“It’s back here,” Bronte instructs, moving past a partition and the principal’s office into a cramped corridor.

“How do you know?”

Bronte casts a smug look at me.

“I was an office intern last year.”

It must be an Escano family trait, having a dozen and one jobs around town.

We reach the security room, though it’s a fancy moniker for a catch-all room, with an industrial printer/scanner, a laminator, a paper cutter, and a desktop computer. Instinctively, Ben and I crouch down beside Bronte as she gets set up at the monitor, poising ready fingers over the keyboard. I’m curious to see her work.

“For the record, I’m not a hacker,” she says, reading my mind. The computer is slow to start, and we have to wait for the boot screen. “Mr. Diaz’s password was his dog’s name plus his dad’s birthday. He left Google Docs up. You need to make sure you can get into their phone, in case they use two-factor authentication, and then delete any email notifications. You can get into any app you want that way. Easy stuff. My mom taught me the tricks of the trade.”

She can pooh-pooh it as easy, but sounds like hacking to me. I wonder what other phones Bronte has used that trick on. The password-prompt box appears, and quick as can be, Bronte’s fingers blur over the keyboard, she hits Enter, and we’re in.

“How did you do that?”

“I was here last year when Principal Morris got locked out and had to reset the login. Password’s Vikings123.”

Sometimes I love boomers.

After a minute of rapid-fire clicking, Bronte gets down to business. “So here’s the deal. The system keeps up to one month of records. There are at least thirty cameras around the building, but I’m assuming we want to start with the athletic center. I found the one over the front door, which fortuitously also gives an excellent view of the stadium side exit. There’s just one problem.”

Bronte’s mouse dances across the screen, setting the still image into motion.

“Fuck.” I can’t help letting out my frustration. “There’s no sound.”

“There’s no sound,” Bronte affirms.

Ben nods. “It’s not surprising. California is a two-party consent state. Plus, footage with sound would take up more room on the hard drive.”

“I don’t suppose either of you are any good at reading lips?” I ask, dejected.

“That is not one of my myriad skills related to lips, no,” Ben quips.

“Gross,” Bronte says. “Nope. There are some things I do not need to know or think about my friends.”

“Are we friends again?” Ben says. The question lands between him and Bronte like a grenade. My eyes dart between them, Ben cautiously neutral and Bronte a deer in headlights.