconds before she screams bloody murder?

A new kind of thrill courses through my veins. An old warning rings caution in my ears.

She’ll never choose a boy like me.

But when it comes to her, I am a glutton for punishment.

A grin spreads on my face as her delicate fingers hover over the light switch. This night just got a whole lot more interesting.